[Counselling for Officers Who Have Fired Their Gun In the Line of Duty]
Officer Hoitz? [The other officers groan] Would you like to share?
No, I’d rather not.
Officer Hoitz, you’ve been coming here for six months now and you haven’t said a word. This is a safe room, no judgement here.
Douchebag.
That’s judgment, Jimmy. Come on.
[narrating a flashback of policing Yankee Stadium on gameday]
I relive it every night. Bronx, October. Game 7 of the World Series. All-the-marbles, high pressure, unruly crowd and I pulled tunnel duty. I saw a shadowy figure in the tunnel; I told him to stop...
Whoa, whoa, whoa! This is a restricted area!
Don’t make me shoot, I’ll do it! [pulls the trigger and shoots a man in the leg] Are you deaf? Did you hear me yell freeze!?
[The man is Derek Jeter who was wearing headphones and could not hear Hoitz’s commands]
You dick! I’m Derek Jeter, you shot me!
[to Hoitz back in the present]
You cost me twenty grand on that game!
Douchebag!
I cost the city a championship. I was being groomed for a top position in Homicide and now I’m stuck with a desk-jockey partner, and everybody calls the “The Yankee Clipper”.
Because you shot Derek Jeter!
He’s a biracial angel!
You should’ve shot A-Rod!
