Article: 19891001041

Title: Covering All the Baseness

19891001041
00061577
200050_19891001_061577.xml
Covering All the Baseness
0032-1478
Playboy
HMH Publishing Co., Inc.
News
32
32
article
OK, I've seen all the baseball movies that have been perpetrated lately--The Unnatural, Eight Men Embarrassed, Bull Diddley, Major Disaster and Fields of Precious. Now I think it's time for an authentic baseball movie. It should be called The Last Baseball Movie and, like those others, it should star several famous leading men portraying actors making a baseball movie. I happen to have a script handy.
Dan Jenkins
32

OK, I've seen all the baseball movies that have been perpetrated lately--The Unnatural, Eight Men Embarrassed, Bull Diddley, Major Disaster and Fields of Precious. Now I think it's time for an authentic baseball movie. It should be called The Last Baseball Movie and, like those others, it should star several famous leading men portraying actors making a baseball movie. I happen to have a script handy.

Fade in: Interior. Supermarket. Day.

Three big-league superstars sit at a table, signing autographs for crippled children, senior citizens and paraplegics. The ballplayers are Wiley Average, a consistent .300 hitter, slugger contrary, a notorious home-run hitter and turf couth, the greatest R.B.I. man who never played on grass.

Each player is charging $25 for an autograph, even though their salaries are in the $9,000,000-to-$12,000,000 range.

The line of autograph seekers is long and the players are getting testy.

A Little Kid in a wheelchair confronts Wiley Average.

Little Kid: Are you really Wiley Average?

Wiley: Cash. No checks, no credit cards.

The Little Kid hands Wiley the money.

Little Kid: Make it out to my dad.

Wiley: I write my name. You want a novel, go to a fucking bookstore.

Cut To: Turf Couth, who's signing his name as fast as he can while talking to Dawn at the same time. Dawn is a serious bimbo who stands behind him.

Dawn: You said you loved me when you were in L.A.

Turf: Yeah, well, it's part of the deal.

Dawn: Have you told your wife about us?

Turf: Are you kidding?

Dawn (angrily): If you don't get divorced like you promised, I'll write a magazine article about us.

Turf (busy autographing): Fuck it. Who reads?

Cut to: Interior. Locker room. Ball park. Night.

Slugger sits on a bench in his street clothes. In the background, the other players are suited up for the game. Salty Sparks, the manager, approaches.

Salty: Better get suited up, Slugger. Full house tonight.

Slugger is sorting through his mail.

Slugger: I'm busy.

Salty: They're all here to see you.

Slugger: Tell 'em I got to call my broker.

Salty: Could you be ready by the fifth inning?

Slugger: Are you gonna get off my ass or what?

Cut to: Exterior. Ball park. Night.

Wiley is at the plate. Between pitches, he talks to the Catcher.

Wiley: Have you seen that bitch behind our dugout?

Catcher: The blonde?

Wiley: Yeah.

Catcher: Some tits, huh?

Wiley: I got to get a better look. Tell him to walk me.

Catcher: OK, but you owe me one.

Cut to: Interior. Dugout. Night.

Turf is on the phone.

Turf (into phone): I want Auburn, plus three. Duke, give the two. I like Notre Dame, minus twenty and a half. Gimme the under on USC--Stanford.

Cut to: Exterior. First base. Night.

Wiley chats with the First Baseman.

First Baseman: Lot of cunt out here tonight.

Wiley stares at the Blonde behind the dugout.

Wiley: I ain't seen tits like that since the last time I was in the Alps.

First Baseman: I just got the signal. You're supposed to steal second.

Wiley (staring at Blonde): I ain't leaving here.

First Baseman: You have to.

Wiley: Why?

First Baseman: Because we're betting on you assholes!

Cut to: Interior. Dugout. Night.

Slugger thumbs through his stock portfolio. Salty comes up to him.

Salty: We're behind four to two. I really need a pinch hitter.

Slugger: Ask Eddie. He ain't doin' nothin'.

Salty: The crowd wants you.

Slugger looks out on the mound.

Slugger: I don't hit against left-handers. It's in my contract.

Salty: Just this once? For me?

Slugger: Go fuck yourself.

Cut to: Interior. Dottie's Bar. Night. A week later.

Wiley is joined at the bar by Misty, the blonde he admired behind the dugout. Misty looks irritable.

Misty: You think you can just make it with me and never call again? What do you have to say for yourself?

Wiley: I love you.

Misty slams a handful of photos down on the bar.

Misty: We'll see what your wife thinks of these! I'm selling them to a magazine along with the article I'm writing.

Wiley studies the nude photos of himself with Misty.

Wiley: Well, for one thing, she'll think it's trick photography.

Misty: Oh? Why's that?

Wiley: 'Cause she ain't never seen me get a bone like that.

Cut to: Slugger, who has moved to a quiet corner for a meeting with Irving, his agent.

Slugger: Let me get this straight. You're upping your fee from ten percent to fifteen percent?

Irving: Right. Considering the income I've generated for you....

Slugger takes out his gun.

Slugger: Irving?

Irving: Yes?

Slugger: You're a dead man.

Cut to: Exterior. Ball park. Night.

It's the world series. The team is lined up along the third-base line, listening to the national anthem.

Slugger: This fucking song sounds familiar, for some reason.

Wiley nudges Slugger to take off his cap. Turf speaks into a cordless phone.

Turf (into phone): Trust me. We got no fucking chance. Lay it all in on them.

And we

Fade out.

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