Editor's Note: We have never watched Kyra Sedgwick's hit cable TV show. Rather than force our writers to actually endure such horrors, we have constructed this scene based on what we imagine the show is like. Not for nothing, we're pretty sure we've nailed it.

Camera fades in on an ancient, green scoreboard — white numbers pockmarked and careworn poking through their sagging frames. Inning: 9. Away: 2. Home: 3. Out: 0.

A weary, overweight, mustachioed man in a baseball uniform two sizes too tight rests his bloat on the chipped yellow railing of the dugout, cleated right foot on the front step. He stares off into the distance. Behind him, another older man, skinnier, swimming in the same pinstripes, looks over.

"Skip?", the skinnier man asks.

We see the diamond from down low. Snakes in the grass. The pitcher looms large in the frame, kicking at the mound like a chicken digging for seed. In the distance, fuzzy, the other fielders mill about. Stare at the ground. Anywhere but at the two opposing players creeping from their respective bases. The sky looks like rain.

Back to the dugout.

"Leave him out to dry", the bench coach waves in disgust. The manager doesn't even look back.

"Bring 'er in."

A door in the outfield swings wide. Loud guitar and heavy drums struggle against the screams of the crowd. She strolls to the mound, hat defiantly askew. No rush. Then she steps up, spits the brown, gobby chaw from her cheeks and rocks back. Eyes alight. The ball explodes from her hand. The crowd roars. The screen goes black:

"Kyra Sedgwick. The Closer."