[KENT COUNTY KOMPANIONS STADIUM – LATE AFTERNOON]
Organ riff, smell of kettle corn, banners snapping in lake wind.
Crowd still filing in.
Camera finds MADAME ZELLA — bright scarf, bangles, binoculars, tote bag that jingles.

Montage — slow-mo crowd shots, crack of a bat, scarf swirling in the stands.

MADAME ZELLA (muttering to nobody in particular in the stands):
The Kompanions are 22-1 at home and 2-22 on the road since the break…
That’s coincidence?

MAN (in the neighboring seat occasionally
occupied by her husband):
That’s Baseball.

Madame locks her oversized binoculars
on the dugout.

MADAME:
Uh-oh. There he is again. Jesus robe. Same guy.
That’s the fourth player he’s handed a blue Gatorade to — in the last ten minutes.
They don’t see him in there?
Am I the only person who sees this?

She gasps as the batter CRACKS a home run over the left-field wall.

MADAME (fumbling in her purse):
Oh, no you don’t — not without witnesses!

Madame Zella yanks out her cell phone and dials at breakneck speed.

FRANK, her husband, is asleep in a recliner at home, with the game on TV.
He picks up the rotary phone on the table beside him.
Mmm… hello?

MADAME (hissing into the phone):
Fraaaaank!! Put down your beer, wake up, and watch the dugout!
The man in the robe is about to—

On TV, the Kompanions hitter CRACKS another homer.

MADAME (slapping her neighbor’s arm):
That’s THREE!
Did you see who handed him that blue Gatorade bottle that time?

FRANK (yawning):
Pat, I see a bench full of grown men chewing gum.
I think you need —

MADAME:
…Need my husband to believe me, Frank.
I swear. He handed a bottle to Mountcastle too, minutes ago.
Now watch, before this whole inning turns into the Book of Acts!

CRAACK!!

TV ANNOUNCER:
That’s back-to-back-to-back-to-back Home Runs now!
And the Kompanions pull ahead 15-14.
This stadium is going nuts!

[CROWD ERUPTS — ORGAN ROLLS “GLORY, GLORY HALLELUJAH”]
Madame Zella throws her scarf in the air, spinning in disbelief, joy, and vindication.

MADAME (shouting to the heavens):
You see that, Frank?! You see that?!
Don’t tell me that’s humidity — that’s divinity!

[FADE OUT on the roaring crowd, scarf fluttering against the floodlights.]

[To be continued…]

[WRITERS ROOM – MORNING]
Coffee cups, stat sheets from the Kompanions game on the wall. Lorenzo is hyped; Casey’s logging possible lyric titles.

LORENZO:
Clancy’s doing a doubleheader today — baseball by day, Louis C.K. by night.
Said it’s “research for the human condition.”

RICKLES:
That’s code for “I finally left the Airbnb.”

[CLEVELAND STADIUM – DAY GAME]

First live MLB baseball game for CLANCY CEE in decades. Clancy is clutching a digital ticket that refuses to scan. He scans the aisles, reluctant to block anyone’s view.

CLANCY (Voice-Over):
Row numbers, aisle letters — every symbol’s visible except grace.
Okay, find an usher.

He spots one. The man looks him over, waves vaguely downfield.

USHER:
You’re down there… somewhere. Row 12.

CLANCY (V-O):
Thanks, Socrates.

He threads through knees and nachos, finally finds the seat: sun on his face. Smiles.

[FOX THEATRE – NIGHT]

Detroit streets wet with drizzle. Fearing he’s running late, and having nervously parked a mile from the theatre, Clancy jogs the last two blocks, breath visible.

Inside: velvet lobby, chaos. He catches his breath in line for the ushers —
one appears every thirty seconds like an improv loop.

His turn.
A tall, slow-moving woman in the red jacket appears, regal pace.

USHER LADY:
How many in your party?

CLANCY:
One.

She studies him, sighs.

USHER LADY:
Balcony seat. That’s way up there… that gonna be OK for you?

She starts the slow climb, whispering to another usher mid-way.

USHER LADY (muttering to herself, slow walks):
Lord, I’m too old for all these stairs.
I can’t believe another loser who isn’t gonna slip me a damn tip.
Maybe if I walk slow, I can milk this shift at least.

CLANCY:
Ma’am, am I supposed to still be following you — all the way up?

(beat)

CLANCY (V-O):
Trapped behind the slowest human alive.

They reach the balcony at last. Clancy drops into his seat, sweating but proud.

To his left: a swaggering “Hey, Boss!” type — arms crossed, emotionless.
To his right: college kid over-laughing at his friend’s jokes.

CLANCY (V-O):
Left side: peacock with no song.
Right side: puppy afraid of silence.
And me — cheap seat. Alone. 
Front-row view of irony.

CLANCY (V-O):
Geez, one irony is that I couldn’t get an usher’s help when I needed one at the ballgame.
But when I didn’t need one to lead me all the way up here?
(pauses)
Karmic punishment for judging that usher at the game.

Louis C.K. walks onstage:

LOUIS C.K. (ON MIC):
I’m fifty-eight years old. This is not the same world I knew.

CLANCY (quietly):
No doubt, Louis. No doubt.

The crowd roars below; Clancy’s serene.

JESUS (softly):
Son, you don’t need the front row.
You just need the balcony — and your eyes open.
You’ll see what I’m showing you.

He laughs to himself. House lights fade.
Supertramp’s “Take the Long Way Home” slides in under the applause.

SCENE 17: Click Play

[WRITERS ROOM — AFTERNOON]
Lorenzo and Casey scroll through his Clancy’s new journal entry titled “Ushers.”

CASEY (to Lorenzo):
The ushers got the script completely backwards, brother.
At the ballpark, he pays extra and gets mocked for needing help.
At the theater, he pays less and gets help he can’t refuse.

LORENZO:
Yep. He paid top dollar to find his own way —
and a bargain price to be guided like a lost child.
(reflects)
The universe sure has a sense of humor.

CLANCY (Voice message):
“Ushers.” That’s the newest ditty I’m working on.
Every one of ‘em thinks they’re seating you —
but half the time, they’re tests of patience in a red jacket.

LORENZO:
Clancy Cee is on a roll.
Two songs in already, and the man’s inventing his own genre —
observational regret with rhythm.

CASEY:
That’s his lane. Let him cook.

KAT:
He’s learning the comedy lives right next to the ache.

RICKLES:
What’s next — Concession Stand Jesus?

Lorenzo clicks Play on Clancy’s rough phone demo.
A twangy shuffle fills the room—half country, half lounge act.

***MUSICAL NUMBER***
“Ushers” — (Clancy Cee demo)

EKO:
It’s ridiculous—and kind of profound.

LORENZO:
Exactly. He’s writing the human footnotes.

CASEY:
Add it to the ‘maybe’ pile—
if he keeps this up, we’ll have a whole side of the album called Clancy’s Corner.

KAT:
Keep the heater humming. Inspiration likes it warm.

LORENZO (into laptop):
Clancy, if you’re reading this—don’t you dare stop.
Next verse is yours.
And next ticket’s front-row.

SCENE 18: You Just Named It

[WRITERS ROOM – NIGHT]
Lorenzo’s still grinning as the others drift toward their laptops and the coffeemaker.
He thumbs a new message.

INSERT — LORENZO’S PHONE SCREEN

To: Clancy Cee  

Congratulations, brother.  

You just helped name our next album.

We have officially changed the title to:  

JOYOUS SADSACK  

Keep ramblin’. Keep believin’.  

— LC

[HIGHWAY – DUSK]

Clancy’s back on the road. Backpack at his feet, Hazel’s collar looped around the strap. Earbuds in — Supertramp’s “Take the Long Way Home” hums softly.

Phone buzzes. He reads Lorenzo’s text… just stares, blinking. 
A slow smile, then a tear. He laughs through it, shaking his head.

CLANCY (to himself):
Named an album. Named my life.

He snaps a photo out the window — clouds, asphalt, endless horizon —
and types a reply.

TEXT (on screen):
Tell the boys I’m cryin’ and grinnin’ at the same time.
Joyous Sadsack rides again.

[WRITERS ROOM – MORNING]

Daylight filters in. Coffee brews.
Lorenzo’s phone lights with Clancy’s reply.
He reads it aloud.

Everyone smiles.
Rickles mutters, half-grin, half-grumble:

RICKLES:
Damn poetic symmetry again.

CASEY:
We couldn’t have written that line better if we tried.

LORENZO
We didn’t have to. Jesus wrote that one.

Phones buzz with new messages.
Rickles scrolls, then reads aloud.

RICKLES:
“ Joyous Sadsack rides again! ”
(snorts)
You believe this guy? Dude’s never had a real job in his life.

LORENZO:
And now he has his own theme song.

LUNDY:
He’s out there celebrating like he just won a Grammy.
His wife’s gone, he’s damn near broke, living in Airbnbs now…
How the hell does someone like that call himself joyous?

Lorenzo sets down his mug — calm, steady.

LORENZO:
You’re confusing joy with happiness.
Happiness is a mood.
Joy is a knowing.
You can lose your hair, your money, your dog — hell, even your marriage.
But if you find your own soul… Jesus, the Universe…
That’s joy.
It’s the one thing that can’t be taken from you.

A long, reflective pause.

CASEY:
Amen, brother.
Joy’s not a smile; it’s a pulse.
It’s what’s left when the laughter stops.

KAT (softly):
And grief and joy can live in the same house.
You just have to stop trying to evict one.

Lorenzo and Casey share that quiet, wordless look — 
the one that means a lyric just got born.

LORENZO:
“ Joyous Sadsack.”
Yeah… I do like that track.

RICKLES:
Oh, come on!
We were mocking him, not building a monument.

LUNDY:
Next thing you know, we’re pressing T-shirts that say “#TeamSadsack.”

KAT (laughing):
Too late. Already trademarked it.

Laughter all around. Casey scribbles the title on the whiteboard.
The marker squeak fades into the faint hum of “Take the Long Way Home” —
Clancy’s voice memo looping in the background.

RICKLES: Here! I’ve got another verse for you:

(dry, deadpan verse — undercuts the sentimentality):
Yeah, he’s a joyous sadsack — don’t let him fool ya
Writes in the corner like he’s in introvert school, ya
Says he’s a clown, but he cries in the dark
Still shows up singin’ at karaoke bars
That’s irony, folks. That’s the punchline. The end.

The Writers Room quiets, smiling. 
Somewhere miles away, Clancy drives, humming the same tune.

***MUSICAL NUMBER***
“Joyous Sadsack” — performed by Cheap Whiskey (Lorenzo Champion)

[FADE OUT]