Tin Cup Page #11

TIN CUP:

He always quits, he always comes

back.

MOLLY:

Nonetheless, from the mental

aspect -- which is my domain -you

have regressed and are

fumbling somewhere between

delusion and denial.

TIN CUP:

'Regression, delusion, denial'?

You gotta use all this

psychological language?

MOLLY:

I'm a psychologist.

62.

Tin Cup turns to the regulars for support.

VOICE (O.S.)

Have a bad day, Roy?

Everyone turns to see David Simms enter the conversation.

MOLLY:

Hi, honey...

TIN CUP:

I shot 65 -- parred the backside

with a seven iron.

SIMMS:

(intrigued)

Why?

MOLLY:

That's the question -- why?

Silence.

CLINT:

'Cause he broke all his other

clubs.

EARL:

Snapped 'em in two -- even the

putter.

SIMMS:

Jesus, Roy, I'm on your side here.

We go way back... I hope you get

into the Open, but if you don't

play under control, you'll get

slaughtered. Good players shoot

82 in the Open. You can't always

go for it.

TIN CUP:

Swear to God, Doc, this guy is

not who you think.

CLINT:

It's a well-known fact that if a

camera's not on him, he treats old

people and children like dirt.

EARL:

And dogs.

TIN CUP:

Yeah, don't forget the dogs.

MOLLY:

I think we should go, David.

63.

SIMMS:

I think so...

Tin Cup's worst characteristics flare up, he won't let

go.

TIN CUP:

You ever shoot par with a seven

iron?

SIMMS:

It never occurred to me to try.

(to Molly)

C'mon, let's go. The car's over

here....

TIN CUP:

I'll bet you a thousand dollars

against my car that I can beat you

in any game -- any game, you name

it -- with a seven iron.

SIMMS:

This is ridiculous.

TIN CUP:

You a coward? You gonna lay up

the way you did at the Masters

last year?

REGULARS:

(taunting, like

children)

Chickie, chickie, chickie...

Simms is a little drawn in, not so much by the challenge

as the desire to shut up Tin Cup.

SIMMS:

Any game, I name it?

MOLLY:

Oh, come on, David -

SIMMS:

I just want to teach him a lesson.

MOLLY:

Why do men insist on measuring

their d*cks?

Tin Cup takes her literally and rises, starting to

unbuckle his belt.

TIN CUP:

Awright, awright! Let's measure,

64.

right now!

MOLLY:

For God sakes, I wasn't being

literal!

(beat)

David, let's go.

SIMMS:

Molly, trust me on this one. Call

it part of his mental preparation

for the Open, where the rough is

deep, the greens are slick, and

the nerves are shattered.

(to Tin Cup)

I'll take the bet.

MOLLY:

Oh, jeez...

The Regulars cheer -- this is what they live for. Simms

hands a roll of cash to Molly. Tin Cup hands her his car

keys.

TIN CUP:

Awright! What's the game?

SIMMS:

One swing each. Who can hit the

longest seven iron -

TIN CUP:

It's a lock! I hit the seven like

John Daly hits a three!

The Regulars whoop it up. Their man's a cinch. Tin Cup

pulls a ball from his pocket, drops it right on the

ground in the middle of the patio.

TIN CUP:

From right here, okay?

SIMMS:

Fine with me.

MOLLY:

You guys are really being

childish -

SIMMS:

Molly, leave this one to me.

TIN CUP:

Dr. Griswold, I know what I'm

doing.

Tin Cup takes a couple of swings to limber up, aiming out

65.

onto an open area of the course. Serious, intent, the

look of eagles...

TIN CUP:

(to himself)

Dollar bills...

He takes a full back-swing, opens beautifully, and

launches a seven iron like a rocket out toward some

driving range markers... to "oohs" and "ahhs" from his

faithful.

The ball lands at a 170 yard marker and bounces further.

CLINT:

Them signs are at least thirty

yards farther -- that ball musta

gone 220...

TIN CUP:

That ball's about 2-2-7... toed it

a bit... but it'll do...

REGULARS:

Nearly 230 with a seven! Pureed

it, baby, he pureed it!

Tin Cup hands Simms the seven iron.

TIN CUP:

Take a minute to limber up, fine

with me -

SIMMS:

Don't need to.

Simms is still in a sport jacket, slacks, no golf shoes.

TIN CUP:

Take your jacket off?

SIMMS:

No, no, I'm fine.

Simms drops a ball about where Tin Cup's sat. He stands

above the ball and addresses it.

TIN CUP:

(cockily)

You're gonna need to muscle up,

big guy -- give it the old steroid

jerk...

Simms is cool as ice. He smiles, then moves around to

the other side of the ball, suddenly facing away from the

course. This baffles everyone.

66.

REGULARS:

What the hell you doin'?

this?

Wha's

59

And David Simms hits an effortless seven iron out toward

the desert, onto the lonely highway...

... and the ball bounces and bounces and bounces, for

About three miles, forever. It's probably still going...

59

60 CLOSE ON TIN CUP 60

The hustler's been hustled.

CLOSE ON MOLLY:

She shrugs and smiles.

CUT TO:

61 EXT. COTTONWOOD CLUBHOUSE - DAY (MOMENTS LATER)

Molly drives away in Simms' car -- followed by Simms inTin Cup's Cadillac convertible. Simms waves.

Tin Cup and the Regulars stand alone. Weakly, lamely, acouple of the Regulars speak. Without conviction.

CLINT:

You the man, Roy...

EARL:

You definitely the man...

CUT TO:

61

62 INT. GOLDEN TASSEL - NIGHT 62

A nearly nude dancer named SAMMANTHA on stage to a bigSaturday night crowd. Tin Cup's in the front row,

sitting with Doreen and a beer. Disconsolate.

P.A. ANNOUNCER (V.O.)

Bring out those bills, boys, if yawanta see a little more of

Sammantha!

Guys pull out singles and larger bills around the runway,

placing them on the railing for the gyrating stripper.

SAMMANTHA:

(to Tin Cup)

Hey, honey...

67.

Tin Cup tosses some money onstage with a lackluster

wave, he's depressed -- or something.

TIN CUP:

Hey, honey...

DOREEN:

I heard you qualified for the

Regionals -- why you so down?

TIN CUP:

I broke my clubs -- don't ask why,

my caddie's pissed off at me, I

lost my wheels in a sucker bet,

and my shrink thinks I'm a fool -'

cause I probably am...

DOREEN:

You're seeing a therapist?!

TIN CUP:

Yeah, what's wrong with that?

DOREEN:

Only way you'd ever go into

therapy was if the shrink was a

doll and you were trying to get

her into the rack -

TIN CUP:

You're so shallow. The Good

Doctor and I are dealing with my

regression and denial -

DOREEN:

Oh, Tin Cup, what a crock. You

got a hard-on.

A GUY from the next table leans over, interrupting.

GUY:

You `Tin Cup'? Won the Local with

a seven iron?

TIN CUP:

That's me.

GUY:

McAvoy? The Tin Cup McAvoy?

DOREEN:

There's only one -- thank God...

TIN CUP:

Yeah. You looking for a game?

68.

GUY:

No, but I'd sure like to show you

my grip...

Doreen can't keep his attention. Neither can Sammantha,

who writhes only a few feet away.

DOREEN:

How long have you been seeing this

`Good Doctor'?

TIN CUP:

Excuse me, Dor', the man's having

trouble with his grip -

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes