BRAMPSON—(Pats him fondly on the shoulder) Only God can bat five hundred, son. Only God.
BOOG—(Nods and sighs) Well, I guess it's about time to get going.
BRAMPSON—Right, son. Would you like the team to wait while you shower?
BOOG—(Drops his first-baseman's glove and stands up, towering hugely over the manager) No, chief. I think I'll just wear my uniform right on the bus. I really love this uniform.
(Lights fade as they walk off. The manager, in a somewhat self-conscious attempt at a fatherly gesture, reaches up to put one arm around Boog. He finds that he is far too short; he has to settle for one enormous thigh. So they stroll offstage that way)
(Stage is dark for a moment. Then, faintly at the rear, the audience can see shadowy figures emerging through a back door. A spotlight picks them out. A ferret-faced man comes to stage center, looks about nervously, then gestures. Two more men join him. They are laboring under the weight of a gigantic package. All three pause, listening)
FIRST MAN—They've gone. Put it down.
(The men gently lower the package to the floor, standing it upright)
FIRST MAN—All right. Hurry!
(The men tug away the wrappings. And there—standing alone, fully dressed in a Baltimore Oriole uniform—is Boog Powell. The figure does not move; it stares, bemused, at the audience. Gradually the audience becomes aware that this is not Boog Powell at all. It is an effigy, a statue. The first man inspects it carefully, then steps back from the massive figure, nodding approval)