All language subtitles for Masters.of.Sex.S02E03.HDTV.x264-ASAP

Previously on Masters Of Sex...

I'm starting a new job
at Memorial Hospital.

With the money
comes Bill Masters,

and with Bill Masters
comes his study.

Will Virginia be joining you?

It may not be possible

for you to come over to Memorial
for a while.

My name is on that study.

I know the structure,
the methodology of the study.

I helped to develop it with you.

We could have an affair.

But what we have between us
is so much more than that.

We have the work.

Of course we're not
having an affair, Virginia.

We never were.
I'm a happily married man.

And I think it would be
a mistake to, uh, to end it now.

Mrs. Holden,
nice to see you again.

Enjoy your evening.

Dr. Holden.

Sync and corrections by n17t01
www.addic7ed.com

Henry!

Henry?

I'll be right there!

What is keeping your brother?

His hair.

His...

Diane Delmonico told him
he looks like Howdy Doody,

so he's trying a center part.

What's daddy's address?

You're writing him a letter?

You're staying at his place
tonight.

It's not for him.

It's for
the Tooth Fairy Princess.

Look.

If it falls out
when I'm at daddy's,

she might not know
where to come pick it up.

So you're leaving
a forwarding address.

Smart, huh?

Very.

Only, the Tooth Fairy
isn't a princess, honey.

She's only a fairy.

Oh, no. She is.

She's a fairy princess
that specializes in teeth.

And is there
a Tooth Fairy Prince?

Mom, men can't be fairies.

There's only one kind of
prince-- the handsome prince.

Hmm.

And what if, just supposing,

a prince was rushing
to rescue his princess...

Okay.

...and he fell off his horse.

His steed.

...his steed,

and he got trampled,

and his face ended up
horribly disfigured.

I guess that could happen.

But the princess would have
had to see him before,

back when he was handsome.

And she would know
he was the one

she was gonna end up
living happily ever after with.

And that's
just inevitable, huh?

The "happily ever after" part.

I don't know
what "invetible" means.

Ah! At last--
something you don't know.

Um...

Fated, inescapable,
or something that has to happen.

Anyway, the princess
would end up kissing him,

and his face
would go back to normal.

Daddy's address?

8573 McLaren Avenue.

Henry, please!

All right, all right!

So, you know why

I think you like fairy tales
so much, bunny rabbit?

Hmm?

I think that you like knowing

how things are going to end.

Fundal pressure on the
next contraction, nurse, please.

Yes, Doctor.

Very good. Here we go.

Bulb syringe.

And the mother?

Vitals steady.

What do you have there,
Maureen?

It's a...

Um...

Dr. Masters?

What is it, Doctor?

Can you say it again, please?

Slower this time.

Adrenogenital hyperplasia.

Wait.
I should, uh...

Take the baby, Nate?

I want to write that down.

Why?

For me and for when people ask.

Nobody's going to ask, Francine.

Nobody's going to know.

And I'm not holding it,
so don't ask me again.

It's not an "it,"
Mr. Bombeck. It's a boy.

The blood test conclusively
shows the XY chromosome.

A boy, Nate--
like we wanted.

You think I wanted that--
something you'd pay a nickel

to see on the boardwalk
in Atlantic City?

I understand
the physical ambiguity

is, uh, off-putting,
Mr. Bombeck,

but eventually, the surgery
will take care of that.

Eventually? Eventually?

You're-- you're telling me
you're expecting us

to leave this place
with a kid that looks like that?

The baby's
otherwise in good health.

He'll be released.

And in the meantime,

a surgical plan
will be formulated.

We can't take him home
like this.

People will see.

We've both got mothers
itching to change diapers.

If you explain, you
don't think they'll understand?

Hell, I don't understand.

So the sooner he looks like

it's supposed to look like
down there,

the better it is for everyone.

Not for the child.

There's no advantage
to operating on a newborn.

What do you do?

Just...

sew up the...
you know, opening?

The reconstruction
is more complicated than that.

Well, how's it even
going to look down there?

His-- his thing?

Can you make it look...

Can you make it look normal?

There's a very wide
spectrum of normal,

uh, as far as genitalia's
concerned.

And I'm not
performing the surgery.

You should get a doctor

who specializes
in pediatric endocrinology--

someone who's performed
variations on this procedure

many times.

So, you're not really
the expert, are you?

I'm not, no-- not on
this particular, uh, condition.

You're not even
the top dog here, right?

One of the--
the nurses told us you're new.

To the hospital, sir,
not the profession.

So you can't tell me
with any kind of certainty

if this kid's plumbing
is going to work, will it?

That's so far
down the road, Nate.

You don't know a thing
about it, Francine!

I'm asking you,
will he be able to perform?

Not in a freak show--
in the bedroom.

In some cases,

hormone therapy's necessary,
testosterone treatments.

In other words, he's going
to need shots to be a real man.

Erections
aren't the totality of manhood.

If you'll excuse me, sir,
let me make a few calls.

You know who thinks that?

Men with a little bit of girl
in them.

Nate!

I'm sorry, Doctor.

I want you to cut it off.

Sir, what--

- What did you say?
- Nate--

You can sew a prick on him

the size of
the Empire State building,

and it still
won't make him a man.

He'll never be a man, so...

cut it off.

Let me tell you how
this is gonna go, Mr. Bombeck.

You and your family are gonna
leave here in a few days,

and you're gonna take some time
to become informed--

let your mouth catch up
with your mind.

And you will come to accept
that your son-- your son--

has a condition
that can and will be corrected.

And when you come back here for
the surgery that's gonna ensure

that his outsides
match who he is inside,

you're gonna thank me
for protecting your child

from your own poor judgment.

...unanimous conclusion

that Durelle would have to
come storming in

at Archie Moore
early in the fight.

Any better?

Jesus!

...right hand to the jaw!

Get up!

5, 6...

...7, 8...

Up at 9, but staggering.

Hello.

Just fixing your picture.

I'll be out of here.

Jesus!

I'm sorry.

It's only the first round.

I see.

Of how many, exactly?

15.

If he makes it that long.

Been knocked down two times
already.

Three.

Well...

Got it up and working.

Oh, not necessary, sir.

Y'all have a good night, now.

One minute left in the round!

One minute!

Durelle trying to...

Tries to move in and going...

So...

are we going to
get to work, or...?

Down three times.

If Archie Moore
lasts this round,

it will be
boxing's modern miracle.

Fine.
Then I'm going to take a bath.

Fix me one of those drinks.
I'll try to catch up.

10 seconds.
Archie Moore...

You know,
"Hello, how was your day?"

is also a good opener.

Perhaps you would like me
to go first.

Terrible-- my day.

Yours?

Without incident.

Until five minutes ago,
when a man I barely recognize

threw me up against a wall
and had his way with me.

Make note of it.

Subjects-- vertical.
Penetration-- standard frontal.

Male affect-- angry.

I'm not angry.

No?

I'm...

What?

You hungry?
I could call room service.

What happened today, Bill?

I delivered a baby
with ambiguous sexual genitalia.

Ambiguous?

What does that mean?
You can't tell what it is?

It had
both a penis and a vagina.

It happens in utero,

depending on the fetal genitals'
exposure to testosterone.

In its absence, in a boy,
the genitals remain feminized.

With a girl,
an abundance of testosterone

causes the clitoris
to grow into a penis

and the labia fuse
to form a penile urethra.

It's rare, but it happens.

In med school,
I saw a few photographs.

Over the years, I've read
a paper or two on the condition.

But...

I'd never seen it firsthand
before today.

The tests say it's a boy,
which is lucky,

because sometimes
the genetics aren't so clear.

What happens then?

Well,
from a surgical standpoint,

it's easier-- much easier--
to make it into a girl.

So that's--
that's what they do?

They-- they just make it a girl
on the basis of convenience?

Yes.

And fear.

This, uh, father wasn't a man
who could handle ambiguity.

Let's put it like that.

He's a bully.

I could see it in the way
he spoke to his wife...

How cowed the woman was...

How he just expected
his bidding to be done.

"Cut it off," he told me.

As if you'd alter
your son's genetic destiny

for the sake of expedience

because he wasn't hung
to your satisfaction.

How did you leave it?

I put a call in
to a specialist in Chicago.

We have an appointment to speak
in the morning.

Round 3.

Waiting for a chance

to get that crushing right hand
home once again,

a chance
that has not come his way...

Maybe they just need
to name him.

And once he has a boy's name,
he'll be a boy to his father.

Isn't that
what every man wants-- a son?

From a
near-disastrous first round

that all began
with a tremendous right...

Unless it needs to be
a certain kind of son--

male through and through,
like these two,

pummeling each other like a...

a butcher tenderizing meat.

Male like that.

I wouldn't want
that kind of son.

Or, for that matter,
that kind of man.

You're not like that.

You're not.

I'm ordering.

Bill, in the meantime,

would you mind
turning the water back on?

I can't pass up a soak
in a tub free of bath toys.

Good evening.

Yes, room 412.

Uh, I would like to order
two filets,

baked potatoes--
butter, no sour cream.

Oh, medium well for me
and for my husband,

he likes to say,

"The chef can just walk the cow
through a warm room."

Oh, yes-- very much
the life of the party.

Thank you so much.

Dinner's on its way.

...in favor of Durelle,

a Canadian boy.

But Moore will be able
to fend off

that pungent attack
coming by Durelle.

Doesn't seem like a fair fight.

The colored fighter's
obviously outmatched.

Well, he's the champion--

the one getting
the stuffing knocked out of him.

He's the champ? That one?

Archie Moore--
The Old Mongoose.

He said
he'd retire from fighting

if he didn't keep the title.

He's got 15 years on that kid--

Yvon Durelle,
The Fighting Fisherman.

Apparently, he's been
hauling lobster traps...

to get in shape.

He's the crowd favorite, hmm?

Listen to them.

It's a good thing for Moore.

It's what's spurring him on,
in part--

people rooting against him.

Gives him more to prove.

Now, you see that?

That's, uh,
that's his signature move--

the armadillo curtain.

See how he crosses his arms
across his chest?

That's not
the usual fighting stance.

Can throw an opponent off.

And then see? The right jab
comes out of nowhere.

But Durelle's not falling--
What?

I didn't know
you knew anything about boxing.

Yes, well...

I've never seen you

so much as glance
at the sports page.

Well, we don't
have breakfast together, do we?

I learned to box
at boarding school.

It was the first thing I did
after I unpacked my suitcase--

headed down to the gym

and asked the coach
to teach me how to fight.

Why?

What's that?

Why first thing?

I don't know.

I was enamored with the sport.

Was it something that
you enjoyed with your father?

Enjoyed? No.

For Christ's sake!

He didn't take you
to the fights?

Well, then how did you
get interested, then?

I don't know. Just the usual.

The schoolyard scrapes
and then...

I just wanted to learn
how to hold my own

in case
there was freshman hazing.

And was there?

Were you picked on as a child?

Never lost a fight.

What was the worst
fight that you ever got--

Just the usual.

There's really not

an interesting story here,
Virginia.

I promise you.

Durelle's left got home,

but that right
that came some time later,

again, glanced off the glove
of Archie Moore.

...amazing display of boxing...

After weathering the storm...

Where would you like it,
Dr. Holden?

On the table is good.

Very good, sir.

...Durelle,

and regaining his strength
and his clarity.

Moore starting to move on
after Durelle in Round 4.

Durelle came in with a...

Jesus! Get up!

...and Moore is down again.

Durelle just
took him out with a right hook.

We got a few bets
going in the kitchen.

Where's your money?

On the kid.
Archie's way past his prime.

I wouldn't count him out.

Really?

You think those legs
are gonna hold him up?

Archie Moore wobbly.
Moore trying to hold on.

Will both of you
be having wine tonight?

I can pour it. Thank you.

Very good, sir.

Uh, it's Elliot, sir.

Sometimes they put me
on the door.

I brought Mrs. Holden
that umbrella last time.

Yes, thank you for that.

How's her mother doing,
if I may ask?

Same.

It's hard to know
what to wish for, isn't it?

My mother lingered
for a long time,

but she was
in terrible, terrible pain.

Yes, well...

Will you and your wife
be wanting a breakfast tray

in the morning?

Uh, we both have long drives,

so we like to be
on the road early.

Thank you for your trouble,
uh...

Elliot.

My pleasure, Dr. Holden.

Now, you just give a call
when you're done,

and I'll get this out of
your way lickety-split, sir.

...dramatic thing this is

here in this ring at The Forum
in Montreal, Canada.

Archie Moore

defending his light heavyweight
championship of the world.

Where are we going

that we need to leave
in the middle of the night?

You are driving to Louisville

to take care of your mother,

and I am driving back
to my medical practice

in Kansas City.

We meet halfway when we can.

And what's wrong with my mother?

Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.

Oh, sour cream! Terrific.

You told them, right?

Idiopathic?

That's right.

Idiopathic.

And what kind of doctor are you?

No, wait. Let me guess.

An ophthalmologist.

Radiologist.

Oh. Radiologist.

Well, I guess neither one of us

has a particularly interesting
story, do we?

You couldn't come up

with something
slightly more imaginative?

Why would I?

Isn't the point
that we fly under the radar,

just an ordinary
husband and wife

meeting for a...

ho-hum marital assignation.

My mother
doesn't have pulmonary fibrosis.

Idiopathic.

She was blinded
in a prison fight,

where she's serving time
for tax evasion

and also for contributing
to the delinquency of a minor

when she tried to seduce the
bag boy at The Piggly Wiggly.

I go down to Louisville as often
as I can to read her the Bible,

hoping to make her right
with the Lord.

I see.

And me?

You are a radiologist.

I thought you just said that--

Who's working
for the government covertly

on a...

on a pen.

A radioactive pen

that will be smuggled
into the Kremlin

via a Soviet diplomat--
one Gustav Antonovich.

"Gustav" isn't Russian.
It's German.

His mother was German.

And this device will be used
to take out Khrushchev.

It's a top-secret mission.

Perhaps that's why I--
I didn't, uh, mention it to...

Elliot.

Our waiter.

That boy didn't hit
you up for a loan again, did he?

Far too generous
with the staff, Jason.

Francis.

Francis?

Francis.

And I'm...?

You...

do not have a name.

I see.

Generous with everybody
except the old ball and chain.

You're just still upset

because I bought our daughter
a pony for her birthday,

aren't you?

We don't have children.

It wouldn't be fair--
not with the lives we lead.

Of course.

The, uh, clandestine missions,

the prison visits
to your deranged mother.

You're making fun of me.

Aren't you making fun of us?

I don't-- I don't know.

What are we?
Are we this?

- This?
- This.

This Mr. "Steak Very Rare,"

Mrs. "Wouldn't This Wallpaper
Look Good In Our Den?"

I just had you
up against the wall

in our bathroom.

That doesn't exactly qualify us
for the cover

of The Saturday Evening Post,
does it?

Did you like that?

I did.

I liked
how you had me standing up...

Dr. Holden...

of the Kansas City Holdens.

We might look like
white-picket-fence types,

but... we're not.

There's nothing ho-hum about us.

It looks as though

he's beginning
to step up the pace...

You surprise me, Mrs. Holden.

Lydia.

Lydia.

In what way do I surprise you?

Your appetite.

I skipped lunch.

Not that kind of appetite.

Well, surely you didn't think

you taught me everything I know,
did you, Francis?

Oh, I'm-- I'm aware
there were others before me.

Boys. Right?

A boy or two.

After all these years,
dear husband, you're asking?

No. I'm not asking.

On the other hand, if there's
something you want to tell me...

Maybe you would feel threatened.

Oh. Why would that be?

You married me, after all,
didn't you?

Well...

there were others.

Boys, yes.

But only one man that counted.

I wasn't quite 18,

and I was still
living at home in...

Where am I from, again--
Nashville?

- Louisville.
- Louisville. Right.

I was in Louisville
at this public pool

that my girlfriend Susannah
and I liked to go to.

You remember Susannah,
don't you?

Looks like Eleanor Roosevelt?

She was one of my bridesmaids.

Ah.

So, Susannah and I
were splashing around

like ninnies, trying
to get the boys to notice us,

when I realized
that I had lost an earring.

It was just
some dime-store piece of junk,

but I had said that it was real,
so I had to make a big show

of diving down to the bottom
to get it.

And then suddenly
a shock wave hits.

A man had jumped into the pool
to get it,

but all he had succeeded
in doing

was sending it
directly down the drain.

Oh. The oaf.

That is exactly
what I said to him--

right before I slapped him.

All right, I didn't slap him,

but I did give him
a very hard time about it

because... well,
because that's what you did

to show that you were
a girl with sass,

not just some pushover.

Isn't that the quality
that first attracted you

back when we were courting?

That can hardly
be the sum of it, though.

Obviously, you two
ran into each other again.

Yes--
at a dance at the army base.

Turns out he was a captain.

Lot of shiny buttons
on a captain's uniform.

He took this worthless,
little piece of colored glass

out of his pocket.

He'd gotten the maintenance guy

to fish it out of the drain
for him

and had been carrying it around
in the hopes of seeing me again.

And he said that he knew
that it was an amethyst

because that was
his fiancée's birthstone.

He was engaged.

Well, he claimed,
which was smart--

All those girls on the
army bases looking for husbands.

But two days in,

the fiancée just...
disappeared into thin air.

I would make him take me driving
in his friend's convertible.

We would go driving
to the countryside.

The first time we made love...

was in a grove of honeysuckles.

And the sap from the blossoms,

the sticky sweetness
mixing with our sweat--

it was...

Up at the count of three!

Durelle now...

He knew about things
and had been places.

He taught me a little French

that he had picked up
over there.

The boys I knew were farmers

and had spent their lives
looking at the ground.

But this man,
he knew all about astronomy.

I thought to myself,

"Oh.

This is what it is
to be in love.

You can feel this with somebody
every day.

It's possible."

And then one day,

he asked me to drive him
to the train station,

and he kissed me,
and he said "Thank you."

"Thank you."

And he left.

Shipped out?

No.

He left to get married.

Well, he did say he was engaged.

Once.

He said he was engaged once.

And then
he never spoke of it again--

not for a whole year.

Never even mentioned
another woman's name

until the day he left
to marry her.

Why wouldn't I be surprised?

If you find yourself
standing atop a hill

overlooking a beautiful valley

and you say, "I want a house
with a view exactly like this,"

and he says,

"It's the second thing
I want to see

every single morning,
after you"...

Aren't the two of you
imagining the same future?

Where is there room
for a fiancée in that house?

Well, it turns out
she's downstairs making oatmeal,

waiting for him
to wash you off his skin.

And so...

Sex? Fine.

Enjoy it if and when you can.
It's a biological function.

But play it safe.

Keep your heart out of it,

locked away someplace safe,
like a bank vault.

So what does that say about us?

Us?

About our marriage.

Oh, darling.

Don't you know
I would never marry a man

I didn't both love and desire?

And it's Round number 6.

This is Archie Moore,

who was standing up all through
the between-round period,

once again trying to take
a psychological shot

at Yvon Durelle.

Refusing to show any sign of
weakness, any sign of fatigue.

My father would occasionally

listen to the fights
on the radio,

but I could never get
a picture in my head.

It's different than I thought.

Sure, when they belt each other
and fall down,

that's something,

but this going 'round and 'round
in circles,

eyeballing each other,

that's most of it.

This is the best part.

- This?
- Yeah.

There's an entire
unspoken conversation

happening between them.

"Please stand still
so I can hit you"?

They're telling each other
what they think of each other.

See there?

When he keeps his gloves down
like that?

- Doesn't mean he's tired.
- He looks tired.

But it doesn't
necessarily mean he is tired.

Might be a--
an invitation to his opponent

to take a shot, free and clear.

When you invite a punch,
you're saying you can take it.

So what looks like vulnerability
is exactly the opposite.

By playing weak,

you're saying,
"I'm stronger than you."

Now. See, that is an insult.
Moore just insulted him.

- He did? How?
- A right-hand lead.

It's a right punch
thrown like a jab,

but you don't set up
with your left.

You're saying to your opponent,
"I don't think much of you."

I don't understand.

Well, come here.
I'll show you.

Okay.
So, put up your dukes.

They really say that?

Now, when I come at you
like this,

with a right-hand lead,

see how far my fist
has to travel through space,

all-- all this extra distance

- past your shoulders?
- So?

So, that's the time
you have to respond.

If you see something coming,
you can stop it.

All right,
well, how do I do that?

You don't.
It's coming too fast.

You just said that I
could-- that I could see it coming.

Yes, but the fact
that I'm throwing

a right-hand lead proves to you
that I think that you won't.

I think you'll miss it.

That's how little I think
of your reflexes.

And that undermines
a fighter's confidence.

Well, I would prove you wrong.

Want to try?

Seriously?

I'll take a shot.
You try and block it.

Okay.

Too slow.

Try again.

Ah, too late.
You'd be down on the mat.

Let me-- let me be you.

I'll throw the punch,
and-- and you try to block it.

Okay.

All right, like this, right?

You're gonna do it
at that speed?

No, Bill, I'm not.

All right, here we go.

One... two...

Don't count it off.

You got to use
the element of surprise.

Fine.

Try again.

It's not funny.

Once more.

Come on, Gini.

Once more!

Ow! Ow! Ow!

Jesus! Don't-- don't move!
What-- what is that?

My bracelet snagged.

Well, slide--
Can you slide it off?

No, it's-- it's too tight.

- Jesus!
- Wait, let me just--

Just unhook the clasp, Virginia!

I'm trying, Bill!

What the hell are you doing?

You're supposed to hit me
with your right.

Well, maybe if you
had quicker reflexes--

there's too much hair
stuck in it. Um...

Do you-- do you have
nail shears in your purse?

No.

Um, I could call the front desk

and-- and have them send up
a pair of scissors.

Oh, so you're all right with
us answering the door like this?

Well, what do you propose, Bill?

All right, come here.

No. No.

Ah!

All right.
Just have to saw it out.

Housekeeping sent up a pair.

Come here.

Sit.

You're gonna make it worse.

Bill, you have a divot
on the side of your head.

How much worse can I make it?

I'm just going to
even it out a bit.

Ridiculous.

What is?

You are.

I am?

You enjoyed that.

- No.
- Yes.

You liked making me feel
pathetic, weak.

Well, you are weak.

Weaker.

Well, then,
it was an unfair fight.

It was a game, Virginia.

You're just upset
because you lost.

If you'd won, you'd be gloating.

- I would not.
- Yes, you would.

Feels good.

And it feels even better
when the odds are against you.

Really? Did they teach
you that in boarding school?

No. I knew it
before I went there.

Old Francis Holden Sr.
prepared me well.

So, he did take you
to the fights.

No.

In fact, he didn't take me
much of anywhere.

New York City once.

When I was 14.

En route to dropping me
at boarding school.

He didn't buy you
a woman, did he?

Please tell me
that he didn't buy you a woman.

No, he bought me
a shave and a haircut

at the barbershop
at the Waldorf Astoria.

My first.

He got one, too.

We sat there side by side,
father and son,

steaming towels on our faces.

No feeling in the world like
walking out into Central Park

on a fall day
after a fresh shave.

Wanted to send you off
in style, huh?

Oh, he was a character.

My father.

He could have been a boxer.

Not too much control
in his punches, mind you,

but he was a master
at the feint.

Just when you thought
he was one thing,

like the kind of swell guy

who'd show his kid a good time
in The Big City,

wham!

He'd come out of nowhere,
knock you for a loop.

Leave you on the steps
of the freshman dormitory

with a taxi idling at the curb,

letting you know

that you wouldn't be coming home
at Christmas.

Or at Easter.

Or ever.

Telling you at-- at 14...

it was time
you took care of yourself.

You never went home after that?

It was the best thing
that could have happened.

Toughened me up.

Made me totally self-reliant.

We both got left.

Well, he didn't break my heart.

No?

Just my nose.

Once.

A left hook.

He did me a favor.

Made me the man I am today.

A Kansas City radiologist.

Leave it. Leave it.

Let me look at you.

Take your hands away.

I want to see you.

Are you going to touch me?

Is that what you want?

Is it?

Tell me.

Say it.

I don't need to say it.

I want you to tell me

how much you want me
to make you feel good.

Do it.

Beg me.

No. I won't.

I can make myself feel good.

I can't tell who's ahead.

Well, it can change
from moment to moment.

But is there always
a clear winner,

even if there's not a knockout?

Sometimes the best fighter

isn't the one
who lands the hardest punch.

Can be the one who absorbs it.

You'd have to be a masochist

to endure that kind
of punishment, don't you think?

You stop feeling it
after a while.

What do you mean?
You go numb?

You learn to resist
your body's instinct,

which is to run, flee.

You start to, uh,
invite that feeling.

You can't control
the punishment,

but you can master
your response.

And that in itself
gives you a kind of power,

that you can take it
and not run.

Why did he break your nose?

Hm?

Your father.

Dear, old dad? Oh.

Usual-- just... horsing around.

Indian wrestling,
like fathers and sons do.

Bill.

Why did he break your nose?

What difference does it make?

I'm asking you.

I don't remember.

Maybe I slammed the screen door.

Maybe I, uh,

reached for a second helping
before he did.

Maybe I used a word
he didn't know.

Maybe it was...

Wednesday.

And you didn't fight back?

Sure I did.

In my own way.

There were plenty of times
I didn't even put up my hands.

The ultimate insult--

a fighter
who keeps his gloves down.

You're saying,
"Come on, you son of a bitch.

Take your best shot.

Just keep going at me forever,

until your knuckles
come through your goddamn skin."

And there was no one to stop it?

Oh, I-I could have stopped it.

He made that perfectly clear.

"When you get down
on your knees, son,

and beg for mercy,
that's when I'll stop."

And I never did.

Not once.

I took it.

Like a man.

But you weren't a man.

You were just a kid-- a-a boy.

There's no shame
in saying you've had enough,

in stopping the fight
if you're hurt.

That Mongoose man--

if he had stayed down
in the early rounds,

what would they have said
about him?

That he's a loser?

Or that he's human?

Maybe it is a noble sport.

Maybe it's all about character

in a way a novice like me
can't understand.

But I will tell you this--

I don't want my son
to be a boxer.

No.

When he's hurt,

I don't want him
to act like he's not.

That is not a lesson
he needs to learn.

And I don't think that's
what's going to make him a man.

Nurse. Book.

Retract.

Stent.

What did daddy
make you for dinner?

But, Tessy, you like corn.

Well, if you were worried
about your tooth,

you should have asked him
to cut it off the cob.

You in your jams?

Is daddy going to read you
a story?

Well, ask him
to make one up, then.

All right,
well, then, you make one up

and you tell him.

A princess. Right.

Well...

Well, couldn't--

couldn't she go on an adventure
all on her own

without a prince?

All right, well...

Well, then,
maybe she could rescue him.

It does too happen.

Tessa, you're right.

Y-you're right.

No, no, no, you tell
whatever story you want.

All right, goose.
I love you, too.

All right. Sleep tight.

And tell Henry I love him.

Uh, it's right over there.

I've got it.

Was everything to
your satisfaction, Mrs. Holden?

Yes, absolutely...

- Elliot.
- Elliot.

I brought you
that umbrella last week.

Right.
Let me find my purse.

Oh, that won't be necessary.

Dr. Holden saw to it.

Up at the count of 3...

You know, ma'am,
if you'd like to put in

a standing order for anything
for next time...

Excuse me?

So we can have it
waiting for you.

If you prefer foam pillows
to down, for example,

extra bath towels.

Ah. Well, towels would be nice.

Here you go.

Thank you.

I'll let housekeeping know.

Some of our regulars request

we have flowers or champagne
waiting for them.

That's all right.

We don't need any of that fuss.

Well, women say that,

but they appreciate
a nice gesture.

So says my girlfriend.

She's a big fan of trinkets
hidden in glove compartments

and under sofa cushions.

Yes, well, when you've
been married a while,

jewelry doesn't make
as many appearances.

Perhaps you need to drop
a few hints--

give Dr. Holden some direction.

Actually,
he does other things for me.

He takes me seriously...

Listens to me.

And in a few years,
those will be the things

that your girlfriend
appreciates.

You remember that, now, Elliot.

Will do.

Have a good night, ma'am.

What'd I miss?

It almost
looks like love, doesn't it?

The way they reach
for each other and hold on.

It's two of them
against each other, sure,

but it's also them
against that crowd.

Listen to them scream.

One minute to go in Round 8.

I did a good job.
Can't even tell.

There.

Do you get many compliments?

On?

Your anniversary present.

I had to look up
what you get for your 14th.

No two stores
said the same thing,

so I decided on...

Bakelite.

I'll do better next year.

It's a big one.

We should go, don't you think?

You have a long drive.

Promise me you'll, uh,

pull over at a rest stop
if you get tired.

Windows up, doors locked.

How you worry, Dr. Holden.

This is where
a married couple would kiss.

Don't forget your watch.

It's there,
by your wedding band.

You go on ahead.
I'll write it up.

What will you say?

Two acts of intercourse,
mutually satisfying,

one masturbatory act,

role-playing throughout.

Am I forgetting anything?

Shh.

Third-floor nursery, please.

It's Dr. Masters,
checking on the Bombeck baby.

Yes, this morning.

I left instructions
to measure his ins and outs.

Has he taken a bottle yet?

No. You're mistaken.

When?

Waiting room.

Okay.

What's going on?

What the hell are you doing?

I told you.

I said I wasn't leaving here
with an "it."

Look, you've got to
put a stop to this.

There's time.

The desk said
your son's in pre-op.

- He's not my son.
- He is.

Look, t-they're gonna fix him,
but it can't happen this fast.

It's not-- not overnight.

You want the very best person.

We found somebody.

Uh, Dr. Bracken? Brigham?

Said he could do it.

Hugh Britton?
But he's a general surgeon.

Well, he said, uh, he said

it's a lot less complicated
than you made it seem.

He said a hole
is easier than a pole.

No!

You c--

Look, please.

Go in there and stop it.

This needs more thought.

Just give it a week.

All right,
even-- even just another day.

Just think it--
think it through.

This is irrevocable.

You have a son.

Look, I--

I'm-- I'm begging you.

Let him be what he is.

A boy.

It's done.

The doctor's finishing.

The nurse came out and told me
the operation was a success.

We're naming her Sarah.

Better a tomboy than a sissy.

4...

5...

6...

7...

8...

9...

Saved by the bell
at the count of 8.

You a fight fan?

Not really.

This is Durelle in his corner

as he is down again
in this fight.

Then what brings you here?

Now we come to Round 11.

I want to see how it ends.

...late getting out
of the ring.

Now Durelle seems to be
on his way,

as Moore
bangs him to the canvas again.

4...

5...

6...

7...

8...

Up at the count of 9,

blood streaming from his nose,
a cut over his right eye.

Moore back after...

And down he goes again
with a clubbing right hand.

3...

4...

5...

6...

7...

8...

Struggling at 9.

10! He is out!

Man, oh, man,

what a dramatic turn
in this fight.

Archie Moore, near annihilation
in the first round.

And then on the canvas again.

Sync and corrections by n17t01
www.addic7ed.com