SCIENTIST—The bomb will do it! Heh heh! I was afraid something like this might happen. I've planted a bomb inside his belly. That rascal! I can control it, too! I can detonate it any time I want. I can blow him apart—blow up the entire Oriole club. They won't cross me. I'll still rule the world!
(Lights out on left, up on right, as Manager Beano Brampson stands in an attitude of total surprise, looking up in the air. In the dugout the Orioles are all half-standing in amazement, watching a ball bouncing high off home plate offstage)
BRAMPSON—Another hit! A Baltimore chop! A single! How about that! Now the bases are loaded. We actually have the bases loaded! I can't believe it. Just one hit now and maybe, oh maybe, we'll break this slump. We'll be the Orioles of old—champions, that's what. But who is...(He turns to the Bat Boy)...who is up next?
BAT BOY—(Nervously) Mister Boog Powell, sir.
BRAMPSON—(In disgust) Mister Powell? Mister Powell? Are you trying to tell me that now—when I've got the bases loaded and two men out, when my keen manager's mind tells me that the entire season is hanging in the balance—are you trying to tell me that Boog Powell is up? Old No-Hit Powell? Old Marshmallow-Bat? Is that what you're trying to tell me?
BAT BOY—It's your batting order, sir.
BRAMPSON—Never mind that. Get me a pinch hitter.
(In the dugout the players all avert their eyes. A few look at the ceiling. All are embarrassed; nobody volunteers)
BRAMPSON—Well, come on. Come on! Who is going to get in there and hit for Powell?
BAT BOY—Uh, sir....