Love and Basketball Page #13

MONICA:

That night you wanted to talk about your

Dad I had a curfew. What was I supposed

to do?

QUINCY:

Stay!

MONICA:

If I stayed, I wouldn't be starting!

QUINCY:

Least you got your priorities straight.

MONICA:

I never asked you to choose.

QUINCY:

Never had to.

MONICA:

I'm a ballplayer. If anyone knows what

that means it should be you.

QUINCY:

Well, if all you care about is

basketball, why you f***ing me? Go f***

Dick Vitale.

Monica punches the sh*t out of Quincy, then pushes past him.

Quincy grabs her arm, stopping her.

QUINCY (cont'd)

Hold up. I'm sorry, alright.

They stand, silent. Trying to come down from their anger.

MONICA:

How do I know next time you're feeling

neglected or whatever, you're not going

to run around on me? If we're going to

be together I have to be able to trust

you.

QUINCY:

I'm not asking for us to be together.

Monica flinches in shock.

MONICA:

What?

QUINCY:

I'm going through a lot of sh*t right

now, more than you have time for.

MONICA:

How are you going to tell me what I have

time for? I mean, whatever I did...we

can fix this.

QUINCY:

I don't think so.

MONICA:

You don't think so?

QUINCY:

Look, I'm entering the draft.

MONICA:

You're what?

QUINCY:

I decided to go pro. And who knows where

I'll end up, you know?

Monica's heart is sinking fast.

MONICA:

When did you decide all this?

QUINCY:

Few days ago.

MONICA:

So that's it, just forget about us?

QUINCY:

Damnitt, Monica. This ain't about us

anymore, it's about me.

Monica is crushed. Beat as, Quincy struggles to stay cold.

QUINCY (cont'd)

But, you know, I'd still like us to be

friends.

MONICA:

Friends.

She fights back tears. Quincy has to look away. Monica

can't respond.

QUINCY:

So...I guess I'll see you around.

MONICA:

Uh huh.

Beat, then Quincy turns and walks away. Monica tries to

fight her tears but her pain, hurt and confusion are too

much. Finally, she gives in, and the tears fall.

FADE TO BLACK.

FOOTAGE. Press conference. Magic sits beside his wife

Cookie. He shocks the world as he announces his retirement

from basketball.

FADE IN:

TITLE CARD:
"FOURTH QUARTER" then "1993"

ESTABLISHING SHOTS OF SPAIN

Madrid, Pampolona, the running of the bulls, old-world

architecture.

Finally, we rest on a large billboard, a photo of Monica in a

basketball uniform, drinking a Spanish soft-drink.

EXT. STREETS OF SPAIN - LATE DAY

Monica jogs down the congested cobble-stone street, a sports

bag over her shoulder. She is TWENTY-THREE. Half-assed

braids frame her matured features.

She passes store fronts, street vendors, and dodges

pedestrians, as she makes her way toward a large, older

arena.

EXT. ARENA - CONTINUOUS

An excited crowd jockeys for position at the front doors.

Above them, a huge banner reads "Campeonato de Europeo".

(European Championships".)

As Monica heads for the back entrance, a cheer goes up from a

large contingent in the crowd. Monica smiles, waves back.

TWO LITTLE GIRLS break from line, run to her.

LITTLE GIRLS:

Baloncesto! Balencesto! (Basketball!

Basketball!)

MONICA:

Oye.

They giggle, hold out a piece of paper and a pencil.

LITTLE GIRLS:

Autografo.

As Monica signs her autograph, a tall woman carrying a

matching sports bag approaches. She is LUISA, Spanish, 33.

LUISA:

(thick Spanish accent)

Monica. What is up?

MONICA:

Oye, Luisa.

Monica hands the girls her autograph and they run off.

LUISA:

Large game, no?

MONICA:

Si. Large game.

They duck into the arena.

INT. ARENA - LOCKER ROOM - LATE DAY

Paint peels off the walls. Windows are broken overhead.

Monica sits alone at her locker, taping her own ankles. Her

TEN TEAMMATES, all from Spain, sit on the surrounding

benches, talking and joking among themselves in Spanish.

Monica is clearly an outsider.

COACH PARRA, Spanish, late 40's, enters.

COACH PARRA:

Silenco!

The women immediately stop talking. COACH PARRA gives an

animated, impassioned speech in Spanish. Monica doesn't

understand a word, just continues taping her ankles.

Coach Parra finishes and the women clap, pumped up. Monica

turns to Luisa, seated next to her on the bench.

MONICA:

What did he say?

LUISA:

He say to give the ball to you.

INT. ARENA - NIGHT

The arena is PACKED with a raucous European crowd, chanting

and waving signs - the love their women's basketball.

Monica walks onto the floor, tucking her jersey into her

shorts. The uniforms are old-style - polyester and tight.

Her club's name is stitched on the front, "GODELLA".

As she hits center court, a smile suddenly breaks through her

game face. Standing opposite her, playing for the opposing

Italian club is Sidra, HER RIVAL FROM USC.

SIDRA:

Well, what do you know.

MONICA:

What's up, Sidra.

SIDRA:

I'm gonna love winning this championship

in your house.

MONICA:

How do you say "you're dreaming" in

Italian?

They move into position. The ball is tossed up. Italy winds

the tip and the ball is passed to Sidra.

Monica hounds her as she brings up the ball. Sidra shoves

her off and to the floor, and scores. No whistle. Women's

pro ball is at a whole other level. Bigger, better, tougher.

The ball is passed in to Monica. She drives down court, goes

up for a lay up. An Italian player shoves Monica in mid-air,

taking out her legs. Monica crashes on the hardwood.

A whistle. Monica lays still for a moment, then pushes

herself up and walks to the free-throw line without a word.

Without emotion.

INT. SPAIN - NIGHTCLUB - LATE NIGHT

A huge crowd dances fervently to the live Spanish music. In

the middle of the floor, the Spanish players are the life of

the party.

In a corner, Monica sits with Sidra, drinking and watching

the festivities. A large trophy sits on the table.

SIDRA:

Can you take that damn thing off the

table.

MONICA:

You mean my championship trophy? My bad.

Monica sets it down in the seat next to her, puts an arm

around it. Sidra shakes her head.

SIDRA:

Still a cocky b*tch.

Monica laughs. She downs her drink, motions to the waiter.

MONICA:

Uno mas, por favor.

The waiter nods.

MONICA (cont'd)

Last I heard, you were playing in Sweden.

SIDRA:

Yeah, four years ago. They had me

staying in this tiny-ass town with like

fifty people. I'm not playing, there was

about a thousand goats running around,

and it gets dark at four o'clock. Then

the whack club I'm on loses three games

in a row and I get blamed. So they fire

me.

MONICA:

Just like that?

SIDRA:

Yup. So I've been playing with this

Italian club the last three years.

MONICA:

How's that been?

SIDRA:

It's better. Even though the whole first

season my teammates didn't pass to me

cause they were mad "The American" was

making more money.

(smiles)

I led the team in rebounds cause it was

the only way I could touch the damn ball.

Monica laughs as the waiter brings her drink. She tries to

pay, but he just shakes his head, crosses away.

SIDRA (cont'd)

Most of us don't win championships our

first year overseas.

MONICA:

Please, I went through the same drama as

everybody else. I mean, the first four

months, only person I could talk to was

this chick Luisa, who knew like ten words

of English from watching old "Dif'rent

Strokes" reruns. Swear to God, I had to

tell her if she said, "What you talking

bout, Willis?" one more time, I was

gonna kick her ass.

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