Eight Men Out

Bucky!

Bucky!

Bucky!

Bucky!

I got it, Bucky! We're in!

I got me the 2 bits! We're in!

How'd you get it?

Hawking papers. C'mon, it's starting!

We're going to see the Sox!

Two bleachers. - Two bleachers.

Thank you.

Three, please.

Safe!

We'll divvy it up. Two makes heavy dough.

These are the best seats in the joint! - You bet!

If Cicotte's arm holds up it will be murder.

Better get movin', boys. Commy's forum is in the clubhouse.

Commy sure knows the way to a writer's heart. - Sports writers of the world, unite!

You have nothing to lose but your bar privileges.

Here comes the old Roman.

Hello, my boys! Everybody happy?

Hi, Billy!

Tommy! Smitty!

Hey, sourpuss.

So, Hughie?

Ban Johnson says he's pretty sure your boys are going to win.

No question if my boys will win.

Just a matter of how many games it's going to take 'em.

Think it'll go the full nine?

Nine games? Not a chance.

You sound pretty cocky.

I got the horses, Smitty. I got the horses.

And, more than that, I got the team, fellas!

Kid Gleason has done a heck of a job at the helm this year,

bringing these boys together.

Smoothing out the defense. Building up the offense.

Getting the boys to think and move together.

Hell! They eat together, travel together,

room together on the road

and when it's time to play they let off steam together.

No room for prima donnas in this ball club!

Every man for the good of the team!

Out!

You're out!

That one wake you up, Collins?

Hey, "college boy" needs his beauty sleep.

What for? He goes to bed at 9:00 o'clock.

Wouldn't hurt you guys to get a little sleep once in a while.

Shove it, "college boy".

It's like a family, ya know?

What about the odds on your boys?

It's already 3 to 1 in their favor.

They are... underestimating us.

Any bet against my Sox this series is a sucker bet.

Of course, I'm not a gambling man.

Collins? - Nah.

"College boy" is the only one on the club who's getting paid what he's worth.

Tied it in his contract when he got traded.

C'mon... Go!

Hey, mister! Hey, mister! You made my brother spill his Cracker Jacks!

Mister!

Here, kid. Shut him up, will ya?

What about Chick Gandil?

He might do business.

Chickie's a sport.

Gandil? Only first sack in the league doesn't need his glove to play.

Hands of steel.

I'll put my Joe Jackson...

up against any player in the circuit.

The boy can hit... he can run... he can throw.

If he could read he'd be perfect.

C'mon, Betsy, it needs a walk now. Big walk.

Tell me when, Betsy.

Does it ever talk back to you, Joe?

He probably sleeps with it, too.

Lay off, you guys.

Ah, you crackers stick together, huh?

Ask him for a triple, Joe.

Did you hear me?

Sixty years since the civil war, Lefty. Ease up.

Besides, you guys lost. It's in all the papers.

That wouldn't help Jackson, though.

Just leave 'em be.

What are you lookin' at, busher?

Here he comes!

C'mon, Joe! Nail it!

Hey, professor...

read any good books lately?

Hey, professor...!

Run, Joe, run!

C'mon go, go, go!

C'mon, take it!

C'mon, Joe, slide!

Safe!

Whoopee! Whoopee! Way to go, Joe!

Hey, Jackson! Hey, Jackson!

Can you spell "Cat"?

C'mon "Shoeless Joe", can you spell "Cat"?

Hey, mister, can you spell "Shit"?

Buck Weaver?

Bucky is one of the boys.

But, the thing about Bucky is he don't like to lose.

Everyone's standing up!

Here.

C'mon, Buck! Repeat Joe's!

Out!

He can't stand to lose. Put him on the "maybe list".

What about Schalk?

Not a prayer.

Listen, Ray, settle a bet between me and Hap, will ya?

He says everybody knows how to smile. Even you.

And I said your puss would crack if you ever tried.

Go piss up a rope.

OK, Eddie! C'mon, ball five, Eddie!

Ball five. Here we go, Eddie!

Eddie Cicotte has had his control back this year.

And I think his record speaks for itself.

I wouldn't be surprised if he's got two, maybe three good seasons left in that arm.

Foul ball!

C'mon, Eddie. Let's make a lot of noise. Let's just make a lot of noise, Eddie!

C'mon, get it in here, Eddie.

Here we go. Here we go, Eddie.

C'mon, fast as you can, Eddie!

Let's get it. Let's get it!

Foul ball!

C'mon, Knuckles. Don't make me nervous.

Keep it down there. Keep it down there, Eddie!

Hey, frag arm! Frag arm!

Hey, old man! Get a rockin' chair!

OK, Eddie, one more strike. Don't worry about it!

Their luck is running thin.

Pitch it right in there! One more ace, c'mon!

OK, let's do it, Eddie!

Big five, Eddie.

Here we go! Big five, Eddie!

Strike three!

50 years of baseball.

He's got the best knuckle ball I've ever seen.

If he's such a fan why doesn't he pay him a living wage?

Eddie's getting old for this game.

I know the feeling when you walk out on the mound with your arm hanging.

You couldn't pitch when you were young, Burnsy.

Eddie is the key. We don't get Eddie, we forget about it.

OK, Eddie, let's finish 'em off here now!

We're going to the series!

A guy could knock his brains out doing that.

What brains?

"Shoeless Joe" is ignorant. Hap Felsch is dumb.

Jesus, Hap. Save it, will ya?

Save it for what?

Stay hungry, you guys.

Uh, what's the scoop, Harry?

Mr. Comiskey sent these down to you.

His congratulations for a successful pennant race.

Ah, that's white of him.

He didn't happen to mention when

we could expect that bonus he promised us if we took the flag, did he?

This is your bonus.

Cheap bastard.

Fellows, if it was up to me -- Kid, we got no beef with you.

It's flat.

To the old Roman, Charles Comiskey.

To Commy! To Commy! - Beat their pants off, Commy.

To the Sox!

Hey, Buck.

Hey, Winslow.

Gentlemen.

Winslow, your boys look sharp. - Yeah.

They're the best I've seen yet.

The best white folks team, anyways.

I say they're the best, Hughie. The best ever.

Time will tell, kid.

Time will tell.

C'mon, fellas, pretend this is Commy's wake.

"The Sox assured the best of the 9".

Don't want me to skip and find what they talk about you?

Start from the beginning, baby.

"Now that we have put the Hun in his place

it is time for Americans to turn their attentions to more pleasurable pastimes".

Hey, they're sayin' we got no bench.

That's you they're talking about.

Hey, if Gleason puts me on, I'm gonna put a hole through them Reds.

Yeah? You going to fart at 'em or swing a bat?

Hey, wise guy. Pow!

Hey, Freddie got the best hands in the league.

I never once seen him drop a mug of beer once he's got his mitts on it.

Look at the way he fits this stool.

That's a professional bench warmer's butt if ever I've seen one.

I hear you're quite a performer, Mr. Gandil.

Yeah. I ain't bad on the diamond, neither.

They say you don't even need a glove to catch a ball.

Let me see your hands.

Look at them mitts, ladies.

You should have been a pug, Chickie, with mitts like that.

Oh, I done some scrappin'.

Spiffy lookin' bird is "Sport" Sullivan.

Anything that moves in Boston, he's got a bet down on it.

Think he's beat us to it?

Nah. He's just fishing around for some inside dope, is all.

My nose is broke...