Simon Birch Page #6

- But for how long?

As long as it takes.

- Mom.

- Hi, honey. Where's Simon?

Didn't your mother

ever teach you...

how to keep quiet

during mass?

Tsk. What am I saying?

Of course she didn't.

Your parents don't go to church,

do they, Simon?

See, that's because

they don't belong here.

And neither do you.

Speaking out of turn,

disrupting the class,

telling the other children that...

that God has a special plan for you.

What kind of nonsense is this?

And what kind of nonsense is this?

- Hello, Rebecca.

- Come on, Simon.

I was just... No, wait.

I was...

- Out.

- I was teaching him a lesson.

- And what lesson is that?

Humiliation?

- Oh, man, this is so boss.

- This is all my fault.

- Hey, don't take all the credit.

She's my mom.

Telling the children that he's

some kind of hero. That he's...

- That he's God's instrument.

- And who's to say he isn't?

- Who do you think would win

in a fight?

- Good question.

Miss Leavey is meaner, but she's

a smoker. Your mom could outlast her.

We can't have him

talking that way.

It frightens

the other children.

Oh, I think it's you

it frightens, Miss Leavey.

What? Why would I be frightened

of little Simon Birch?

Because that child has more faith

than you'll ever know.

- Ahh!

- Oh, goodness gracious.

Come on, you two.

Come on, boys.

Let's go find Ben.

- My jacket!

- Oh, that's okay, Simon.

I'll get it for you.

Thank you,

Miss Wenteworth.

You know what, Simon?

Thank you.

Strike three!

You're out, batter.

October 30, 1964.

Our team was getting beaten

badly by Horseshoe Bay.

This wasn't an altogether

uncommon occurrence,

but on this particular day,

for no particular reason,

Coach Higgins decided to pack it in,

so we could all go home.

It was a decision that would haunt

the poor man for the rest of his life.

Simon!

You're up.

Come on, Simon. Come on.

Just make contact with the ball.

Oh, no.

Simon, swing away.

- What?

- You heard me. Swing the bat.

- Yes, sir.

- All right, set 'em up

and knock 'em down.

You got it, Simon.

Pitch this one home.

Ball... one.

Simon.

- Swing the bat.

- It was too high.

Come on, Simon.

You can do it.

- Send it over the fence.

- Be sure to let go of the bat,

so you don't go with it.

All right. Let's go.

- Ball... two.

- Simon.

Swing the bat. Swing.

- I'm picking my pitch.

- Ah, for Christ's sakes.

Rebecca!

Sh-She's dead.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

Lord, grant that I may seek more...

to comfort, than to be comforted,

to love, than be loved.

For it is by self-forgetting

that one finds...

Hear our prayers on behalf

of Thy servant, Rebecca.

And grant her entrance

into the land of light and joy,

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