[Upstairs in the Cashman home, “Brian the Brain” fumbles through boxes in the closet.]
Cashman: Honey, where’s my headwarmer?
Mrs. Cashman: It’s in the blue box.
Cashman: Ah. [Reaches for box and opens it up.]
Headwarmer: F–k yeah! Autumn already!
Cashman: It’s not really that cold out. I just want to be careful.
Headwarmer: Sweet, sweet freedom. Hey, got a smoke?
Cashman: Not in the house, Headwarmer.
Headwarmer: I’ve been in a goddam box for six months, you dink. I need a smoke. Or maybe you’d like me to tell the missus about your “magic mitten”?
Cashman: Alright, alright. [Drops cigarette into box.] Just keep it down.
Headwarmer: [Lights up.] So tell me. How are the boys doing?
Cashman: We’re… we’re doing alright.
Headwarmer: First place, I assume.
Cashman: Of course.
Headwarmer: I like the sound of first place, Bubee. How many games between us and Boston? Six? Eighteen?
Cashman: Er. One.
Headwarmer: [spits out cigarette.] One? Yer fecking kidding me.
Cashman: But we’ve got them on the ropes. They’re on the way down.
Headwarmer: Didn’t we have this conversation last October? After Game Three it was, “We got ’em where we want ’em.” Then it was “Well, maybe tonight we’ll get ’em.” Then, “Surely they won’t beat us at home.” Next thing you know, Steiny’s jibbling your balls with some barbecue tongs.
Headwarmer: Nevermind. What’s your ETA on the Red Sox elimination party? You know I plan on inviting that chick from Smallville this year. My God, that ass…
Cashman: No later than next Wednesday. It’s a done deal.
Headwarmer: And how are the arms looking for October? Can’t wait to see that Pavano kid work his magic.
Cashman: Um. Yeah, well, there are some thing we should talk about.
Headwarmer: Great! Let’s pull an all-nighter. I’m gonna need some notebooks, a pen, your Red Sox scouting reports, some Billy Squire CDs, a large jackhammer to drown out the sound of the Billy Squire CDs, and a couple Hostess Fruit Pies.
Cashman: Oh, for christ’s sake, it’s ten o’clock at night. I’m not going out for Hostess Fruit Pies.
Headwarmer: Okay, fine. Just don’t come crying to me if I accidentally happen to slip over your face and fuzz-pack your nostrils whenever the Fox Sports cameras are on you.
Cashman: [Thinks for a beat.] I’ll go get the pies.
Headwarmer: Good. And make ’em cherry, you queen.