Original subtitles

Please, Mr. Desmond.

My baseball team's the only thing

that's ever meant anything to me.

I'll find some way to pay back your loan.

All I need is time.

As your evil banker,

it delights me to inform you that you have no time.

Your medical records...

I took them off the Internet.

(screams)

I've only got eight minutes to live?!

Oh, sorry, my laser printer's been acting up again.

That should be a three.

(gasps)

Since you'll be dead

and therefore unable to pay off your loan,

in 30 short days, I, Simon Desmond,

will foreclose on your team, knock down your stadium

and thus begin construction of Desmond Acres,

a lovely gated community for senior citizens

loosely based on Andersonville.

Three minutes to leave my Triple-A ball club

to someone who truly cares about the sport.

But who?

(gulping and belching)

Ah, base-a-ball.

The single greatest sport of all time.

Next to bullfighting and roller ball, that is.

Or at least it used to be.

Now it's ruined, bastardized,

son of a bitch-a-rized!

And you know who's to blame?!

The fat-cat owners!

It's not about the game anymore!

It's all about the money and the merchandising.

Baseball is really about the sun on your back

and the feel of the ball hitting your glove,

and the smell of the grass,

and the laughter and cheering of children.

(grunting)

You're a real baseball fan.

Just the kind of guy I'm looking for.

(gasping): Quick!

Give me a pen.

Felt tip or roller point?

Doesn't matter!

Blue or black ink?

Dying... oh!

(gasping)

Hmm.

"I, Gene Vuuck, hereby will to you

"my lifetime subscription of Groin Pull Monthly,

"a hat made out of cheese,

and my Triple-A baseball team the Dixie Cups."

I... I don't believe it.

It's too good to be true!

I've inherited the one thing

that every red-blooded American male dreams about!

Oh, and a baseball team, too.

(growling)

Room for one more?

Excuse me. Sorry.

Excuse me, excuse me, sorry, excuse me.

Congratulations on your bequest, sir.

My card.

Pity the team isn't a more lucrative venture.

In fact, you're losing money

faster than a Tom Arnold kissing booth.

This is baseball, Flauntleroy!

Who gives a rat's rump about money?

Gosh, I only wish more people

could use rodent anatomy metaphors

to such witty effect,

but since there are no posteriors in the seats,

I'd postulate these contests

will only be enjoyed posthumously by posterity, hah!

Perhaps if we instituted a series of promotional nights

attendance would increa...

Promotional nights?

I don't think that's a very good idea.

Well, sure it is!

We could give away snakes and M-80s and nail guns to the kids.

Wait! Did you say promotional night?

That's a marvelous idea.

You'd best get started right away.

Careful, Duckman.

Given your history of wildly inappropriate schemes

and type A personality traits,

you could be heading for disaster.

Spare me the setup, Cornopolis.

This is one team owner

with nothing but good, solid, sensible ideas.

WOMAN: Oh, my God!

(glass breaking, screaming)

A pleasant good evening, sports fans.

Chick Hearn here, inexplicably announcing Triple-A baseball,

for heaven's sakes.

Before we begin tonight's matchup,

let's chat with the Dixie Cups' flamboyant new owner,

and I'm speaking about Duckman.

How you doing, Vin?

Great. Thanks for asking.

Duckman, one of the ways you've tried to increase

Dixie Cups' attendance has been with a series

of promotional nights.

First there was Weasels on the Field Night.

(snarls)

(players screaming)

And then Free Cinder Blocks Night.

(yelling)

Dixie Cups rule.

Dixie Cups rock.

Please don't crush my head with your free cinder block.

By the way, where did you get all those cinder blocks?

Uh...

Rosalind, someone stole our cinder blocks.

Mm, nowhere.

Who will ever forget

Louisiana Mud-Bog Hell Night?

(grunts)

Yeah, that was one of my faves, too, scooter.

But I've saved the best for last.

For in addition to Glass Shard Visor Night,

tonight's also Blow Up the Field Night!

CROWD: Five, four, three, two...

one!

(loud explosion)

(sirens wailing)

Thanks for coming.

Come see us again.

Tell all your friends.

(groaning)

Bad news, Duckman.

Due to the brutality of your promotions,

the entire team just walked off the job.

Sissies! Pee Wee Reese could have been blown up

a hundred times a season and he'd still come back for more.

Don't worry, Corno, I'll have a new, improved team

faster than you can say something short.

(hydraulic whirring)

Damn Honduran androids!

Next time I buy American.

Duckman, I've just crunched the numbers.

After factoring in the cost of promotions, salaries,

emergency exploratory surgery for the players and animal cruelty fines,

we've lost an average of $14,000 a week.

At this rate, we'll be out of business in...

Two hours!

What is it with these fans!

I've given them everything they want!

Except for baseball.

Duckman, you seem to be getting further away

from the simple purity and heartfelt innocence of the game.

No use talking anymore, 'cause I've already stopped listening.

I have a brilliant idea!

Give me that.

All I have to do is give baseball fans

actual baseball players who can actually play something

that resembles actual baseball.

Simplify, simplify, simplify!

Thoreau?

And hit and catch and run, too.

Corny, this is the new Dixie Cups roster.

Oh...

my...

God.

Ah, splendid!

You must be the world-famous supermodels.

Veronitia, Scylla, Dina,

Cloche, Taang, Tantalea,

Simonia, Fabiolara,

and is it... Suson?

It's Susan.

Whatever. Ladies, welcome to Dixie Cups Park.

Bless you all for coming.

I'm the illustrious Duckman,

owner/operator of the Dixie Cups.

Hi. Now where's the child?

Child? Oh, uh...

We got a call from the guy at the Grant-A-Wish Foundation.

He said there was a terminally ill child

whose last wish was to see us play baseball.

There's nothing we wouldn't do for sick children.

(chuckles): Well... funny story.

That was a lie.

(all complaining)

Loser!

Ah, the old fake dying kid line.

I knew it.

First, James Caan, now this guy.

No, wait!

Remember, there's two things that every kid loves:

baseball and high fashion.

And kids are always getting one terminal disease or another.

So it's practically a sure thing

that some kid someday's going to have a dying wish

to see nine gorgeous supermodels play a little baseball.

And when that time comes, what if you're busy,

or stuck in traffic?

The little tyke could croak before you get there.

But if you play now, I'll videotape you,

and that way, you don't have to schlep back here.

You see? See how completely reasonable and logical it is?

DINA: I don't know about this guy.

Me neither,

but playing baseball

would give us the perfect opportunity

to re-invent ourselves.

People always dismiss supermodels

as just savvy businesswomen.

They forget that we have bodies, too.

This could be our chance to prove it.

Mr. Duckman, let's play ball.

Hi, everybody. Chick Hearn here,

and this is the first game for the Cups' new line-up:

nine world-famous supermodels,

none of whom have ever played ball before.

What could Duckman have been thinking?

(crowd cheering)

Okay. I know what he was thinking.

Uh, playmates...

uh, Playboys...

play, uh...

go do whatever you want, you savage cuties.

Hi.

Good luck.

(makes kissing sound)

CROWD: Aahh!

CROWD: Oohh!

St-rike one!

Strike two, strike three, strike four, strike five...!

Face it, guy, you'll never hit it.

You're out!

(crowd cheering)

(scattered cheering)

(crowd roaring)

(chanting)

I don't know where Duckman could be, ladies.

I apologize.

DUCKMAN: Yay-lo!

Duckman, where are you?

Up in the owner's box. Why?

Practice was scheduled for 9:00.

It's almost 10:30.

Cornucopia!

You're losing sight of the big picture.

Tickets are selling like hotcakes: in stacks!

Now I have to license merchandise,

arrange cross-promotions,

meet with the people doing the CD-ROM,

and most important, audition call girls

for the new Dixie Cups VIP club.

I'm trying to run a baseball team.

Don't bother me with baseball problems.

You're Joe Jock.

You lead the practice.

He, uh...

is very busy.

("Macarena" playing)

DINA: Doesn't Duckman care

if we improve our baseball skills?

You're not supposed to win games

just because you're attractive or sexy,

or curvaceous, or... Brobdingnagian!

You're supposed to win because you're good!

We'll never be good.

Come on, it's back to the runway for us.

Hey, wait-- don't talk like that.

Remember, you're not just models.

You're supermodels.

That means you can do anything you put your minds to.

Do you really think so?

Absolutely. Here, I'll show you.

Let's start with the fundamentals.

(whir of machinery)

(crowd cheering)

For tonight's big game,

I took the liberty of hiring a third-base coach.

Duckman, meet baseball connoisseur

and conservative pundit, George Will.

Go ahead, George, show him your stuff.

(crowd cheering)

I got some Japanese investors up in the box.

I'm trying to set up a tour for the girls.

Have 'em play some of the local kimonos.

Pure show biz, of course, but mucho yen!

Don't you want to say a few words to the players

before the game?

Uh, whatever.

Gals, if you could just bring it in here a second.

Form a semicircle, or a pentagram,

or whatever it is you people do.

I want you to know that it really doesn't matter

if you win or lose...

Oh, wait, of course, it matters.

If you win, I stand to make a fortune,

and that's what this game's all about.

So, go out and win, you spunky little firebrands.

Make daddy rich!

Hello, ladies.

Hi. Who are you?

You might say I'm a fortune-teller

and my prediction for tonight's game

is that you will... lose.

You're crazy, mister.

We're the Dixie Cups. We're winners.

Oh, that would be a shame.

It could be hazardous to the health... of these.

(mewing and purring) MODELS: Ohh!

Kitties!

You wouldn't dare!

Oh, wouldn't I, would I?

I simply can't afford to let you win.

Throw the game, or the pussycats get it!

(cocks gun)

Hello, fans, I'm Chick Hearn

and this has got to be a day

Wineburg fans thought they'd never see.

The Cups are just one game

away from the pennant, and that game is today

against the Victorville Tomahawks.

Hey, look who's here-- the man himself.

So, DM, got any predictions?

Well, Bob, you can never predict how a game'll go

and we've worked too hard for too long to get cocky,

but I got to say, my girls are ready

to focus on fundamentals, do what it takes

and give 100%, and we have to

because the Tomahawks came to play,

but we are as ready as we'll ever be.

Well said.

What do you have planned for the off-season?

There is no off-season.

That's right, folks, even during the winter,

when there are no games here,

you'll still be able to pay admission, come in,

buy some Dixie dogs for the wife,

or a tall, frosty beer for the kids--

maybe even make it a Dixie Cups Christmas.

Now, if you'll excuse me,

I've got just enough time before the game

to Ty my Cobb, if you know what I mean.

Actually, I don't, but that's okay.

And now, ladies and gentlemen,

your Dixie Cups.

(organ fanfare)

Whoo-hoo-hoo!

Look how excited they are!

You actually think they look excited?

Of course.

Every woman I've ever made love to

looked just like that beforehand.

Get a load of Dina.

She is really turned on.

(sobbing)

Ladies and gentlemen, will you please rise

as Ajax sings our national anthem.

(clearing throat)

(phlegmy intake of breath)

(smooth, womanly falsetto): * Oh, say, can you see

* By the dawn's early light *

* What so proudly we hailed

* At the twilight's last gleaming... *

(gasps)

(microphone feedback)

* O'er the land of the free *

* And the home of the...

(jumps two octaves): * Brave.

(crowd cheering) Thank you.

Play ball!

Ha!

("Macarena" playing)

(gasping)

(panting)

(buzzer sounding)

And that's the half.

Folks, there's just one word

for the way the Cups are playing today

and I can't say it on radio.

As Duckman takes his team into the locker room,

wouldn't you like to be a fly on the wall?

(buzzing)

You know, it's possible

that I took too much for granted

so I never explained to you

the idea behind today's little exercise.

We're supposed to win!

We're supposed to spend the next three months

in a hotel suite signing 500 baseballs a day!

We're supposed to be spitting up

limited edition numbered Dixie Cups used chaw!

We're supposed to be making Brobdingnagian sums of money!

You girls are playing like a bunch of, well, girls!

Let me tell you a story

about a fellow I went to school with.

A boy named George Gibb.

George couldn't run very fast, or throw very far,

or hit, or catch.

He was too small and weak.

So... we beat the crap out of him,

sometimes three, four times a day.

He enlisted to go to Grenada,

determined to show he was man enough.

Instead, he lost both his legs in a car accident

on the way home from the recruiter's office.

And if you don't win today, I swear to you

I will go to George Gibb's home

and beat that legless little bastard to a pulp,

so, go out there, and win just one for the Gibber.

Whoo! Whoa-ho-ho-ho!

Hey!

Hah.

(crying)

What is it?

What's got you so horny?

It's not that.

It's... it's...

Some guy threatened to butcher a box full of kittens

if we didn't throw the game.

ALL: Adorable kittens!

Ah. So, you're saying if we kill the kittens,

he won't have anything on us.

Um, I'm sure what Duckman meant to say

is that there is an alternative plan

that's a tad less monstrous.

Ice-a cream!

Get-a you tuttsi-fruitsy ice cream!

How about-a you?

You want a nice- a tuttsi-fruitsy ice-a cream?

I don't want tuttsi...

I-I mean, no!

I got lots-a flavors.

I got rasp-a-berry, I got strawberry,

I got-a what's-a the other berry?

Boysen?

No, it's-a safe to eat.

Hey, that's- a good, eh?

I make a joke.

Just go away.

Leave me alone!

If-a you say so.

Hey, Desmond,

what's the matter, Taang got your cats?

Oh, curse you, supermodels!

Curse you!

(yowling)

(cheering)

Come on, girls,

we've got a game to win.

(kittens yowling)

(crowd cheering)

(purring)

Mr. Desmond,

I have something for you--

the entire mortgage, paid in full from tonight's receipts.

This is one ballpark you're not getting.

But I deliberately didn't tell you about the mortgage

so you'd default.

How did you find out?

Where else? The Internet.

I regularly browse "alt-villains' greedy schemes."

(dramatic sob)

My profits could have been Brobdingnagian!

Oh, for heaven's sake.

Brobdingnagian.

Adjective.

"Of immense or enormous size or quantity."

Boy, Desmond, I feel sorry for you.

All you see is money.

Baseball is really about the sun on your back,

and the feel of the ball

hitting your glove, and the smell of the grass,

and the laughter and cheering of children.

Who cares about money?

I said the same thing.

Seems like a million years ago.

I became no better than the people I despise.

(microphone feedback)

I forgot that this is supposed to be a game.

It's supposed to be simple and pure.

It's supposed to be fun.

Thank goodness for supermodels.

They remind us of what's really important.

And, so, I officially give the Dixie Cups to you--

the people of Wineburg

because you, the fans, are this team.

Just promise you'll always protect it

from people like me.

Perhaps today, we planted the seed

for a new beginning.

(crowd cheering)

CORNFED: The next day, the citizens of Wineburg

sold the Dixie Cups to Simon Desmond

and the Amalcon Media and Munitions Corporation

for $120 million.

(organ fanfare)

("Macarena" playing)

DUCKMAN: Damn Honduran androids.

CORNFED: Oh, for heaven's sake.

DUCKMAN: So horny.

So s-s-so s-s-so-so

so s-s-so s-s-so-so horny.

DESMOND: I didn't get to peel off my head!