BRAMPSON—SO STOP THIS HERE DANCING; GET DRESSED UP/AND REST UP, FOR/WE GO ON THE ROAD TONIGHT...
BRAMPSON—AND IF YOU CLOWNS SHOULD FAIL ME,/THE OWNERS WILL NAIL ME,/AND (He gestures toward the chorus) ALL YOU SMILING FEY SHINERS/WILL BE BACK IN THE MINORS./NOW NO MORE CLAIR DE LUNE/OR I'LL CALL BOWIE KUHN./GET ON THE BUS THAT'S OUT THERE./BE READY, BUT BEWARE!/AND....
(His voice trails off as he shoos the players to their lockers. They all dress quickly and leave the room. Brampson now turns to Boog, who is still seated on the bench, smiling dreamily. The manager stands beside him, one hand on Powell's shoulder)
BRAMPSON—Good game, champ.
BOOG—Aw, I was just lucky, chief.
BRAMPSON—No. You saved us again, Booger, my boy.
BOOG—(Slamming his fist into his glove) What am I hitting now, chief?
BRAMPSON—(Pulls a slip of paper from his rear pocket and studies it) Well, I reckon after today's homers it's about four-fifty-six.
BOOG—(Impressed) Four-fifty-six! Imagine! (He shakes his head) Anybody ever bat five hundred, chief? Really?