You know how a visiting baseball team can never win on a walk-off? I’ve decided to pen a screenplay about a team that gets pushed over the edge and decides to ignore that stupid rule.
The main character of this film is a slugger called “Big Puppy.” Early in the season, Big Puppy hits a home run in the top of the eleventh inning in Toronto, only to see the Blue Jays come back with 2 in the bottom of the inning. This same scenario happens over and over again with increasing ugliness, culminating in Big Puppy hitting a grand slam in the top of the fourteenth one night in Anaheim, only to see his little-league caliber bullpen cough up five runs in the bottom of the frame. D’oh!
Tired of losing, Big Puppy calls one of those “team meetings” you’re always hearing about, in which there are accusations in broken English and recriminations in broken Spanish, with occasional bursts of incongruous laughter in fluent Japanese (most people are unaware that it’s possible to laugh in Japanese, but trust me, I see it all the time). Puppy eventually says that the next time he drives in a go-ahead run in the top of the ninth inning or later, that’s it, game over!
Weeks go by with no late inning tie, until one day in Arlington, Texas, on a typical Sunday afternoon in July in which temperatures hover somewhere around 120, Big Puppy finds himself swaggering up to the plate with the bases empty and smacks a homerun about 700 feet. No matter that there’s only 1 out and the Rangers still have the bottom half of the inning to make up the difference: Puppy rounds third base, flips his helmet in the air, and stomps on home plate as the dugout and bullpen empty and the whole team of 25 greet him, bouncing up and down like kids on a trampoline.
Puppy’s fictional team, the “Road Sex” from a town called “Burston,” head into the clubhouse and start spraying beer and champagne all around, dumping it onto the heads of their coaches and manager, like they won the World Series! Then they go into the Arlington night shirtless, jumping behind bars and trying to pull pints for the befuddled and uphappy masses. Eventually, every other Texan around pulls out a compact machine gun from their trousers and threatens to shoot any Boston player who pulls a pint, plus a bunch of innocent bystanders.
And one more thing: screw my agent and his negative feedback on the synopsis I sent him! Either get on board or forget my thanking you at the Oscars next year!