(Curtains open on a split-stage set. At left is the laboratory. At right is the dugout of the Baltimore Orioles. The players are sitting inside glumly, watching the action on the field, offstage. Manager Beano Brampson is pacing morosely in front of the bench, an unlit cigar in his mouth, his hands jammed into the pockets of his warmup jacket. There is a sudden sharp, clean crack of bat against ball and a throaty roar from the crowd. Brampson and the players arch their necks and their eyes follow the imaginary flight of a baseball hit into the outfield. Some of the players come off the bench. Then they settle back)
BRAMPSON—Well, fine. Just fine. We finally got a man on base. Imagine that. First time in a week.
(Lights out on right and up on left, the laboratory. Boog Powell is pacing inside his cage, pounding his fist into one hand. He looks up as the door opens. It is Boog Powell, in the Oriole uniform. He glances around the room quickly, then hurries up to the cage)
BOOG—What do you mean: Shhh? Just who are you?
BOOG—Never mind who I am. Are you all right?
BOOG—I guess so; I'm pretty weak. I'd feel a lot better if I was out of here.
BOOG—Shhh! You're weak, you say? Are you strong enough to go to bat?
BOOG—(Flexing his arms) I don't think so. I've been cooped up too long.
BOOG—But the Orioles need you!