A movie crew is about to film an action sequence of a football game. Reflectors and microphones are arranged. A Panavision camera is set up to shoot over the center into the face of the quarterback. One hundred and fifty extras have been placed to make the otherwise empty stadium seem full. The star, wearing pads and jersey No. 10, is drinking coffee from a paper cup and thoughtfully stroking his Lhasa Apso as he listens to the director.
Director: All right, Cecil, this is the deal. You're the quarterback, remember? The leader, the stud. Men would follow you into hell, O.K.? It's fourth and 10, down by six, but you got the soul to pull it off. baby, never mind the broken ribs, never mind that you feel alienated from a society that is exploiting your body and has cost you your innocence.
Cecil: I don't understand my motivation for this. Fourth and 10, you boot.
Director: It's the final minute. Cecil. All the little orphan kids in front of their TVs, they yearn to believe in heroes, and you know that's what America really needs, and you hate the people who use heroes as a commodity like corned beef. You're doing it for your wife Margie, in surgery from the suicide attempt, for Coach Thornton, who's being fired with no pension or profit sharing, for your buddies you've suffered with in the blue and gold, for $135,000 a year in salary and a lot of broads Margie don't know about besides Sue Anne the owner's daughter and Dixie from the airport coffee shop.
Cecil: Shouldn't I have dirt on my face for the close-up?
Director: Hey. Doris, put an authentic-looking smudge on Cecil's chin. Beautiful! Now, Cecil, you stand right here and hold your hands like Rudy showed you, and when this man gives you the ball you run back there to that mark and throw a pass this direction. Aim at the Hag we stuck in the ground. Got it, Cece?
Cecil: Who's going to catch the ball?
Director: The ball goes out of the shot.
Cecil: It's very important to my concept of the scene to know who is supposed to catch the ball.