(A shower of beer cups, candy wrappers and programs flutters in from the wings. A few seat cushions follow, plus a pop bottle and Cracker Jack boxes. There is a hail of peanuts)
BRAMPSON—(Wavering) Well, I don't know....
BOOG—I can do it.
BRAMPSON—O.K., O.K. Get in there.
(He turns his back in disgust and kicks at a beer cup as Boog moves away)
(Pencil spotlight beams against the closed curtains and picks out the face of TV Announcer Cosell. The spotlight widens and we see that Cosell is seated in a glass-fronted press box, looking down at the field and speaking into a microphone)
COSELL—...and the count is now one ball and two strikes on Boog Powell. What a shame. What a tragedy for the Orioles: the bases are loaded, with Boog Powell, of all people, at the plate. It is this reporter's opinion, based on long experience, that Boog Powell is washed up. This reporter feels exclusively that never—in his long and colorful career as a sportscaster—has he seen such a terminal slump. This reporter feels....
Cosell stops talking suddenly and half-rises from his seated position. He presses his nose against the glass, looking up)
COSELL—My God! I mean, goodness gracious! Wow! It is a towering, gignatic, monster hit! Good heavens! It is an enormous hit! A four-master! A grand-slammer! Ladies and gentlemen, this is the greatest hit that this reporter has ever seen! It is up, up and it is sailing toward the outfield stands. My God! It is going over the stands! Wow. Someone check that distance for this reporter. What is the distance? Now, hurry! You say it's five-hundred-eighty to the stands? My goodness! The ball is still going. This reporter has never seen anything like it...not in all his long, colorful years of...wow! The ball went over the stands, as this reporter said. It is going to clear the far parking lot easily. It is still climbing. Still climbing. (Whips out binoculars) It is...this reporter has now lost sight of the ball in the clouds! It is out of sight!