Tin Cup

Clint: [about Molly] How can such a pretty girl have such an ugly swing. Earl: [about Roy] The word normal and him don't often collide in the same sentence. David Simms: Can you people not see that I'm busy? I'm working. This is my office. Do I come to your office and ask for an autograph? I don't think so. Jesus. What an ugly dog. TV Director: Another driving range pro, it's all we needed. It's heroes that I need. Not obscure driving range pros. Jim Nantz: Unbelievable. McAvoy has done it. You just saw the greatest round in U.S. Open history. The all-time lowest round in a major doesn't belong to a Jack Nicklaus or an Arnold Palmer, Hogan, Nelson or Snead. It's been shot by the most improbable artist of all. Roy McAvoy has his signature on golf's all-time masterpiece round. Doreen: [to Molly] You're not one of those women who tries to fix men, I hope. I mean, men cannot be fixed, and especially him.

Tin Cup, CC BY-SA 4.0

Roy: Any of you shitheads ever get bored? You ever get bored? 'Cause I got a riddle. Takes about 2 ounces of brains to figure it out. Anybody think they got a brain with 2 ounces of brains in it? Romeo: There's a rumor Earl does. Roy: For chrissakes, fellas, come on, a little self-confidence from the players' gallery. We ain't talkin long division.

Tin Cup, CC BY-SA 4.0

Molly: I take it you're a feminist. Roy: I've been called many things, never been saddled with that one. Molly: You might try being saddled sometime. Smell of leather, sting of a whip. Roy: I'm just a humble golf pro, can I help you?

Tin Cup, CC BY-SA 4.0

Roy: First thing you must learn is this game ain't about hitting a little ball in some yonder hole. It's about inner demons, self-doubt, human frailty and overcoming that shit. What kind of doctor did you say you were? Molly: Psychologist. A neo-Jungian, post-modern Freudian, holistic secularist. Roy: Okay. Molly: I mean, inner demons, human frailty, that's my life's work.

Tin Cup, CC BY-SA 4.0

Roy: "What Is The Golf Swing," by Roy McAvoy? Well, I tend to think of the golf swing as a poem. Romeo: Ooh, he's doing that poetry thing again. Roy: The critical opening phrase of this poem will always be the grip. The hands unite to form a single unit by the simple overlap of the little finger. Molly: Right. Roy: Lowly and slowly, the clubhead is led back, pulled into position not by the hands, but by the body, which turns away from the target, shifting weight to the right side without shifting balance. Tempo is everything; perfection unobtainable as the body coils down at the top of the swing. There's a slight hesitation. A little nod to the gods... Molly: A, a nod to the gods? Roy: Yeah, to the gods. That he is fallible. That perfection is unobtainable. And now the weight begins shifting back to the left pulled by the powers inside the earth, it's alive, this swing! A living sculpture and down through contact, always down, striking the ball crisply, with character. A tuning fork go

Tin Cup, CC BY-SA 4.0

Roy: Waggle it and let the big dog eat. Molly: What big dog? Roy: The driver, the #1-wood. Molly: Oh this is metal. Roy: Woods are metal, the driver's known as the big dog. I'm just saying let him loose, let it rip, let the big dog eat. Molly: You know, this is without a doubt the stupidest, silliest...most idiotic, grotesquely masquerading game ever invented. Roy: Yes ma'am and that's why I love it. Now if you hit one good shot, just one, and that tuning fork rings in your loins and you can't wait to get back...and do it again.

Tin Cup, CC BY-SA 4.0