Left or right? Garrett Hartley gets unwanted pointers

Scene: EXT. empty sugarcane field -- NIGHT

(Garrett Hartley is practicing kicking field goals. He's making some, but he keeps shanking them to the right.)

GARRETT: Damn it! Coach isn't gonna keep me around for long if I can't make consistent kicks... (Garrett lines one up, kicks it wide right.) SHIT!

(Garrett hears something coming behind him from the left.)

GARRETT: Now what? More magical black men?


KEITH: HOW. DARE. YOU. SIR!!!

GARRETT: Huh?

KEITH: This is no ordinary set of circumstances, Mr. Hartley. This is a matter of GRAVE importance. (shuffles papers.) You cannot expect your career to move forward if you keep hitting these kicks to the right!!

GARRETT: Oh, hey, I remember you! I used to watch you on ESPN, like, a decade ago or something! How's Dan Patrick doing?

KEITH: He's fine. Now, about your kicking...

GARRETT: Yes, sir. What do you recommend?

KEITH: Kick left.

GARRETT: Aim for the left post?


KEITH: No. I mean...AIM. LEFT. You'll never move forward if you're kicking to the right. Line up perpendicular to the ball, and kick it to the left.

GARRETT: Okay...you mean into the stands?

KEITH: Exactly!!

GARRETT: I don't see how that'll help me make field goals...

KEITH: Do you want to make FIELD GOALS or do you want to make a STATEMENT?!?

GARRETT: Uh...


GLENN: Don't answer that!!!

KEITH: Aw, Christ!

GLENN: Don't let this fascist Marxist tell you what to do...LET ME DO THAT!

(Garrett Hartley face palm.)

GARRETT: Do I have to?

GLENN: What are you, Garrett? A socialist sympathizer? Why do you hate freedom?

KEITH: Erroneous! Erroneous, I tell you!!

GARRETT: What do you suggest, sir?

GLENN: You should keep aiming to the right, duh!!!!

GARRETT: Yeah, but that isn't working...

GLENN: Don't tell me it isn't working!!! What are you, some kinda one-man splinter cell?!?

GARRETT: You're nuts.


GLENN: Look, Garrett, your name starts with a 'G' and ends with a double consonant, MY name starts with a 'G' and ends with a double consonant. Who you gonna trust? By the way, can I interest you in some over-priced gold coins for the coming apocalypse?

GARRETT: Unbelievable...to hell with both of you, I'll aim for between the uprights, thank you very much.

KEITH: What, you mean, like, "the middle?"

GLENN: What the hell kinda tactic is that?!?

(Garrett walks away, leaving Keith and Glenn standing chest to chest, huffing and puffing at one another.)

KEITH: Glenn, I've always meant to ask you something.

GLENN: What is it?

KEITH: Why hock gold? I mean, in the apocalypse, won't gold be made irrelevant?

GLENN: You NEED a currency, fool! How else will capitalism flourish?!?

KEITH: Yeah, I get the whole exchange for goods and services, but why stockpile gold? Why not guns? After all, if I've got a gun, and all you've got is gold, it stands to reason...

(Glenn jams his thumbs in his ears.)


GLENN: I'm not listening! I'm not listening!! I'm not listening!!!

Fixing Garrett Hartley's swing

Scene: EXT. An empty sugarcane field in Southern Louisiana - NIGHT

Hartley is practicing field goal kicks in the middle of the night by lantern light. He shanks another "ugly duck" to the left.


GARRETT: Shit!

Hartley grabs another football and sets it up in the holder. He backs up, finds his footing, charges forward and...shanks it yet again.

GARRETT: Christ on a crutch, come on!!

Hartley grabs another football and goes to set it up when he hears something up ahead in the darkness.

GARRETT: Hello? Hello?

Hartley grabs the lantern and holds it up to get a better look.

GARRETT: Hello???

Suddenly, a man in an old brown suit, carrying a sack of original pigskin footballs, emerges from the darkness, like a ghostly apparition.


BAGGAR: Why hello there, sir.

GARRETT: Are you crazy? Walking out there in front of me like that? You could've gotten a concussion if one of those balls hit you in the head!

BAGGAR: Two things. First, the way you been a shankapotomus lately, I figured approaching you direct like was my best course of action. And second, you ain't dropping bombs like Thomas Morstead. That boy can bomb those kicks. He's got the touch.

GARRETT: Gee, thanks, guy.

The black dude with the nice hat puts the bag down and extends his hand.

BAGGAR: Baggar Vance's my name.

Hartley shakes Baggar's hand.

GARRETT: Lemme guess: kicking footballs is your game?

Baggar tilts his head to the side and grins, real folksy like.

BAGGAR: You done lost your swing, sir.

GARRETT: Yeah.

BAGGAR: A man's grip on his club leg bone's like the grip on his world.

GARRETT: Wait, what?


BAGGAR: You suck something fierce lately, Mr. Hartley.

GARRETT: (exasperated sigh) I know. Do you mind, though?

Bagger steps back while Hartley lines up another kick. He approaches, kicks and...WIDE! The black man with the perfectly magical stubble tucks his hands in his pockets and smiles. Always smiling. Always.

BAGGAR: A suggestion, Mr. Hartley. You got lady problems? Are you boozing it up all the time? Did ya become discombobulated after personally witnessing the horrors of World War I?

GARRETT: Huh?

BAGGAR: Well, sir, whenever I see a man with obvious athletic problems, it usually turns out to be lady issues...

GARRETT: Uh, no, Baggar. Ladies are not the problem. I was born only in 1986, so I'm not old enough to have been in World War I, and I only dine on "boat drinks" in the off-season. I just keep shanking these damn field goal kicks.

BAGGAR: Would it help if I stood out to the left, real quite like? And maybe whispered more folksy sayins that don't make sense at first but have an extraordinary connection with the human condition when you REALLY pay attention to 'em?


GARRETT: No!

BAGGAR: Well, sir, I got a friend that might be better able to help...

Baggar puts his hand to his ear as Garrett hears several large steps coming his way.

GARRETT: Whoa...



COFFEY: Name's John Coffey, boss. Like the drink, only not spelt the same.

Garrett does the face palm and shakes his head.

GARRETT: God help me.

COFFEY: Dat's why I'm here, boss.

BAGGAR: We're here to help you, Mr. Hartley.

GARRETT: What are you doing, John Coffey?!?

Coffey puts his big hands on Garrett's kicking leg.

COFFEY: Trying to take the hurt outta there, boss.

GARRETT: Well, you're hurting me, John. So stop it, please.

Coffey lets go of Hartley's leg.

COFFEY: Usually I spit up bugs, boss. Weren't none in there this time.

GARRETT: I know. Cause my leg isn't infested with gnats, John Coffey! I'm just shanking field goals. I don't have a troubled groin or anything!

COFFEY: Do you need me to fix ya head?

Coffey goes to put his hands around Hartley's tiny head, but the kicker brushes them away.

GARRETT: Oh, get away from me! I don't need some magical help!!

BAGGAR: You need us to call Morgan Freeman?

GARRETT: No!

BAGGAR: Danny Glover?

GARRETT: No!

BAGGAR: Blair Underwood?

GARRETT: No!

BAGGAR: Uh, (rubs chin) what's his name? Um, the guy who looks like Mr. Coffey here, but isn't?

GARRETT: Ving Rhames?

BAGGAR: Yeah, what about him?

GARRETT: No! I don't need help from people with magical powers. I make my own destiny.

COFFEY: Then who can help you, boss?

GARRETT: Good question. Well, I'm sure the good Lord will provide me with the proper help.

EXT. OLD FOLK'S HOME -- NIGHT

A nurse's assistant runs through the hallways, trying to find a particular room.

NURSE: John! John! John, where are you?!?

The nurse finds room 333 and walks in.

NURSE: Sir, the Saints need you to come back to New Orleans and take kicking duties while Garrett Hartley gets his mind right.


THE CARNEY: Huh? What's that, you say? Speak up!!!

NURSE: Oh fuck, our special teams are in trouble....

Return of the 'Magnificent Seven' (Verily.)

EXT. Saints headquarters on Airline Hwy in Metairie -- NIGHT

(Dozens of Saints fans are outside, brandishing torches and pitchforks. Somewhere, Ralph Malbrough is sharpening the guillotine.)



ANGRY MOB: grumble-grumble-grumble-blah-blah-blah! We demand blood!!! BLOOD!!!

(Inside the Saints' practice facility, Head Coach Sean Payton and kicker Garrett Hartley watch from a third floor window as the crowd gets restless.)

PAYTON: Well look at 'em, Garrett.


GARRETT: Coach, I'm sorry. I said I was sorry. I even wept to Peter Finney hoping he might be able to buy me some time, but what can I do?

PAYTON: Well, for starters we've got to take some of the fire out of that crowd. (Pushes intercom button.) Uh, Doris? Could you please dispatch 'The Shockmeister' into the crowd to sex up a bunch of the women? Thank you. (Lets go of intercom button.) That should take a lot out of them.

GARRETT: But what about the guys in the crowd?

PAYTON: Jeremy's told me he's sexed up countless married women in the Crescent City and for whatever reason, the husbands seem content to be in the room watching while it happens. Can't figure it out for the life of me. Must be those "high society" types.

GARRETT: But what if those aren't "high society" types?

PAYTON: J-Shock will sell them his used chewing tobacco, which they can turn around and sell on eBay.

GARRETT: He's got enough?


PAYTON: Did you SEE him on the sidelines during the Bucs game? The guy was stuffing it in his mouth like it was titties or something!!!

GARRETT: Okay...well then what do we do?

PAYTON: (Pushes intercom button.) Send him in, Doris. (Lets go of button.) Well, I'm sorry to have to do this to you, Garrett, but we've got put you on IR.

GARRETT: What? I'm fine! I'm healthy!!

PAYTON: Look, I'm trying to save our asses here! Do you have ANY idea how fucking frustrating it is to be haunted by a kicking problem? I've had SEVEN different guys kick for me in four years!! That shouldn't be my legacy, Garrett!

GARRETT: Seven? Really? Who'd you have?

PAYTON: John Carney, Billy Cundiff, Olindo Mare, Martin Grammatica, Taylor Mehlhaff, and you.

GARRETT: Yeah, but coach that's only six guys. Who's number seven?

(In walks a VERY old man.)


THE DANE: Hilsener, bus! (Greetings, Coach!)

GARRETT: Really?!? You're bringing back fuckin' Morten Andersen?!? Dude's gotta be in his 50s!!

PAYTON: Wrong! He turned 49 this past August, so there!

THE DANE: Jeg er bedrøvelig hen til høre om jeres skade. (I am sorry to hear about your injury.)

GARRETT: Again...WHAT injury?

PAYTON: I'm having it leaked that you ruptured something in your foot during that first field goal attempt. Since it was the last time anybody saw you kick prior to the shank, I think some people will buy it, especially when I refuse comment for a week and a half.

GARRETT: You can't do this to me!! I was 21 of 21 on field goals under 50 yards, for Christ's sake! And you're gonna replace me with the fucking Dutchman?

PAYTON: Hey, I need people to not freak out and come down and hang us all from the I-10 overpass, okay? From here on out, Morten will handle everything under 40 yards. You can do that, right Morten?

THE DANE: JEG forsikre jer mig spark ben er kraftig. (I assure you my kicking leg is strong.)

GARRETT: And who handles the ones over 40?!?


MORSTEAD: Greetings! Garrett, I'm so sorry to hear about your foot injury. You seem to be getting around on it quite nicely, though.

GARRETT: For the last FUCKING TIME, I AM NOT INJURED! My foot is fine!!!

PAYTON: Oh really? Uh, Morten you wanna take care of this...?


THE DANE: JEG skal knase jeres fod verily! (I shall crush your foot, verily!)

(Morten Andersen slams the mighty hammer down on Garrett's kicking foot.)

GARRETT: Fuck, you've broken my goddamn foot, you asshole!!

MORSTEAD: Oh, sweet, you like to dress up, too? Hang on a second...


MORSTEAD: We are going to KICK SO MUCH ASS together!!

THE DANE: Verily.

GARRETT: Can somebody call a fucking medic for me?!? Jesus Christ...!