Original subtitles

You derelicts know what time it is?

What?

It is bug-betting time! All right?!

First bug to get fried wins $2. I got the green one.

$2 on the June bug.

You must actually let go of the money in order for it to be a bet.

Round and round she goes, where she stops... Number 2!

Any of you shitheads ever get bored?

You ever get bored?

'Cause I got a riddle.

Takes about 2 ounces of brains to figure it out.

Anybody think they got a brain with 2 ounces of brain?

There's a rumor Earl does.

For chrissakes, boys, come on, a little self-confidence from the gallery.

This ain't long division.

- How much we got to lose? - Want to liven things up?

That's a hell of an idea!

Everyone puts in 20 bucks. Pot goes to whoever solves the riddle.

You'll get the riddle.

I'm the one asking the riddle.

I already know the answer. I don't get a guess.

Although we could say if I get to 500 bounces on the wedge...

and no one gets the riddle, I get the pot.

Now, I know you're thinking it's an impossible riddle.

It's not. It's easy.

And if somehow, by the grace of fluke luck...

I win and y'all don't agree that it was an easy riddle, then...

I'll refund your money.

I'm in!

Money in the bank.

I'll hold it.

Give it.

A man's driving down the road with his son.

He gets in a crash.

Two ambulances come...

and they take the man and his son to different hospitals.

Different hospitals.

Son goes into the operating room, all right?

Doctor looks at him, says:

"I can't operate on this boy.

He's my son."

Now, how is that possible?

How is that possible?

Clock's ticking.

Father's at the other hospital?

He didn't sneak over?

No one beamed him aboard.

All right, what if the father married the son's daughter?

This is a family riddle.

Think clean thoughts.

Give us a hint.

You want a hint?

The doctor's a woman.

The doctor's a woman.

The doctor's the son's mother.

Feminists pose the riddle to reveal sexual stereotypes.

I take it you're a feminist.

I've been called many things, but never been saddled with that.

You might try being saddled.

Smell of leather, a whip's sting.

I'm just a humble golf pro. Could I help you?

You're Roy McAvoy?

I pictured something different.

I have a 7:00 lesson.

I thought I had a Dr. Griswold.

That's me.

First thing you must learn is this game ain't about hitting...

a ball in a hole.

It's about inner demons, self-doubt, human frailty...

and overcoming that crap.

What kind of doctor did you say you were?

Psychologist.

I'm a neo-Jungian, post-modern Freudian, holistic secularist.

Okay.

Inner demons and human frailty is my life's work.

I used to practice in El Paso, but I moved here now.

What is all this stuff?

I got it from the Golf Channel.

Well, it's a waste of money.

I'm sure there are some excesses and repetitions here,

But I believe in gathering knowledge.

There must be some truth to the golf swing illustrated here...

I thought you would kind of help me sort through it.

I have dozens of golf videotapes.

I bet she has a golf watch.

Got a golf watch?

I think I got a good one.

Right there.

Take it off.

Off?

All of it, right now. All of it.

You're a smart woman, for chrissakes.

Don't you know the work of hustlers when you see it?

Well, no.

I mean...

I can always tell when someone's lying to himself.

But I'm susceptible and frequently wrong when a person lies to me.

This stuff cost me over $200.

It's $200 of shit.

Well, that's just great.

Let's do this the old-fashioned way. Just swing.

All right.

Come up.

Excuse me.

Fuck.

You talk like a golfer.

That's a pretty girl to have such an ugly swing.

Oh, God!

Oh, that hurt.

Shit!

"Fuck." "Shit."

These are technical golf terms.

You're using them on your first lesson.

This is promising.

Great.

Wise-ass. Show me. Just go ahead.

Something like that.

That's impressive.

I tend to process things verbally...

so can you break down into words how you did that?

"What Is The Golf Swing," by Roy McAvoy?

I think of the golf swing as a poem.

He's doing that poetry thing again.

The opening phrase of this poem will always be the grip.

The hands unite to form a single unit by the simple overlap of the...

little finger.

Right.

Lowly and slowly...

the club head is led back, pulled into position not by the hands,

but the body, which turns away from the target,

shifting weight to the right side without shifting balance.

Tempo is all, perfection unattainable, as at the top of the swing...

there's a hesitation, a little nod to the gods.

A nod to the gods?

To the gods that he is fallible.

That perfection is unattainable.

Weight shifts to the left pulled by the powers in the earth...

it's alive, this swing, and a sculpture...

and down through contact...

striking the ball crisply...

with character.

A tuning fork goes off in your heart, your balls...

such a pure feeling is the well-struck golf shot.

Then the follow-through to finish...

always on line.

The reverse-C of the Golden Bear...

the steelworkers' power and the brawn of Carl Sandburg's...

Arnold Palmer!

He's doing the "Arnold Palmer" thing.

And the unfinished symphony of...

Roy McAvoy.

What's unfinished?

I have a short follow-through. It has an unfinished look.

Why?

Some say it's the easiest way to play in the winds of west Texas...

some say it's because I never finished anything in my life.

You can decide. But the point is...

every finishing position is unique.

That's what the golf swing's about.

It's about gaining control of your life and...

letting go at the same time.

Jeez Louise.

There's only one other acceptable theory about how to hit the ball.

Oh, boy, well, I'm afraid to ask.

What's the other theory?

Grip it and rip it.

Well, you know...

while I do appreciate your poetic sensibility, Mr. McAvoy...

Call me Roy, Molly.

Call me Dr. Griswold, Roy. I think I'm more of the grip it and rip it school.

Then let's tee it up.

All right, waggle.

Waggle.

No, look.

He's got her waggling now.

Waggle the...

club head, okay?

It's a relaxing ritual we do.

Just waggle it.

Waggle it and let the big dog eat.

What big dog?

The driver, the ♪1-wood.

- This is metal. - All woods are.

The driver's known as the big dog.

I'm just saying let him loose, let it rip...

let the big dog eat.

You know, this is without a doubt the stupidest, silliest...

most idiotic, grotesquely masquerading game ever invented.

Yes, that's why I love it.

If you hit one good shot...

and that tuning fork rings in your loins...

and you can't wait...

to get back.

Try it again.

The big dog just ate something.

Did that tuning fork ring in your loins?

Well, I wouldn't go that far.

I always say quit on a good shot.

We'll call that lesson ♪1?

Okay.

And...

if you wouldn't mind...

paying me in cash?

There's a little situation I'm dealing with the IRS.

I got to bob and weave around the facts of life, if you know what I mean.

Can I ask you a question?

If you're such a legendary golfer, as everyone says...

then why are you, at your age, out here in the sticks...

operating a barely-solvent business, ducking the IRS...

collecting a few dollars for beer when you're capable of much more?

Perhaps I'm chock-full of inner demons.

No.

You're chock-full of bullshit.

Anyway...

same time next week?

What'd you mean I should try being saddled sometime?

Were you being literal or was that some Freudian deal?

Molly?

Doctor?

What kind of saddle?

David Simms. What the hell are you doing here?

Hey, there, Romeo.

Been a while.

Tin Cup around?

No, he's in Houston on business.

You know.

I thought you were supposed to be out on the pro golf tour.

You tell Tin Cup that I'm in town for my big charity Best Ball Tournament.

I got a spot for him.

If he ever gets back from...

Houston.

Yeah, wherever.

I thought you hated him.

Hell, I haven't even thought about him in a dozen years.

Not since the good old days at the University of Houston...

where we won all them titles together.

God almighty.

He says he carried you on his back all them years.

I didn't have much craft back then, just a little...

native ability.

Now, old Roy...

he's a hell of a ball-striker.

What do you want?

- I want to win my own tournament. - I bet you do.

He can help me if we can behave like grown-ups together.

You never know.

You tell him that.

I'll be sure to tell him.

What's the catch?

Hello, Cup.

There is no catch.

I put together a tournament...

with an elite field of players...

and a half-million dollar purse.

And, by God, I'm tired of seeing the money head out of town.

Make more birdies.

That's where you come in.

I need you on my team.

Well, I repeat: What's the catch?

We're playing Cottonwood, where you once shot a 59.

Where you can still shoot a 65 in your sleep.

You know every bump on the fairway and every subtle break on every green.

Hot tub, Roy?

It's a spa.

You and me at Cottonwood?

Kind of like old times.

Yeah.

Well, put her there, partner!

These two homeboys will show the world what golf in Texas is about!

I'll be a birdie-making machine!

Whoa, whoa, wait a minute there, Roy.

I didn't mean I wanted you to play with me. I want you to caddy.

You know, read the greens, club me, that kind of stuff.

Caddy?

Come on, Roy.

I can't bring a guy in off the street to play in my tournament.

For chrissakes, guys, this has become a big-time event.

Hell, I got corporate sponsors and 30 bucks a ticket.

This guy off the street can kick your ass at golf anytime.

Like he did in Junior Golf.

Like he did in... No, fuck it.

I'll give you $100.

And 5% of any earnings.

Get out of here!

Take your pinche color coordinated sponsored chingada and...

and take a flying fuck on the... No, I got it.

I was just offering work.

Thank you very much.

I'll take the job.

Yeah, we'll take the job.

It might be more than you got in your bag.

I could make that.

Shit.

Is he on?

He's on.

Pretty good shape too.

Tin Cup can do it. I seen him do it lots of times.

You have extra-large huevos.

Son-of-a-bitch.

I told you.

I had to. Your caddy said he'd get on the green from here.

I could.

I got to hand it to you, Roy.

For 15 holes, you seemed to grasp the concept here.

I'm trying to win this tournament and your job is to help me.

7-iron.

I'm going to lay up.

You can make that shot. Hell, I can.

Easy.

I know I can make this damn shot, but the smart play is to lay up.

These people didn't pay 30 bucks to see a tour star lay up on a short par 5.

I'm sitting on a 2-shot lead with 3 to go.

Thanks to you, my partner's in his pocket.

Suddenly, par's a hell of a number to me.

13 years on the tour, you're still a pussy.

Goddamn it, David, just hit the fucking 3! Hit it!

13 years in the driving range.

You still think this game is about your testosterone count.

Back up.

230 to carry, and the tour stars...

lay it up.

Simms, from the rough.

That's a smart play.

You in a hurry, or what?

Why?

I bet Mickelson and McCord your caddy can knock it on from here.

Come on, guys, we're trying to win a tournament here.

We are. But I got 5-1. I think they're good odds.

He can do it.

Let him hit it, it's only an exhibition.

Come on.

You can do it. I got a ball.

Right here.

Come on.

Balls versus brains.

You hit that shot, keep walking.

'Cause your ass is fired.

How'll you do that in front of everyone?

Especially when I knock it on the green.

It looks like the caddy wants to hit the shot.

What's going on down there?

Boys...

things have officially changed here.

Forget the 2-shot lead. Forget the 3 holes to go.

You need a glove.

It'll help.

Some side action.

And the $250,000 purse has just gotten a little bigger.

You don't think this guy can pull this shot off?

I'll tell you, I don't think there's any chance.

This impending disaster's a driving range pro.

His name is Roy McAvoy and he's called Tin Cup.

I'm told he was a pretty good college player, then went on mini-tours.

He'll have to have been a great college player to pull this off.

He's got 240 yards, he's a got a television audience.

And he hasn't hit a golf ball yet.

We don't see this everyday.

National television, no warm-up.

I don't know who this guy is.

If he gets it out of there, I'd be surprised. A pro I'd give 10-1.

Dollar bills.

He's not that good!

Do you believe this?

What a caddy!

- Great shot. - Thanks for the glove.

You.

Yeah, you, come here. Come here.

Can you carry that?

Pick it up.

Nice shot.

Come here a second.

Take a hike. The loop's over.

What?

You can't fire me.

How can you?

Hey, I just knocked it stiff from 250.

He's always been a jerk.

What about my money?

You hit the shot that took you out of the money.

Welcome to life on the tour.

The Sports Machine brings you a bizarre incident...

at the charity golf event with tour star David Simms.

Let's go to west Texas...

where driving range pro "Tin Cup" McAvoy...

serving as a caddy to David Simms at the celebrity event...

grabbed the 3-wood out of his own bag...

and drilled a 240-yard shot over water to the 16th green...

If I had to do it over...

I'd still hit that shot.

I know.

You'd bury yourself alive to prove you could handle a shovel.

You know why?

It's the only way you could beat Dave Simms.

No.

'Cause you get that look on your face.

Because that shot was a defining moment.

When a defining moment comes along, you define the moment...

or the moment defines you.

I did not shrink from the challenge, I rose to it.

1981, Fort Washington Golf Club, Fresno, California, ring a bell?

The final tour-qualifying round?

I was playing to win.

Tried to hit the same impossible cut 3-wood into the wind.

- I was playing to win. - 5 in a row, out of bounds.

You finally pulled it off...

and tapped it in for a crowd-pleasing 13.

A 12 would have got you on the tour.

Now that...

was a defining moment.

And the definition was "shit".

Greatness courts failure, Romeo.

You may be right, but you know what?

Sometimes power is good enough to win.

We owe her $12,000.

No, I owe her $12,000.

Fine, you owe her $12,000. Like it makes a difference.

It does.

I only got one rule:

Never bet money you don't have on a dog race...

with an ex-girlfriend who is also a stripper. You broke that rule.

You need tell her something nice to start off with.

An ice-breaker. That's not hard.

I'll say something. If it don't come out right, you say it better.

Doreen's looking for you.

I'll bet.

Tin Cup.

Haven't seen you in 3 days.

Been busy.

Hi, sweetie.

Hi, honey.

That better be you, Roy.

Just be nice.

Doreen...

you're looking particularly lovely tonight.

It's nicer than the leopard suit.

Cut the shit.

You owe me $12,000.

We're going to pay it, don't worry.

I know you'll pay me.

12 smackeroos. Where is it?

- There. - What is this?

With equity and inventory it's worth...

12 grand, more or less.

This is how you think you'll settle up?

By giving me the driving range?

Only on condition you don't sell right away, and we keep our jobs.

What in the world would I want with your stupid driving range?

Equity.

Inventory.

Cash flow.

Plus an enhanced stature in the community...

and a pre-paid membership in Salome Chamber of Commerce.

What are your labor costs?

Everybody gets what they get.

The tractor kid gets four.

The tractor kid gets 5 bucks an hour.

Give me, like, 6.

And Romeo gets 10. Cash.

What do you get?

Me?

To stand around and hit golf balls...

when you're not breaking for beers or to gather the guys up...

to bet on which crow'll fly off first.

You mean my managerial salary?

I'm referring to every nickel you take from the till, every bag of nuts.

That is what I'm referring to.

He'll take the deal.

What is the deal?

Let's just say the driving range is worth $10,000.

You still owe me 2.

She's been here a while.

Am I early?

Mr. McAvoy, I can appreciate that you have a fairly laid-back lifestyle...

but I have hours to keep.

All right. A former paramour once ascribed my...

fluid sense of time to being born under the sign of Pisces.

Something about floating through the universe.

Oh, you amuse me, Roy.

But I'm the only woman born after World War II who thinks astrology's bullshit.

Let's see if the big dog'll eat.

Waggle.

I'm waggling.

Set up to the ball.

I am.

You're trying to wring the club's neck.

Show a little warmth.

A little compassion.

Remember this game's about trust...

and touch...

and letting go.

So while I subtly enhance your technical prospects...

why don't you tell me about your personal life.

That's none of your business.

Your boyfriend's a golfer.

That's my bet.

He's the reason you're learning.

Hell, I probably even know him.

Get your hands off her.

Hi, honey.

Hi, darling.

He's taking her to Miami for the fucking Doral!

I can't compete with that!

You are having a bad week.

She must think I'm a nothing.

Such a loser, a lousy driving range pro, living in a Winnebago.

She doesn't know you live here.

She knows I'm not taking her to no Doral...

for massages and mimosas all weekend.

- I didn't leave it out. - Well, I didn't.

I must do something with my life.

You just threw that in the spa.

Must rise to a level worthy of the women who think I'm a joke.

You could go out and win the U.S. Open. That'd impress her.

What?

Win the Open.

She'll think, "You're wonderful, Roy."

Romeo, that idea has promise.

The U.S. Open? The biggest golf tournament in the world?

Not just the biggest...

the most democratic golf tournament in the world.

- What do you mean? - It's open.

So?

Anyone with a 2 handicap or better's got a shot at it.

You just must get through a local and sectional qualifier, then like...

Doral or Colonial or AT&T, they can't keep you out.

They can't ask you if you're a garbage man or a...

driving range pro whose checks are signed by a stripper.

You qualify, you're in.

You don't got the game.

I got every shot in the book.

I'm talking about the game.

The mental game. La cabeza, you don't got it.

Since you're the authority, teach me what I ain't...

and never will be.

What for? You never listen to me.

This time'll be different.

- Right. - I promise.

You don't have the money to get your golf clubs out of hock.

That don't fit.

Don't force it if it don't...

Is that what those things were?

Flowers.

You're going to play me for $400 with those?

And I'll give you two strokes a side.

You ain't got no 400 bucks.

My car title's collateral.

I ain't interested in that piece of shit.

That's 'cause you think of it as transportation.

Think of it as bragging rights.

Think of sitting around the bar crowing about the Cadillac you won from me.

They'll forget all about the Winnebago you lost to me.

I'll call the INS on you, you midget.

I'll be playing a pink lady today.

That little pink fag ball supposed to intimidate me?

Not unless I knock it by you.

Louisville Slugger, please.

I believe you're away.

Don't worry about it.

I thought I caught it on the toe.

You drive for show and you putt for dough, big mouth.

Did you hear that? Boone was being profound.

Stay out of the rough. I recommend...

the shovel.

That's what I think.

I want a legitimate swing.

No scooping.

I'll finish.

Get the hell off my course.

Need a receipt?

You know what I think? She's got you by the huevos.

Your job is to teach me patience and humility. Don't advise me on love-life.

Not all my thinking occurs below the belt.

I stand for a few things besides my next romantic interlude.

You'll have no trouble telling her you can't teach her until after the Open.

That'd make an issue out of something that's not an issue.

Besides, I'm focused.

I am!

This is my quest!

This is my stand for the guys who've had their...

fill of soulless robots like David Simms.

He may be a soulless robot...

but he's a rich, happy soulless robot with a beautiful doctor-lady girlfriend.

How'll getting into the Open change her opinion of you?

It'll show her I'm not who she thinks I am.

You are who she thinks you are, man!

No, I will not give you time off to go win the Open.

I don't care if it's your quest.

How about my destiny?

Or your destiny. Or any other term you remember from Cliff Notes.

That looks stupid.

You get mean, then petty.

If you had been just a little nicer to me when we were an item...

then maybe I wouldn't be such a nasty boss.

I have a business to run. Bye-bye.

Becky, come here, sweetheart. Right now, hurry up.

Your natural thing is really sweet, but we don't do natural here.

We do big and bold, colorful hair, lots of it. Look at me.

That's what we do.

If you're going to take that tone then we'll talk later.

I'm sorry, I have things to do. I don't need to be treated like that.

So, good-bye.

It wouldn't kill you just once to tell her she's beautiful...

or that she can dance...

or she's sexy.

Here I am, ready to charge forth in pursuit of my destiny...

and I can't get time off work to do it.

I'm no expert here, but it seems to me that...

the pursuit of destiny isn't something...

you need to get off a $7 per hour job to do.

I'm stuck, man. I'm buried.

I need help.

I need advice. I need counseling.

I need a shrink.

You don't know no shrinks.

I know one.

No, no, no, not the doctor-lady.

Why not?

You can't ask her advice about the woman you're trying to hose.

Why not?

I didn't say shit!

Get in the other room, please.

Sue Ann, honey, it's okay. Okay.

You're going to be fine. Take a deep breath.

She was crying when she came out.

So maybe it's something you said...

That's the patient exit room.

I knew it was some kind of room. There were no magazines.

Why are you here?

Therapy.

You've come for therapy? Okay, look.

You need to make an appointment because I have a client in half an hour.

That's fine, I'm not that fucked up.

Why don't you just have a seat right there.

Right over there.

So how do I do it?

Therapy, I mean. How do I start doing it?

In your parlance, "Kick back and let the big dog eat."

Suppose there's a guy and he's standing on the shore of a river...

and river's full of piranhas, alligators, eddies, shit like that.

And nobody'll even go down there to dip a toe.

And on the other side of the river's a million bucks, on this side a boat.

I guess my question is...

what would possess a guy to swim for it?

He's an idiot.

No, see, he's a hell of a swimmer.

His problem is more like why does he always have to...

rise to the challenge?

He's a juvenile idiot.

You don't understand.

We're talking about you and your inner demons.

That human frailty you blather about.

Not some mytho-poetic metaphor you come up with...

in a feeble and transparent effort to do yourself credit.

You're going to make me feel lousy?

I want to feel better. What kind of therapy is this?

You don't have any inner demons. You have inner crapola.

Inner debris, garbage...

horseshit in staggering amounts.

I'm not some just jerk driving range pro...

who drinks too much booze, eats too few vegetables, okay?

Sit down.

You're getting defensive, and I want you to just tell me why you're here.

A woman.

A woman.

Have you asked her out?

Nah, she's seeing a guy.

But he's a real horse's ass, if you ask me.

Maybe if you shared your heart with this woman at dinner...

these issues would be in the open.

I'm afraid she'll say no.

So, your speeches about swimming across shark-infested waters...

are about your golf game and not about your personal life?

Good, then...

I didn't know we'd get into my personal life.

This is therapy, Roy.

I know, but...

I didn't know it was that kind.

Let's make this simple. Please, sit down right here.

Those risks you love to take on the golf course you talk so poetically about.

You need to apply those risks to your personal life as passionately.

I should just ask her out?

And risk coming right over the top, hooking it out of bounds?

Absolutely, Roy.

- That's good. - No, I'm sorry.

Look...

all you must do is walk up to this woman, look her in the eye...

Look at me.

Look her in the eyes, that's right. Let down your guard...

and don't try to be cool, just be honest and take a risk.

And then, whatever happens, if you act from the heart...

you can't make a mistake.

Dr. Griswold...

Yes?

I think I'm in love with you.

From the moment I first saw you...

I knew I was through with bar girls and strippers and...

when you first started talking I was smitten with you...

and I'm smitten with you more every day I think of you and...

the fact you know I'm full of crapola makes you more attractive to me.

Usually I can bullshit people, but not you.

And in addition, you got great legs and...

most women I'm thinking about how to get into their pants, with you...

I'm just...

thinking about getting into your heart.

Stunned?

So...

so what about dinner and we can talk about us...

and if we have a future...

and how to drop that horse's ass boyfriend of yours.

Slow down.

I'm staring eagle in the face.

Just cut the golf talk, please. Because this is a mistake.

I'm acting from the heart, how can that be a mistake?

Right?

Wrong, Roy.

I mean, shit!

I didn't know you meant me.

Would your advice have been different?

This session is over. I have someone coming soon. Leave.

I take it your answer is no.

Our relationship is and will remain strictly professional.

That's it?

I'm going to qualify for the U.S. Open and kick your boyfriend's ass.

Whatever you think of me, you should know he hates old people...

children, dogs...

and that broad's crying still in the exit room.

You're still in the exit room.

Hello?!

Dr. Kasseldorf?

You're there.

You said to call if something came up that confused me...

and shrinks need shrinks... But, it happened. You said it would.

A patient thinks he's falling in love with me.

He's not really a patient, he's my golf pro, but...

I know that under the circumstance I should recommend another therapist.

But there aren't any in Salome.

He'd have to drive 100 miles to Midland or Odessa.

I'm not sure you could count on help there.

Me?

No, my self-esteem is fine.

My self-esteem is fine.

He's a good-looking man.

Green eyes. I don't know, I mean...

That's not the point, is it?

He's, you know...

he's kind of cute. He's cute.

But...

You got a beautiful swing.

I'm a beautiful guy.

Look, Roy, I came to apologize, okay?

For what?

You did what I said...

and I poured cold water over your efforts. I didn't get it.

I'm a terrible shrink, probably.

Should've stayed in real estate.

Actually, I should have never left Ohio for that cowboy in Amarillo.

Ever been to Amarillo?

Cowboy?

Yeah. It's not as romantic when you're actually with one, trust me.

So, the oil man in Dallas or Houston, I don't know where he was from.

Anyway, he looked great.

After that, I went to the Gulf and ended up in trailer sales.

Then condos in Corpus Christi.

The bottom, just, boom, fell right out of the market so I needed a new gig.

A new gig?

Yeah, therapy.

I took all the classes. I'm legitimate. Legal.

Certified. Fuck! I'm certifiable. I'm really sorry.

Oh, boy.

Can I have a doughnut?

Thanks.

Okay, look...

I am flattered you asked me out.

I can't accept because I'm involved with David.

I haven't seen him treat old people, children or dogs badly.

I'm sorry.

I got carried away with the David thing. I should have...

I just want to make a proposal, all right?

As long as you understand that it's strictly professional...

we're not going out.

Tee it up.

I think I can help you with the mental aspects of the game.

Romeo is your swing doctor, I'll be your head doctor.

What?

You just said yourself you're a crumby shrink.

I can improve, Roy.

I don't have the money to pay you! I'm broke!

You don't need any money to pay me! We'll trade services.

I'll give you my services for golf lessons and...

I can help you through the qualifying.

If you make it into the Open...

I'm on my own, you'll be with David.

I don't want this.

Third in the group, playing out of Salome, Texas: Roy McAvoy.

Ben Hogan, now, who's he?

I find him mildly attractive when he's obnoxious and arrogant like this.

Oh, good.

That's his best side.

They bugging you?

Way I'm swinging today, nothing bugs me except insufficient applause.

Give me the lumber.

I think you want to hit the 2-iron.

I said I want the big dog.

You got a tight par 5 here...

with out of bounds on the left. The 2-iron seems best.

I'm not going left or right of those trees, okay?

I'm going over those trees, with a little draw.

That way I get home in 2. That way I'm putting for eagle.

You don't need an eagle to qualify.

Practice playing it safe.

- No mistakes wins the Open. - I want the course record.

The lumber.

You won't listen to me, will you?

Even when I'm trying to help you, man.

After all these years you think I'm full of shit?

I'll get penalized for slow play.

Give me the driver.

You're a head case. You always have been, always will be.

Let's ask her.

Dr. Griswold.

Should I hit the big dog or the 2?

Soliciting shot selection advice is a 2 stroke penalty.

Trust your feelings.

Now give me the driver and shut up.

The driver?

Fine.

Here.

Hit the driver, Tin Cup.

I changed my mind. Give me the 3-wood.

You can't throw that dog leg with a 3-wood.

You want to bet?

Fine, take the 3-wood.

Take it and show me what a golf pro does.

Guess I'm going with the safe shot, boys.

But, you know, sometimes I fan that 2.

You better give me the 3.

Is this normal behavior?

The word normal and him don't often collide in the same sentence.

And sometimes I catch that 3 a little thin too.

- Don't do this. - I've hit flies with the 4.

Hit the damn ball.

I've hooked my 5.

I've shanked the 6.

Sculled the 8. Fatted the 9.

Chili-dipped the wedge.

And I've bladed the sand.

Putter?

There is Mr. 3-Wiggle, isn't there?

But then there's the 7-iron.

I never miss with the 7-iron.

It's the only truly safe club in my bag.

The bag's lighter. You happy?

No, I'm not happy, man.

I'm tired!

My life's too short to watch you blow up all... I've done it too many times.

Quitting?

Goddamn!

First sign of adversity, you quit.

God! First time you can qualify for the Open!

What's wrong with you?

Who wants to bet I can't par with a 7-iron?

Anybody?

Take the bet.

Shut up and hit the ball!

You the man, Cup.

Thank you, boys.

What do you think my best shot was? The 7-iron on 12?

- That was a good one. - Or was it 7-iron on 14?

That was better.

What about that bunker shot on 18 which to my recollection was a 7-iron.

Yes, it was!

All good.

You're the man.

Hey, Doc!

How'd I do?

You failed miserably.

What're you talking about?

I qualified for the sectionals.

You did.

I did.

With a 7-iron.

Yes, siree.

Look, your job isn't just to qualify for the Open.

It's to prepare for the Open.

My job is to help you prepare.

Now, you said trust my feelings. I did.

I didn't know you felt like breaking all your clubs...

and getting in a contest with your caddy.

Who quit.

He always quits.

He ought to be here.

To the quitter.

The little quitter.

Nonetheless.

Nonetheless...

from the mental aspect, which is my domain...

you've regressed.

And are fumbling between delusion and denial.

Regression, delusion, denial.

Why must you use all the psychological language?

Having a bad day?

No.

Hi, honey.

Shot a 65.

Parred the backside with a 7-iron.

Why?

Yeah, that's exactly right. That's the question, "Why?"

Because he broke his other clubs.

Snapped them in two.

- Jesus. - Not all of them.

Romeo broke two.

I'm on your side here.

We go way back.

I hope you qualify for the Open. But if you do...

you better play with control...

or you'll get slaughtered.

Good players shoot an 82 in the Open.

You see...

it means you just can't go for it.

I swear to God, this guy is not who you think he is.

It's a known fact...

if a camera's not on him he treats old people and kids like dirt.

And dogs.

Jesus.

Yeah, don't forget dogs.

Okay, guys. You know what? We better go. Come on.

I guess so.

You ever shoot par with a 7-iron?

Hell, Roy...

it never occurred to me to try.

I bet you $1,000 against my car that I can beat you any game.

Any game...

any golf club.

Come on, Roy, this is ridiculous.

Chicken?

What, are you going to lay up the way you did in the Masters?