Setting: Sabes' office. Sabes at his desk, headphones on, iPod in hand, bumpin' to the tunes.
Sabes: (singing along in a falsetto voice) B-b-b-bayybee you just AIN'T seen n-n-n-nuthin' yet! (air guitar gesture)
Boch: (entering) Happy New Year, Bri.
Sabes: (startled, whips off 'phones) You're late.
Boch: (sitting, wiping his forehead) Lotta traffic out there.
Sabes: Lotta traffic in here, too. (points at his desk computer)
Boch: Where's that fancy little one?
Sabes: (embarrassed) I, uh, spilled a latté on it.
Boch: (surprised) That'll break 'em?
Sabes: (dumfounded, unable to speak)
Boch: (chuckling) I remember spillin' coffee on one of my lineup cards. Sure was embarrassin' when I brought it out. Froemming still gives it to me about that one!
Sabes: Hello? Can we get to work here?
Boch: Sure, Bri. (clears throat) We forgot Winn.
Sabes: Damn right we're here to win--that's why we come to work each and every day!
Boch: No, uh, I mean Winn. Not, you know, win.
Sabes: Look, Bru. If you aren't committed, if you can't give 110%, I can can your ass!
Boch: (gleeful) You said can-can! You said can-can!
Sabes: (enraged) WIN! THAT'S WHAT WE DO HERE! WE ARE WINNERS!
Boch: (taken aback) Whoa, Bri. I wanna win, too, amigo. Hold yer horses, I meant that feller RANDY Winn.
Sabes: (calm) He's our rightfielder.
Boch: Yeah, well, we gotta get him in the lineup.
Sabes: He's our rightfielder.
Boch: Uh, yeah. OK, I'm hitting him 2nd or 3rd.
Sabes: (exasperated) Fine. Hit 'em where you want, Bru, that's your job.
Boch: (points at computer) You gettin' me a thirdbaseman in there?
Sabes: (snarky) Oh, so you think I can just conjure him up? Punch a few keys? Presto? Thirdbaseman?
Boch: Uh . . .
Sabes: It takes work, Bru. Brains! Strategy! Deal-making! Cojones!
Boch: You betcha, Bri, I wouldn't want your job.
Sabes: Damn right. Those Fringers don't understand. The pressure. The high-stakes. (grabs commemorative baseball off desk, rubs it frantically) They're all against me! The bloggers! The media! The beer guys!
Boch: (soothingly) I reckon they just don't understand how tough it is to git a guy to come and play third for us.
Sabes: That's right! That's right!! (rubs ball, giggles maniacally)
Boch: How 'bout that feller we had? Pedro Fleas.
Sabes: Puh-leaze, Bru.
Boch: Yeah, that's him, Pedro Police.
Sabes: Look, Bru, I love the kid. Love him. Saves us almost as many runs as Omar with that glove. And how am I expected to replace 20 HRs and 80 RBIs, huh?
Sabes: (whispers) Can't do it.
Boch: Huh? (leans closer)
Sabes: Can't do it. (starts to weep) Just like Armando Benitez--I'll be crucifed over this guy. They--the Lunatics--they've left messages. (looks around furtively) Threats. Angry voice mails. I, I--can't handle it anymore!
Boch: (quickly changing the subject) Well, I sure do like our pitching staff.
Sabes: (leaps out of chair, fuming) Ooooooh, suuuuure!!! Oh, yeah, sure, Bru! Oh, everyone likes our pitchers!! They ALL want them! (grabs ball, rubs it) But they're mine, Bru. MINE! (goes into a wind-up)
Boch: (startled, gets out of chair, scuttles toward door) Whoa, there, ace!
Sabes: MIIIIIIINNNNNNE!!!!!!!! (throws pitch toward the door)
Boch: I'm outta here! (ball narrowly misses his head)
Sabes: (leaping, arms raised) STRIKE THREE! AND SPEZIO STRIKES OUT! WHAT A PITCH!! (makes roaring crowd noises, prances around room with arms raised in triumph)