Simon Birch

Mr. Roberts.

I am doomed to

remember a boy with a wrecked voice.

Not because of his voice

or because he was...

the smallest person

I ever knew...

or even because he was

the instrument of my mother's death,

but because he is the reason

I believe in God.

What faith I have,

I owe to Simon Birch,

the boy I grew up with

in Gravestown, Maine.

It is Simon that

made me a believer.

Hi, Mr. Roberts!

- ...strengthen your heart all ye

that will hope in the Lord.

I'm gonna leave you alone

with your thoughts now.

And when I come back

we'll talk about...

what we've just read.

Silently and seriously,

that's how I want you to think.

Our Sunday school teacher

was an unhappy woman...

by the name of Miss Leavey.

Her name suited her perfectly,

as she was always leaving class.

He's so cute.

Simon Birch was so tiny

that we loved to pick him up.

Hey, put me down.

In truth, we couldn't resist

picking him up.

We thought it was a miracle

how little he weighed.

Cut it out,

you a**holes.

Hey, no tickling.

I'm warning you.

Pass him to me!

Simon Birch?

Down!

I never understood

Miss Leavey's reaction.

Did she think Simon

climbed up there on his own?

Or that leaving us alone with our

thoughts had so empowered us that...

Simon was levitating up

to heaven?

But Simon was no rat.

As vividly as any story in the Bible,

Simon showed us what

a martyr was.

Simon Birch

was the smallest delivery...

every recorded in the history

of Gravestown Memorial Hospital.

Okay, Mrs. Birch...

the nurse is gonna give you

a shot here to help with the pain...

- and then we'll get started.

- Okay.

Gesundheit!

- Ooh!

- Ooh!

- Doctor!

Oh-Oh, dear.

Simon's father owned

the Birch Granite Company.

Mr. Birch was a big believer

in the rock.

And just about everything

in their house was made from granite,

including Mr. Birch.

Excuse us, please. Excuse us.

Excuse us, please.

Heh!

Along with

just about everything else...

Simon was born

with an undersized heart.

The prognosis wasn't good,

and Dr. Wells warned...

the Birches that Simon probably

wouldn't last through the night.

Fit-Fit right there

in the palm of my hand.

But he did.

Still, the complication seemed

too great, and Dr. Wells warned...

the Birches that Simon probably

wouldn't last through the week.

But he did.

The Birches didn't know what to make of

their peculiar, little disappointment.

So they made nothing

of it at all.

I'm going to work.

Weeks turned into months.

And months

turned into years.

Come on, we're late.

No, you're late.

I'm just riding with you.

The doctors proclaimed Simon a miracle.

And he was quick to remind any of us

if we forgot.

Not so fast. Slow down.

- I'm a miracle, you know.

- Yeah. Yeah.

But even miracles

can't go on forever.

And although we never talked about it,

it was never far from our minds.

Here they come,

the Wenteworth bastard

and his granite mouse.

Hey, Birch, nice

sidecar. What you use? A matchbox?

Have a nice day.

Goddamn kids got no respect

these days.

It's another beautiful...

autumn day friends,

and so sit back, relax...

and so let "Big Daddy"

Dave Barton do the driving...

as we cruise on down

the highway of hits here on WGV...

the sound of Gravestown.

Let's click on the turnstiles

of our wax files.

This one goes out

to our Gravestown Tigers.

Baseball is a lot

like life for a 12-year-old.

You spent most of your time

waiting for the excitement to begin...

only to discover later

that it's already past you by.

Think out there, boys.

Okay? When you're out there, think!

- I was just thinking.

- Yeah?

- Last year we played

in the squirt league, right?

- Uh-huh.

- And this year we're in the peewees.

- So?

Do they want us

to play baseball or urinate?

Anyway,

I was just thinking.

My mom got pregnant

during her senior year at high school.

The fact that she refused

to divulge my father's identity...

- upgraded it to a full-fledged scandal.

- Hi, Joe!

Hi, Miss Wenteworth.

Hi, Simon.

How's my little doll?

Your mother has the best breasts

of all the mothers.

- Yeah.

- And she smells the best too.

- I know.

- She's so sexy that...

sometimes I forget

she's someone's mother.

- Okay! Okay!

- I was just being honest.

Well, what if I said

the same thing about your mother?

I'd have you committed.

Nobody knew her secret. Not even me.

- And I wouldn't know it to this day,

if it wasn't for Simon Birch.

- Ooh!

Birch, on deck.

Go get 'em, Simon.

You go, Simon.

You'll be wonderful.

Simon loved baseball.

I'm not sure why.

He rarely got to play and when he did,

he was ordered not to swing.

His strike zone

was minuscule.

Holy sh*t!

Ha! Look at this kid.

- It's the friggin' hobbit.

- Nah, it's Thumbelina.

- You're both wrong.

It's a pinch-hitting munchkin.

- Okay, all right.

- Let's play ball.

Do your thing, Simon.

- Show 'em how it's done.

- Okay, Foster, he's yours.

- 0-1.

- Good eye, Birch.

- Good eye, son.

- Foster, easy.

- You don't need your fastball

on this guy.

- 0-2.

- All right. Lay it in easy, now.

I'm trying. Sh*t!

- Zero, three.

- That was great!

- Way to watch.

- Thank you, Miss Wenteworth.

All right. Let's go Foster,

buddy. Right in there, buddy.

- Ball four!

- Sh*t!

Take your base.

- Whoa!

- Take a look at that!

Be waiting for you next time.

Your head's bigger

than your strike zone, pal.

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