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The Unnatural 6 x 20
Episode: The Unnatural   Episode Number: 6x20   Tagline: In the Big Inning
Working Title: Black Sun, Black Diamond


Josh Exley: You sure your boy got the right prescription in those spectacles?
Catcher: Ah, don't worry, Ex. See, I told him to throw it right at your big, nappy, home-run-hitting head. So you can bet a hundred clams that ball's going anywhere but there. ---

Josh Exley: I don't want to be no famous man. Just want to be a man. ---

Scully: Mulder, it is such a gorgeous day outside. Have you ever entertained the idea of trying to find life on this planet?
Mulder: I have seen the life on this planet, Scully, and that is exactly why I am looking elsewhere. ---

(Scully opens a paper bag she is carrying and removes a paper-wrapped frozen dessert.)
Mulder: Did you bring enough ice cream to share with the rest of the class?
Scully: It's not ice cream. It's a nonfat tofutti rice dreamsicle.
Mulder: Ugh. Bet the air in my mouth tastes better than that. ---

Mulder: You sure know how to live it up, Scully.
Scully: 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? ---

Scully: 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.
Mulder: No, I won't sit idly by as you hurl clichés at me. Preparation is the father of inspiration.
Scully: Necessity is the mother of invention.
Mulder: The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
Scully: Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.
Mulder: I scream, you scream, we all scream for nonfat tofutti rice dreamsicles. ---

Scully: Mulder!? You cheat. I can't believe that you've been reading about baseball this whole time. Mulder: I'm 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 . . .
Scully: Boring. ---

Scully: Mulder, can I ask you a personal question?
Mulder: Of course not.
Scully: Did your mother ever tell you to go outside and play? ---

Arthur Dales: Arthur Dales is my brother. My name also happens to be Arthur Dales. It's the same name, different guy. The other Arthur, he moved to Florida the lucky bastard. Now, our parents weren't exactly big in the imagination department when it came to names. If it would help you wrapping your little head around this stupefying mystery, Agent Mulder, we had a sister named Arthur, too and a goldfish.
Mulder: How do you know my name?
Arthur Dales: My brother told me all about you. He said you were the biggest jackass in the Bureau since he retired. Yeah, we're big fans. Sometimes we'd stay awake for hours at night just talking about you. Just fascinating. Now, unless you're hiding some Chinese food let's call it a day. ---

Arthur Dales: 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."
Mulder: Wait a minute. I like baseball.
Arthur Dales: You like baseball, huh?
Mulder: Yeah.
Arthur Dales: How many home runs did Mickey Mantle hit?
Mulder: A hundred and sixty-three.
Mulder: Righty. 373 lefty. 536 total. ---

Arthur Dales: What you fail to understand in your joyless myopia is that baseball is the key to life-- the Rosetta Stone, if you will. If you just understood baseball better all your other questions your, your . . . the, uh . . . the aliens, the conspiracies they would all, in their way be answered by the baseball gods. ---

Agent Mulder, do you believe that love can make a man shape-shift?
Mulder: (soft laugh) I guess . . . women change men all the time. ---

Arthur Dales: Mr. Mulder-- maybe you'd better start paying a little less attention to the heart of the mystery and a little more attention to the mystery of the heart. ---

Arthur Dales: Now, the first thing you got to know about baseball is . . . it keeps you forever young. ---

Mulder: You seriously want me to believe that Josh Exley maybe one of the greatest ballplayers of all times, was an alien?
Arthur Dales: They're all aliens, Agent Mulder-- all the great ones. ---

Josh Exley: They don't like for us to intermingle with your people. Their philosophy is we stick to ourselves; you stick to yourselves-- everybody's happy.
Young Arthur Dales: So what happened?
Josh Exley: Well, you know what happened.
Young Arthur Dales: You fell in love with an earth woman.
Josh Exley: (he laughs) No. I saw a baseball game. ---

Mulder: 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 . . .
Arthur Dales: You certainly have a knack for turning chicken salad into chicken spit. ---

Mulder: 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?
Arthur Dales: 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?
Mulder:Drift it is, sir. ---

Arthur Dales: To be a man is to have the heart of a man. Integrity, decency, sympathy: these are the things that make a man a man and Ex had them all, had them all, more than you or I. ---

(Night. Mulder is at a baseball field hitting balls fired from a pitching machine. He is wearing a baseball jersey - Gibson, #20, the Grays. Scully walks around the fence and watches him.)
Scully: 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?
Mulder: You've never hit a baseball, have you, Scully?
Scully: No, I guess I have, uh . . . found more necessary things to do with my time than . . . slap a piece of horsehide with a stick.
Mulder: Get over here, Scully.
Scully: This my birthday present, Mulder? You shouldn't have.
Mulder: This ain't cheap. I'm paying that kid ten bucks an hour to shag balls.
Mulder: Hey, it's not a bad piece of ash, huh? The bat-talking about the bat. Now, don't strangle it. You just want to shake hands with it. "Hello, Mr. Bat. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." "Oh, no, no, Ms. Scully. The pleasure's all mine."
Mulder: 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? (He gingerly touches her hip and with his hands and his own hips pressed against her, turns her the right way.)
Scully: Okay.
Mulder: One more time. (He touches and turns her hips more confidently.)
Mulder: Hips . . . before hands, all right?
Scully: Yeah.
Mulder: What is it?
Scully: Hips before hands.
Mulder: (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?
Scully: Mm-hmm.
Mulder: Ready?
Scully: I'm in the middle. (She gets her hands back between his.)
Mulder: All right, fire away, Poorboy.
Mulder: 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 hit the ball again.)
Mulder: The ticking of your biological clock. (Another hit)
Mulder: How you probably couldn't afford that nice, new suede coat on a G-Woman's salary. (Another hit.)
Mulder: How you threw away a promising career in medicine . . . (into her ear) . . . to hunt aliens with a crackpot, albeit brilliant, partner.
Mulder: 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. (Another hit.)
Scully: Shut up, Mulder. I'm playing baseball.

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