There are only a handful of surprises in "Mr. 3000." Happily, they're all good ones, rare stats in that cringe-inducing subgenre called sports-comedy-with-heart.

At the top of the roster is Bernie Mac, who proves unexpectedly adept at bringing out the soul-sickness as well as the antic arrogance of Stan Ross, a remarkably self-centered Milwaukee Brewers slugger. It isn't a particularly well-written part - the movie was conceived by the guys who came up with the barely there Whoopi Goldberg sportster "Eddie" - but Mac is never too sappy, cartoonish or bitter in a role that easily could have been all of those things. It's a mature portrayal of an aging man-child.

Boasting (and we do mean boasting) an attitude that registers somewhere between Reggie Jackson's and Frank Francisco's, Ross quit the team in the middle of the '95 pennant race, after swatting his 3,000th hit ensured him, he thought, a place in the Baseball Hall of Fame. A decade on, though, Ross still hasn't made the cut, the sportswriters of America still hating his guts and all. Close enough to induction, though, to undergo a routine record check, it's discovered that three hits from one game were erroneously credited to Ross. To save his reputation - and the cheesy "3000"-themed businesses he now runs - Ross goes back to a much younger and even more resentful Brewers dugout.

Predictability ensues. Ross' mouth alienates everyone again. But the 47-year-old suffers his own indignities, too: Pilates training, Viagra endorsement offers, Tom Arnold's opinions. And getting on base is infinitely more difficult the second time around. But, slowly, qualities resembling humility and team spirit flicker, though they're at constant risk of getting snuffed out by Ross' irrepressible selfishness.

Except for a strong sass-and-class turn by Angela Bassett as an ESPN reporter and Ross' old flame, it's pretty much Mac's show. His younger teammates are drawn deftly but thinly, Michael Rispoli is barely there as Stan's one loyal pal, and Paul Sorvino is essentially a running gag as the fuming Brewers manager who never speaks.

Each character, however, can sing at least one unanticipated grace note. The lightweight script has enough little pluses, as well, to make the film worthwhile. What few behavioral details there are seem right (you've never seen so much spitting in a baseball movie). And even the climactic at-bat throws a nice curveball at the usual sports-film formula.

Director Charles Stone III proved he knew how to play a field with his last movie, "Drumline." Here, with the help of Mac's shrewdly judged performance, Stone shows he can keep comic and character balls in the air without a single apparent muscle strain.