Mulder, it is such a gorgeous day outside. Have you ever entertained the idea of trying to find life on this planet?
I have seen the life on this planet, Scully, and that is exactly why I am looking elsewhere. (Scully opens a paper bag and takes out something that looks like ice cream) Did you bring enough ice cream to share with the rest of the class?
(smugly, eating) It's not ice cream. It's a nonfat tofutti rice dreamsicle.
(returning to his book, disgusted) Ugh. Bet the air in my mouth tastes better than that. You sure know how to live it up, Scully.
(continuing to eat) Oh, you're Mr. Live-it-up. Mulder, you're really Mr. Squeeze-every-last-drop-out-of-this-sweet-life, aren't you? On this precious Saturday you've got us grabbing life by the testes - stealing reference books from the FBI library in order to go through New Mexico newspaper obituaries for the years 1940 to 1949, and for what joyful purpose?
Looking for anomalies, Scully. Do you know how many so-called "flying disc" reports there were in New Mexico in the 1940s?
I don't care. Mulder, this is a needle in a haystack. These poor souls have been dead for 50 years. Let them rest in peace. Let sleeping dogs lie.
No, I won't sit idly by as you hurl cliches at me. "Preparation is the father of inspiration."
"Necessity is the mother of invention."
"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom."
(taking another bite) "Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die."
"I scream, you scream, we all scream for"- nonfat tofutti rice dreamsicles! (sets the book down; lunges for Scully. He grabs her arm and takes a bite of the dreamsicle, breaking it; it splatters on the page)
No-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho! (laughing) Mulder! (she looks at the page; accusingly) Mulder!? You cheat. I can't believe that you've been reading about baseball this whole time.
Reading the box scores, Scully. You'd like it. It's like the Pythagorean Theorem for jocks. It distills all the chaos and action of any game in the history of all baseball games into one tiny, perfect, rectangular sequence of numbers. I can look at this box and I can recreate exactly what happened on some sunny summer day back in 1947. It's like the numbers talk to me, they comfort me. They tell me that even though lots of things can change some things do remain the same. It's...
(interrupting) Boring. Mulder, can I ask you a personal question?
Did your mother ever tell you to go outside and play? Mulder?
(looking at the page the ice cream spilled on; to himself) Is that ...Arthur Dales?
(fake) Ah... Choo! (fake sneezes and rips the page out; Scully pretends to be horrified)
You just defaced property of the U.S. Government. (he grabs the page and his jacket and runs out of the office; she smiles slightly) You rebel.
I don't really care about the baseball, so much, sir. What I care about is this man in the picture with you. I believe to be an alien bounty hunter.
(opening the door a crack) Of course you don't care about the baseball, Mr. Mulder. You only bothered my brother about the important things like government conspiracies and alien bounty hunters and the truth with a capital "T."
Wait a minute. I like baseball.
How many home runs did Mickey Mantle hit?
(thinks) 163. (Dales begins shutting the door, disappointed; Mulder pushes it open) Righty. 373 lefty. 536 total. (Arthur Dales nods, impressed; opens door all the way)
Let me get this straight: a free-spirited alien fell in love with baseball and ran away from the other non-fun-having aliens and made himself black, because that would prevent him from getting to the majors where his unspeakable secret might be discovered by an intrusive press and public and you're also implying that...
You certainly have a knack for turning chicken salad into chicken spit.
You're also implying that this baseball-playing alien has something to do with the famous Roswell UFO crash of July '47, aren't you?
You're just dying to connect the dots aren't you, son? Look, I give you some wood and I ask you for a cabinet. You build me a cathedral. I don't want a cathedral. I like where I live. I just want a place to put my TV. Understand my drift?
(pauses) Drift it is, sir.
Trust the tale, Agent MacGyver, not the teller. That which fascinates us is by definition true. Speaking metaphorically, of course.
Okay, so was Ex a man who was metaphorically an alien or an alien who was metaphorically a man or a something in between that was literally an alien-human hybrid? (Dales sighs; hands Mulder alcohol) It's official. I am a horse's ass.
[Nighttime at a baseball field; Mulder is wearing a "Grays" jersey, hitting balls thrown by a pitching machine.]
So, uh... I get this message marked "urgent" on my answering service from one "Fox Mantle" telling me to come down to the park for a very special very early or very late birthday present. And, Mulder... I don't see any nicely wrapped presents lying around so, what gives?
You've never hit a baseball, have you, Scully?
No, I guess I have, uh... found more necessary things to do with my time than- (a foul ball hits the fence; she jumps) slap a piece of horsehide with a stick.
Get over here, Scully. (he holds the bat out to her, she takes it, but he keeps his hands on it, wrapping his arms around her and holding the bat with her, around her hands)
(warily, not thrilled) This my birthday present, Mulder? You shouldn't have.
This ain't cheap. I'm paying that kid ten bucks an hour to shag balls. Hey, it's not a bad piece of ash, huh? (gives him a "Look.")The bat - talking about the bat. Now, don't strangle it. You just want to shake hands with it. (doing silly voices) "Hello, Mr. Bat. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." "Oh, no, no, Ms. Scully. The pleasure's all mine." (she laughs, and they hold onto the bat) Okay, now, we want to... we want to go hips before hands, okay? (holds his hand a few inches from her hip) We want to stride forward and turn. That's all we're thinking about. So, we go hips... before hands, all right? (gingerly touches her hip and, with his hands and his own hips pressed against her, turns her correctly)
One more time. (he touches and turns her hips more confidently) Hips... before hands, all right?
(speaking right into her ear) Right. We're going to wait on the pitch. We're going to keep our eye on the ball. Then, we're just going to make contact. We're not going to think. We're just going to let it fly, Scully, okay?
Ready? (he tries to readjust their grips on the bat; they struggle with it for a moment)
I'm in the middle. (gets her hands back between his; both grining)
All right, fire away, Poorboy. (a ball comes at them; they hit it together) Ooh! That's good. All right, what you may find is you concentrate on hitting that little ball... The rest of the world just fades away - all your everyday, nagging concerns.
[Scully giggles; they continue hitting the ball.]
The ticking of your biological clock. (hit) How you probably couldn't afford that nice, new suede coat on a G-Woman's salary. (hit) How you threw away a promising career in medicine... (intimately into her ear) to hunt aliens with a crackpot, albeit brilliant, partner.
[She gives him another "Look"]
Getting into the heart of a global conspiracy. Your obscenely overdue triple-X bill. Oh, I... I'm sorry, Scully. Those last two problems are mine, not yours. (hit)
(smiling happily) Shut up, Mulder. I'm playing baseball.
[They continue to hit the balls. Scully laughs. As the balls fly up into the black, star-studded night sky, we see them turn into shooting stars.]
