It's a stretch to accept a 47-year-old retiree returning to a major-league lineup, but in a world in which Tony Danza gets his own talk show, just about anything is possible. "Mr. 3000" hits-and-runs with that premise, featuring me-first Milwaukee Brewer Stan Ross, who walks away from baseball in 1995 the day he collects his 3,000th hit, a figure he is sure will lock up a spot in the Hall of Fame. In an interview, Stan boasts of his skill and cusses out a huddle of reporters. Even Barry Bonds would shake his head at the display. Flash-forward to 2004, and Stan, played with swagger by Bernie Mac in his first toplining role, presides over a line of "Mr. 3000" businesses, including a sports bar, a hair salon and pet shop. Despite having achieved the hit milestone, voters have stonewalled Stan from the hall for the past four years. Stan's fifth bid is torpedoed when a statistician discovers that he was incorrectly credited with three hits. Now Stan is just Mr. 2,997. Stan has his agent make a call in midseason, and the Brewers - fumbling in fifth place and with low attendance - agree to let Stan back on the team. Episodical scenes establish the rest of the story, in which Stan struggles with his hitting and overpowering ego, which alienates him from teammates. There's also an ESPN reporter, Mo (Angela Bassett), who used to have a hot and heavy thing with Stan, before she was brushed aside for groupies. Now she's bitter and combative, but Stan wants her back. Director Charles Stone III is taking a stab at resurrecting the baseball comedy, a proud genre that dates back to "Damn Yankees" and up through "The Bad News Bears," "Major League," "Bull Durham" and "A League of Their Own." Those are seen as the best of the lot, and even the worst baseball comedies aren't that bad. Baseball has long provided ample ground for easy giggles, but Stone can't get much movement on his slider. Much of the humor repetitively jabs at Stan's inability to hit. He goes hitless in his first several games, and we not only see almost every pathetic at-bat, we suffer through the replays on "SportsCenter" and "The Best Damn Sports Show, Period," accompanied with snide commentary from the usual roundup of talking heads. We're supposed to wince while Stan flails at curves and dumbfoundedly stares at fast balls he can barely glimpse. Arizona Diamondbacks fans will be numb to those scenes. The film is likable enough for a matinee look, but wastes so many comedic opportunities it starts to simulate the grind of a 162-game season. What about hurling some chin music at modern players' affinity for steroids and growth enhancers? Maybe a little clubhouse humor? Why no goofy "be the ball" philosophy, or jabs at ballplayers' notorious superstitions? "Mr. 3000" hits the low point of its slump at the end, when Stone tries to force a happy sendoff with a ludicrous strategic mishap onfield that wouldn't pass in high school. It's a disappointing finish for a film that smacks a single - a single that could have been stretched to extra bases if it only wanted to run a little harder.