Spring Training: Boch in uniform; Sabes in shades, Panama hat, polo shirt, and ban-roll waistband slacks.
Boch: (hollering to SL) Attaboy!
Sabes: Who's he?
Sabes: What's he play?
Boch: Second base.
Sabes: Durham's on second.
Boch: Not today.
Sabes: Let me get this straight . . . I-don't-know-who's on second.
Sabes: (pointing) That's Richie!
Sabes: He's on third.
Sabes: Not tomorrow?
Boch: Not tomorrow.
Sabes: Who's tomorrow?
Sabes: You mean I-don't-know-who?
Boch: I do.
Sabes: (angrily) Just answer the question!
Sabes: Yep what?
Boch: Yep, you-don't-know-who's on third.
Sabes: And today?
Sabes: (pointing) What's his name?
Boch: (cupping ear) What?
Sabes: Don't get smart! (gestures emphatically) Him!
Sabes: Oh, yeah.
Boch: First base.
Sabes: I can see that! (cell phone rings, he answers) OK. (snaps phone shut and re-holsters) That's Baer.
Boch: Oh, yeah.
Sabes: My boss!
Sabes: Yours, too.
Sabes: (furtively) We got a deal cookin'.
Boch: (brightens) A power hitter!
Sabes: (aghast) Dammit, Bru, we TALKED about this! Pitching! Defense! Speed! That's how you win in the NL West!
Boch: (crestfallen) But were gonna need some homers.
Crack of the bat offstage. Boch and Sabes watch the flight of the longball, eyes fixed, heads arcing in unison.
Sabes: Who was that?
Boch: (grinning) I-don't-know-who.
Sabes: (mouth open, shocked speechless)