(Boog puts down the bat and leans against it in a typical batting posture as he looks out at the audience. Music down, violins up, as he talks out the rest of the song)
BOOG—But, wait! I wonder if...well, I wonder if I couldn't rebel. What the hell! I know it's fantastic for a man made of plastic. But a robot can take only so much. What made America great? Science? None such. What made America fine and clean and pure and strong? Electronics? Wrong! What made America great, all you people out there? It was...
(Drums. Switch to "Battle Hymn of the Republic")
BOOG—...baseball! That sharp, clean crack of the bat against horsehide! The throaty roar of that crowd. Out loud! The sandlot! The homer! Striking them out! Belting them in! Sliding home! Running for first! The double, the triple—Tinkers to Evers to Frankens...uh, Chance! Baseball! Your game, out there! You hear? Why, it's Dad and Son and it's the Seventh Inning Stretch; it's beer in a waxed-paper cup. The slanting sunshine across the bleachers, etching stark patterns in the infield. The pitcher tugging at the bill of his cap, waiting for the signal. The crowd tensing as he winds up! He delivers! It's a morality play! Why, it's life! It's love! It's America...
(Roll of drums)
AND THERE AT THAT PLATE,/AND HITTING JUST GREAT,/IS...IS, BOOG POWELL. IT'S ME!/IT'S ME. BUT, GEE./YOU SEE THERE'S NO ROOM IN THAT SCENE FOR ME, A MACHINE./STILL....
(He comes to a decision and snaps his fingers)
I will.... By God, I will!