INT. ELEPHANT TREE BAR/RESTAURANT – NIGHT
Players and patrons cram the barroom floor. More stream
through an opened front door, squeezing into spaces
barely wide enough to breathe in. Waitresses hoist
pitchers overhead, maneuvering this way and that to
tables packed with celebrating fans. Michael Jackson’s,
“I Want You Back” cranks on the jukebox.
Franco’s at the bar, wedged between one unabashedly
buxom blonde and a bouffant brunette, both very drunk
and coming onto him. At the pool table, Peaches mows
down shooter after shooter, stuffing twenties in his
pockets until there’s no more room. The whole team’s
drinking, telling tales and laughing. The atmosphere’s
Kenny, Nicky and Patrick occupy a table with their
wives. Lean, slick fielding first baseman, SETH
MARKOWITZ, a chiseled, good-looking distance runner
with hair down to his shoulders, stands alongside with
his girlfriend, Sarah. They talk about the shot.
I’ve never seen anything even close.
So how far do you think?
I don’t know. Five hundred feet?
Close to it.
You know what the record is?
What is it?
I don’t know. I’m asking you.
Oh, I thought you knew.
No. I don’t.
What the fuck!
I think it’s something like five
hundred twenty feet. Some guy
playing in a tournament down in
Alabama. Big Guy! Like six foot six,
two hundred and sixty-five pounds.
Yeah, a lot bigger than Franco.
his head toward
I don’t know where he gets his power.
I wouldn’t doubt it. Hey, we’re
goin’ outside. We’re gonna get some
So you girls live close by?
I do. She’s across town.
I’m in walking distance.
Is that so?
Good to have friends, in case you
can’t make it home.
Seth appears on Franco’s shoulder.
Some guy outside wants to talk to
What guy? Who?
I don’t know. Some guy in a Lincoln.
I never saw him before.
Excuse me a second.
Where you going, sweetie? Shit!