Major League Page #2

Come on, Dorn.

Get in front of the damn ball.

Don't give me this ol bullshit.

Look, I took one of those

in the eye last year.

I'm not about to lose my sight.

I'm deeply moved.

Every time you play one off your hips,

you owe me 40 sit-ups.

What?

Jesus. This guy hits a ton.

How come nobody else

picked up on him?

Okay, Eddie, that's enough fastballs.

Throw him some breaking balls.

Lou, I want a word with you here.

Sure.

About those sit-ups you want me to do,

I got it right here in my contract.

Says I don't have to do any calisthenics

I don't feel are necessary.

So, what do you think about that?

Two hundred pushups. How am I

supposed to hit if I can't lift my arms?

Sh*t.

The way I played today,

I wouldn't be surprised

if they red-tagged me already.

What do you mean?

You get a red tag on your locker,

it means the manager wants to see you

because you just died

and went down to the minors.

Hey, don't worry, kid.

They ain't gonna cut anybody

the first day.

What's that sh*t on your chest?

Crisco.

Bardahl.

Vagisil.

Any one of 'em will give you

another 2 to 3 inches drop

on your curve ball.

'Course, if the umps

are watching me close,

I just rub a little jalapeo

inside my nose, get it running.

Then if I need to load the ball up a little,

I just wipe my nose.

You put snot on the ball?

I haven't got an arm like yours.

I gotta put anything on it I can find.

Someday you will, too.

Qu pasa there, Pedro?

Bats, they are sick.

I can no hit curve ball.

Straight ball, I hit it very much.

Curve ball, bats are afraid.

I ask Jobu to come, take fear from bats.

I offer him cigar and rum.

He will come.

Hey, you know, you might think about

taking Jesus Christ as your savior,

instead of fooling around

with all this stuff.

Sh*t, Harris.

Jesus. I like him very much,

but he no help with curve ball.

You trying to say

Jesus Christ can't hit a curve ball?

Okay, Harris.

Let's not start a holy war here.

I wouldn't leave that rum sitting around

out here with this group.

Is very bad to steal Jobu's rum.

Is very bad.

S, s, Pedro.

Attaboy, Dorn.

Way to get in front of that ball.

That's the ticket.

Gracias.

Okay.

Third base.

- Sh*t.

- Jesus!

He's safe!

Damn!

Jeez!

He's going.

- Come on.

- Out!

- Final cut-down day, right?

- Afraid so.

I don't wanna go in there.

Yeah. Look, whatever happens,

you just keep it to yourselves

until you get out of the clubhouse.

You don't wanna celebrate

in front of guys who just died.

Yeah, but what if

we're one of the deceased, huh?

Come on, Jake, it's only your life.

Yes, yes, yes.

I got news for you, Mr. Brown.

You haven't heard the last of me.

You may think I'm sh*t now,

but someday,

you're gonna be sorry that you cut me.

I'm gonna catch on somewhere else,

and every time that I pitch against you,

I'm gonna stick it up your f***ing ass!

Good. I like that kind of spirit

in a player.

The only problem is I didn't cut you.

What?

I think someone's been

having some fun with you.

Jesus.

Hey, hey, hey!

Vaughn!

Come on, guys! Cool it!

- Don't f*** with me, Vaughn!

- Yeah?

F*** you!

What's the matter, rookie fuckwad,

can't you take a little joke?

Oh, yeah. Real f***ing funny, a**hole!

All right. All right! Knock that sh*t off!

Lou, you better make it real clear

to this little lady,

I'm not about to take his sh*t.

Shut up, Dorn.

Save all that energy for the field.

Got a long way to go

before the season's over.

Hey, forget about Dorn.

We got other things to do.

Like what?

Like packing for Cleveland.

Come on.

Ricky Vaughn? Willie Hayes?

I never heard of most of 'em.

Mitchell Friedman?

Who are these f***ing guys?

Two down. Bottom of the ninth.

Game is tied.

Taylor calls his shot.

There's the pitch.

Yeah!

Whoo! Oh, boy!

Oh, you really got a hold of that one.

Yeah. What was that, a slider?

It was out of here.

Are you gentlemen ready to order?

Oh, we'll need a few

minutes more, please.

I look like a banker in this.

Sorry, Rick, those are the house rules.

So, what are we gonna have?

What language is this?

French.

They got chilidogs over there?

Forget it, I'll order. Let's have a toast.

Here's to baseball,

and to the start of two great careers.

And for me,

here's to one more good year

in the sun.

What is it, the chick?

- That's my wife.

- Does she know that?

I mean, she would have been,

if I hadn't messed it up.

Who's that guy she's with?

I don't know.

He's not wearing a name tag.

You want me to drag him out of here,

kick the sh*t out of him?

Excuse me.

Miss Westland, there's

a telephone call for you at the desk.

Oh, okay, thank you.

That's strange. I'll be right back.

- Hello?

- Hello, Lynn? It's Jake.

Jake.

- Jake Taylor?

- Uh-huh.

How'd you know I was here?

Oh, just a hunch.

I took you there when you

got your master's degree, remember?

I figured you're wearing that black dress

with the red sash.

How'd you know that?

I didn't even have this dress when...

You're still a stunner.

Thanks.

What are you doing here?

Aren't you supposed to be

in Mexico somewhere?

Well, I'm playing with the Indians again.

Back in the bigs.

Well, that's great.

That's great, Jake. I'm happy for you.

Lynn, I don't think he's gonna buy

the phone bit now.

I... I gotta get back.

Wait a minute. I need your number.

I tried calling you at home,

but you're not listed.

My life is different

from when you knew me, Jake.

Meaning what,

I don't know you anymore?

Couldn't we talk about this

some other time?

- I really gotta get back.

- Okay. Just give me the number.

- I don't think that's a good idea.

- Why? 'Cause of this guy you're with?

- What is he, an accountant?

- Attorney.

- Oh, worse.

- Please. He's watching us.

I'm not leaving

till you give me your number.

All right. It's 555-1934.

Thank you.

Lynn.

I'm back. I'm gonna be around.

Relax, kid.

We got 162 of these games to go.

All right, everybody.

We got 10 minutes to game time.

Let's all gather round.

I'm not much

for giving inspirational addresses,

but I'd just like to point out

that every newspaper in the country

has picked us to finish last.

The local press seems to think

we'd save everyone

a lot of time and trouble

if we just went out and shot ourselves.

Me? I'm for wasting sportswriters' time.

So, I'd like to hang around

and see if we can give 'em all

a nice big sh*t-burger to eat.

Sh*t-burger?

Hey, Lou.

Aren't we gonna have a prayer?

I mean, we're not all savages

like Cerrano over there.

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