the muse has not descended, lucille. the muse has not descended. god damn it, lucille, you hear me? yes! the muse has left me stranded here like a beached whale -- only one phrase, one word, from finishing the greatest essay i've ever written! one word, the right word -- flaubert called it 'le mot juste' -- i ever tell you that? lucille is a longsuffering saint. hemingway, faulkner, joyce -- they all searched for 'le mot juste' until they cried, until they bled. what is this essay about again? i mean what is it really about? ohyeah. so. we end the essay with. 'the tarpon leaps shimmering into the late cross light of the keys, a primeval moment frozen in. . frozen in'. i don't know, lucille, that's what the muse will tell me if she ever descends. . 'frozen in'. i dunno. how does she sound? tell her. tell her. i'll talk. no. tell her i'm out -- i'll call her later. god damn it. i need a drink. fuck 'le mot juste,' lucille! finish the damn thing yourself. 'the primeval moment is frozen in' whatever the hell you want it to be. did you know that james joyce let his secretary -- none other than samuel beckett -- revise and edit molly's solliloquy in ulysses? you're my beckett -- i give you 'le mot juste!' just get the damn thing in the mail so i can get paid. i don't know. i need a drink. he grabs his hat and coat and we begin hearing the number one hit song of 1960, percy faith's schmaltzy recording of "a summer place." cut to: awright, awright. how do you get five old ladies to say 'fuck?' yell 'bingo.' stump laughs. the others groan. reynaldo, 40's, black, speaks up. he's one of the regulars. oh no, the wife and i are all patched up -- doin' fantastic. yes i do. more art was created for money than for passion. take your platitudes and shove 'em, frank. i'm gonna write a novel too, someday. it could come from my pen. awright, that's it! let's go! settle this right here! stump raises his fists as if to fight; frank responds. phone call saved your ass. stump grabs the phone, covering an ear to hear better. yeah. yeah. who?. no. you're kidding?. when? stump hangs up the phone and turns. his face registers shock, or more precisely, bewilderment and wonder. hey. shut up! cobb wants to see me. ty cobb! how many cobbs are there?! this news instantly sobers the room. not yet. he said he wants to tell me the real story of his life before he croaks. the georgia peach himself. this impresses the hell out of everyone in the room. even stump is still a little dazed. i ain't gettin' my ass shot, don't worry. except ivan was a nicer guy. immediately. i gathered all the film footage that existed on cobb -- which wasn't much -- and rented the local theater for the afternoon. i, too, had thought that the great ty cobb had been dead for awhile. his reputation as being difficult at best, psychotic at worst, preceded him. but if there was one thing i knew after all my years as a journalist covering politicians, celebrities, and sports heroes, it was this -- the 'facts' -- and public perception of those 'facts' -- frequently bear little resemblance. onscreen -- cobb in action -- his demon fury gives way to the fierce joy of his playing. he slashes a ball up the alley, turns first and never hesitates at second, and as the relay comes into third -- one thing was beyond argument -- he was the most brilliant athlete of his time. perhaps of any time. i was determined to find out who was the real ty cobb. cobb slides with spikes high and a cloud of dust. there is something thrilling and terrifying in the image. cut to: they said cobb owned property all over the country, but in recent years had been staying in his hunting lodge at lake tahoe in the sierra nevadas. driving into the sierras at night with winter coming on wasn't the smartest decision i'd ever made but it seemed better than being late for my first meeting with cobb. first drops of rain begin hitting the windshield -- stump hits the wiper button and the floppy blades begin ineffectively wiping the windshield. stump struggles with his vision. shit. fill it up and replace the wiper blades. colder than a witch's tit, eh? actually, i'm going to meet ty cobb. i hear he's got a way with kids. hey, baby, it's me. al. your husband. i'm up in the woods somewhere on assignment. listen, sweetheart, listen -- nobody can love you the way i love you and i want you to take me back. i made a mistake. okay, lots of mistakes. i know i'm not worthy. honey? sweetheart? baby? i confess i was looking forward to seeing cobb and being near his brilliance. my own life seemed on hold, somehow. everyday churning out the same old articles, drinking at 4 in the afternoon with the same old guys, the same old excuses for not writing a novel, the same old confused marriages that we all needed and were trying to get out of at the same time. cobb was a god whose brilliance, however difficult, could rub off on me. his problems were different than mine. i'm a writer. mr. cobb? mr. cobb? the silence is shattered by a scratch, then violin music from upstairs. static suggests a record is playing. hello? mr. cobb? a gunshot rings out -- ripping through the door. stump is terrified -- he gasps for air. thank you very much, mr. cobb, but i don't need this job that bad. thank you. sir, i am the most successful sportswriter in america and not merely a 'moderate success.' a few weeks. i won't forget. what's the 'real' story? cobb climbs slowly out of bed. his words are reasoned and not without passion. you okay? with a pistol? no way. cobb smiles and loads the revolver. he pushes the window which swings slowly open. like hell you did. you're full of shit. and i'll be leaving as well, sir, since you think i'm the wrong man for the job. no. ready, mr. cobb. i'm ready. what the hell is that? so i'm taking notes? i ain't writing it. it's horseshit. it's a third person comment about someone who's already dead. an autobiography has to be in the first person -- plus it can't come from the other side of the god damn grave. not to mention you can't call yourself 'a prince and great man' -- that's for the world to decide. you're not treating me like a writer -- you're treating me like a stenographer. know ye that a prince and a great man has fallen this day. yes it does. you got a stock tip for me? coke in cans? i don't think so. cobb just stares back in disdain. then, suddenly -- what? cobb's residence. hello. he's not here -- who's calling? ernie? ernie who? my god. it's ernest hemingway. for you. jesus christ, ty, this is the great american writer -- this is the man who inspired me to become a writer! why? that's it? you didn't like a guide he hired? cobb looks at stump with a fierceness that is so over- whelming, so physical, that stump melts. mr. hemingway? mr. cobb says. to go to hell. by the way i'm a big fan of yours -- click, a hang up. cobb settles into a chair, letting the drugs and pills and booze work their way into his thick body. ty, you okay? what do you need? i couldn't be around the man for long without needing a break, which his painkillers gracefully provided. my sanity would soon depend upon a frequent breath of fresh air, a walk in the woods -- any escape from what one sportswriter had called 'cobb's brooding soul that bubbled with violence.' stump lights a pipe as he walks up a trail, away from the lodge, toward a ridge, all covered with snow. the flurries of snow are getting thicker now. i knew most of the cobb stories -- first man elected to the hall of fame, ahead of the incomparable babe ruth. statistics that haven't been approached in three-quarters of a century. stump stops at the ridge and looks down at the partially frozen lake tahoe in the lingering light. but i'd known boxing champions and football players -- they were gentle souls outside the arena. how much of cobb was an act, a lifetime of theatrical intimidation to preserve his own legend? legends grow in time. tough guys are tougher, women more beautiful, routine acts of self-preservation become heroic. my god. the buck's head has a hole blasted behind the ear. there's a blizzard out there! let's just put on some soup, build a fire, and we can work on the book. look, ty, the roads are impassable. i'm not driving in this stuff! fuck you! i ain't dying in this god damn ice cube! struggles to see through the windshield -- snow is swirling everywhere. jesus. he's a goner, al, save your own god damn ass. cobb! stump plows his way on foot down the embankment, fighting bad footing and snowdrifts, until -- he arrives at the car -- surely nobody could survive this. with difficulty, he makes his way to the back door of the huge car and wrestles it open. cobb? you've alive? there's blood! shut up! i said shut up. stump drags cobb awkwardly through the snowbank back up to the highway. when they get to the edge of the high- way, cobb stops to stare at the tire tracks leaving the road. god damn it, shut up and get in the car! the blizzard swirls around the two men, now at stump's car on the highway. i'm driving. over my dead body! you miserable son of a bitch. you coward, you pathetic, frightened, desperate old man -- you can't do anything without that gun and frankly it doesn't impress me to keep flashing it because i know you're not gonna shoot me 'cause you need me worse than i need you. what, you're gonna kill me? fine, then put me outta my fuckin' misery. i'm freezing. women? plural? dear god. and cobb launches in as he accelerates down the mountain, every curve risking death. he seems at peace with the world -- in the driver's seat, literally, on the edge of being utterly out of control. none of this 'know ye that a prince and great man has fallen' stuff -- no, i didn't, really. i didn't have time. i mean, i knew the basics. people have said that, yes. then why do you care what i write? that's what writers do. maybe you're right! ty! godddddddd! cobb spins the wheel -- the car spins out of control, just missing the truck, and hurtling on down the icy highway. your father was murdered? your father was murdered? how come nobody knows about this? but this helps explain why -- he catches himself. was the killer ever caught? jesus christ -- i'll remember. 'cause i'm trying to have a good grip on things when this car goes over the next cliff! i ain't ready to die yet! cobb's tone changes suddenly -- he questions stump with- out guile or anger, as if his answer is obvious. ty! then watch the fucking road. maybe i don't wanta get laid! i'm married. we're in the middle of a. problem. we're talking. i'm not getting a divorce. i'm being loyal. what do you know about her?! it didn't last long! nobody knows about the brunette. i gotta put your family in my book. my book is about cobb! ty! look! it's a man! stop the car! we're out in this shit! and stump climbs out of the car. my god. it's you. are you okay? it is willie, the black man who cobb fired the day before. let me help you to the car. cobb's in the car. he's driving. yeah. you're coming! he fucking hates everybody. don't give him the pleasure of dying out here. ty, it's willie. we can give him a lift to town. shut the fuck up and give him a ride! no. but i'm sure willie would take great pleasure in it. willie climbs into the back seat with the gun. cobb is livid. say, willie, you a baseball fan? who's the greatest ballplayer of all time, in your opinion? excuse me, mr. cobb, the man is speaking. and then there's satchel paige. ice! slow down! tyyyy! two rooms, please. excuse me, i've gotta get him checked in. he's very sick. two rooms, next to each other. your money's okay, ty, right here. your gun's okay, too. right here. no we haven't missed the dinner. hello? happy birthday! it's your daddy! yeah! your birthday was yesterday?! no, it couldn't be! omigod, what can i say? i feel terrible -- no, it's not okay, jeez. when i get off the road we'll do something special -- a late birthday, eh? maybe you can go to spring training or something with me, eh? yeah. listen, is your mother there? i know she doesn't want to speak to me, but i want to speak to her. okay, okay -- i feel terrible about the birthday. i'll call you real soon. and tell your mother i'm not drinking anymore. okay. 'bye, 'bye. stump hangs up the phone -- takes a deep breath, and. he pours another drink, and sits down to his typewriter. fuck it. stump is hunkered over his typewriter pounding away. his voice over indicates what he is writing. i was a fool for thinking cobb's brilliance might be what i needed at this moment of my life. ty cobb was the last thing i needed. he was not misunderstood -- he was understood perfectly well. he hated blacks, he hated jews, he hated catholics -- he hated everything except himself and his own view of the world. at times it seemed like he would drop dead in front of me. . and other times he seemed indestructible. i was reluctant to view the great ty cobb as a pathetic character, lost in the past, paranoia, and the shallow defense of 'his own breeding'. those are my notes! you can't look at my notes! you want the truth? i'm gonna tell the truth! mine, for crissakes, i'm the writer! these are just notes. maybe you should find another writer. i'm entitled to my opinions -- you think they wanta know how to steal second base? well i don't! fuck you, cobb! i'm much more than a moderate success! i'm all ears. your mother killed your father? i have to. no, i do. i always have it. it's my standard contract. i just signed. i would never have agreed to this if you had final approval. hello? charlie? al. i'm in reno. yeah. things are fine. yeah, listen. i'm just checking. did we give away final editorial approval on this cobb book? we did? cobb has it? jesus. stump listens long and hard -- his face sinks. cobb smiles and hangs the phone back up for stump who reaches for the bottle on the nightstand and pours himself a morning drink of vodka. fuck you, cobb? listen to me, you son of a bitch -- if you die before the book is finished, i'll write the story i want. i'll write slow. my god -- it's mona. ra-mona. we met her at the hotel. ramona is a vision in this outfit as she approaches them. coupla monte cristos, ramona, number twos. at the hotel -- checking in. 'moonlit garden of the gods'? the audience stands to applaud cobb -- full and genuine. cobb graciously waves to the crowd, bowing, basking. they want you, ty -- the greatest baseball player of all time. excuse me. i'll try harder. you're a beautiful woman. vodka and grapefruit juice. ramona slaps the wig back on her head. slightly akilter. she doesn't care. harvey delivers another round. your wig's crooked. no, no. i was just -- you want money? i'm sorry. i didn't know. i mean i'm not good at this. not yet. it's obvious, huh? then i won't. whichever. no, i do. i don't know what i'm saying or doing anymore. i'm trying to speak my heart. i told my wife i wanted a divorce. she said 'okay' -- then i realized maybe i don't. no. i'm not myself. another round, harvey. this assignment has me befuddled. i'm supposed to tell the world that a monster is really a prince. i'm supposed to lie. very well. i can't. no! he knows greatness. i'm in the presence of greatness. i want to learn about greatness. she looks at him like he's crazy. maybe you're right, maybe you're right. i want to be in someone's arms tonight. wait, wait. don't drink too much. well. yeah. c'mere. i want to hold you. not so fast -- come here. shh, shh. i know, i know. a moment of quiet, simple bliss -- when: she's not 'your' girl! and cobb lashes out at stump -- stump tries to block the blow, but cobb is relentless, and cobb hits him again. good, good. no we haven't, ty. now get some sleep. stump tucks cobb in his bed as the old man drifts into sleep, turns off the light, and heads back to his own room. he slept for days. i thought he was gone for sure. but even in sleep he was restless and in motion, a fire always burning in his belly. by this time i was working on two manuscripts -- one was his version, my life in baseball -- which for better or worse was a history of how to steal second base or how to hit the breaking ball to the opposite field. it contained nothing about his parents, much less the death of his father at the hands of his mother. it contained nothing about his children and ex-wives, none of whom would even speak to him. it contained no insights from his friends because i couldn't find any. it was a baseball book and i kept it in the typewriter for him to discover and amend. it was a book i never planned to publish. stump sits on his bed smoking his pipe and writing in longhand on pieces of paper of all sizes. the second version, my version, was written on legal pads and hotel stationery and cocktail napkins and anything i could scrape together without drawing his attention. i kept my version in a box at the bottom of my suitcase -- the whole thing had become an agonizing death watch, and most days i couldn't believe the son of a bitch wouldn't die. the door flies open and cobb bursts in -- full of vim and vigor, a fresh set of clothes on, fire in his eyes. been writing, ty. cobb goes straight for the typewriter and yanks out a page, grabbing the stack of typed pages as well. i think they're just next to each other by accident. she's not your girl and he's not your -- we're leaving, we're leaving! there's no reason to press charges! back off, god damn it! we're leaving! ty, ty, ty, calm down. it's time for the testimonial dinner! actually the testimonial dinner at the hall of fame was still weeks away, but it was the only thing that got him calmed down enough to get us out of town without getting thrown in jail -- or getting somebody killed. and as we headed across country, cobb as usual was oblivious to the chaos he'd left in his wake. in fact he was buoyed with new enthusiasm at the prospects of seeing his cronies once again. you're kidding. i was disturbed, to say the least, that he felt we were friends -- but at least for the moment it made things bearable. and he started talking -- the world according to ty cobb. cobb talks into a tape recorder sitting on his lap, enjoying the hand microphone. 'hung around'? he was -- -- next to you -- the greatest player of all time. he hit 714 home runs?! sorry, ty -- and cobb resumes into the tape recorder. during the day, we worked on his version of the story. at night i worked on mine. i was drinking like a fish, smoking cigarettes again, and now lying about the hidden manuscript. and by writing two versions without telling him, i was becoming something cobb was not. i was becoming a liar. an o.s. rumble -- stump quickly hides the manuscript as: thanks, ty. he shot up his share of motels for all the usual reasons -- guests were too noisy, he couldn't get any sleep, it didn't matter -- he was always boiling over. and i became expert at keeping the peace wherever we went. i also became expert at finding his veins. which always revived him. cut to: somewhere along the way i'd gone from biographer to stenographer to chauffeur to nurse. i was the only thing keeping the bastard alive. and i kept hoping he'd die. until, by the grace of god, we arrived -- days, weeks, months later, i don't know -- in cooperstown, new york, for his beloved testimonial dinner. dissolve to: i've been looking forward to this for a long time -- you got me wrong. can i help you? why? you take care of him? jesus, ty, why not? you've got to have your cane. you look like the greatest ballplayer of all time. you going to be okay? it's a great film -- i think the medication's getting to you, ty -- i'm watching you run the bases. your batting stroke. ty, i think you're not well -- i'll take you back to the motel. you and connie mack. over here, ty. al stump. you sure you're up for this? let's go to the motel, ty. cobb heads down the hallway pounding on every door -- he's ready to explode. let's go home, ty, this isn't a good place to be. i appreciate your coming. i saw ty cobb playing baseball. that's all. you were the best. cobb parted with some of his hard- earned money and rented a limo in order to make what he called a 'grand re-entrance to his beloved home town of royston' he loved the manuscript, as well he should -- it made him out to be a saint -- cobb looks up from the manuscript. the book, like cobb, was almost finished. but he was dying slower than i was writing, and like everything else, he viewed it as a competition that he was not going to lose. to me, we weren't riding to georgia in a limo. we were riding in a hearse. it wasn't exactly the 'grand re- entrance to a home town' that he talked about. when's the last time you saw her? maybe she moved. i'll see if it's her. wait here. stump gets out of the car and heads up the walk. good day, ma'am. i'm looking for florence cobb --------. i have your brother in the car. yes. and he'd like to see you. it's been a long time, he said. he's not well. i know there's been problems, but the family is very important to him. he loved his father. he's dying. he just wants to see you. it wasn't your sister. the woman in the house said your sister moved a long time ago. she doesn't know where. liar?! a cocksucking liar?! of course i'm a liar! that's what i'm paid to do, isn't it?! lie about ty cobb?! who would take care of you? i listen to your bullshit, i interpret and shape and find words for your bullshit and you give me nothing but grief! stop the car! i wish you'd die! and go to hell! a line of lightning signals a storm in the distance. that was your sister alright, and she didn't want anything to do with you either! you forgive her?! that's rich! religious growth?! i'm angry? through the cemetery they keep walking, up a long hill full of tombstones and shrines and sprays of dead and dying flowers and gaudy plastic bouquets. cobb following steadily along with his cane, several paces behind stump. i'm angry?! i love her! i don't want a divorce! but you have no friends! which cobb of georgia is that? several beats as the men take it all in. finally: under one roof? that's romantic! you want that in the book? ty cobb brings the family together at last to enter the gates of heaven whole! then why are you such a bastard? let me go! what're you talking about? cobb's fist clinches stump's throat, forcing him to hear. outside the mausoleum, rain pours down now, a southern spring thunderstorm unleashing torrents. i don't want to be your friend! i don't want to feel sorry for you! so your mother's lover blew your father's head off! i don't care. you were a prick before it happened, you were a prick after it happened, you've been a prick ever since, and you're a prick now! cobb quietly takes a hit on his flask from the doorway of the mausoleum, watching stump rant and rave in the rain. what the hell're you talking about? cobb holds out his flask for stump. fuck the drink! i'm gonna tell the truth about you, cobb! i'm gonna tell the world you hate women, jews, and niggers! you treat people like dirt! get your hands off me! a man must defend his mother at all times. papers? but my wife and i are still talking?! fuck me? well fuck her. no, fuck him. stump reaches for the gun and aims it at the man. you ain't serving me no papers. i love my wife. i am not going to accommodate this man, tyrus. you're absolutely right, tyrus, i've been accommodating people my whole life and it stops right here. you've killed a man. i'll kill a man. kablam! kablam! he misses again. don't give me that sob-sister stuff! stump tries to hold the gun with two hands, approaching the man, to nearly point-blank range. life is too short to be diplomatic. a man's friends don't care what he says or does. you're my friend, ty, right? you're my friend! i almost killed a man. no. i put a gun to a man's head and pulled the trigger. i wanted to kill him. yes it did. nobody's gonna write my biography. i get it. i get it. a moment. a look. ty. tyrus. peach. stump struggles to his elbow to find cobb. ty! stump leaps out of bed and looks around. god. i'm here to see. mr. cobb. i know, i know. stump hurries down the hall to the source of the noise. a small group of doctors, orderlies and nurses are gathered outside cobb's door, afraid to enter. also there are two civilians in business suits. so you read the book. that book is the truth. i don't know which version of your life i'm going to publish. i really don't. i didn't know what i was getting into with this job. it's all. confusing. here's a little something might help. right here, peach. next to your gun. cobb grabs stump's hand for one last word. naw, i didn't get the gun. i gave a few bucks to a local kid to re-paint the sign, and disappeared for a while to finish the manuscripts. and wait for cobb to die. and while i waited, ernest hemingway blew his brains out, getty bought honolulu oil company, and the brunette in the courtyard ran away with a handsome young lawyer. and on july 17, 1961. ty cobb died quietly in his sleep. i don't believe it was quiet, nothing he did was quiet, but that's what the newspaper writer said who wrote the lead and we all know that writers never lie. pan over across the sign -- to the adjacent cemetery as -- somebody hired a singer. but it was the grimmest damn funeral service i'd ever seen. he left all his money to his family, though no members of it managed to attend the funeral, and with the rest he founded a hospital in his own name and an educational trust fund for poor georgia children. only three ballplayers attended the service -- three oldtimers who he'd been supporting financially for many years, a fact he didn't want made public. somebody rounded up some little leaguers, probably so the press photographers would have some sob sister photos. the sort cobb hated. except the press didn't bother coming. i'll give him this -- the family was under one roof again. i called my publisher. the book was ready. only i didn't know which one to turn in. good to see you guys. how's it goin'? alan, how's that novel coming? must be about done by now? yeah, i know how it is. yeah. finally gave up the ghost. the truth? the truth? stump takes a drink and looks his friends in the eye. a prince and a great man has fallen. murmurs of deep satisfaction from the cronies. affirmation. a helluva guy, a great man, a misunderstood artist, a fierce competitor but a sweet man at heart. a gentle soul. as stump starts lying to his enraptured audience, we pull back and up, going from the intimate center of the table to a cool distance, and -- i published the lie and put the truth in a closet. cobb and his father and mother were together at last. the man had some deep, unexpressed sorrow that i could never know. i embraced him and i hated him. and i knew i would never write a novel, unless you considered 'cobb' a work of fiction -- which i did not. my friends were thrilled to hear that the georgia peach was a helluva guy -- it excused their own failures -- if cobb was okay, then by god, they were okay. but finally i didn't lie for them, or the children of america, or somesuch hogwash -- finally i lied for myself. i needed cobb to be somebody he was not. i needed him to be a hero. it is my weakness. the book was a moderate success. the empty stadium, cavernous, half cathedral, half factory. 141: a gambling den. money on the bench. two men is suits are placing bets, intermingling with the players. a player smokes, another drinks -- this is as far from the anti- septic modern game as can be imagined. cobb, early 20's, selects his bat, talks to the gambler. a horse shakes its head, attached to a buggy. a man pats the horse and ties it to a tree.