Marge: Say, aren't you Sam Malone?
Sam: Guilty as charged.
Marge: Small world. Marge Thornhill here. Don't you remember me?
Sam: Ah, boy, you know, I can't quite place the face. Where'd we meet?
Marge: Well, we didn't actually meet, but I know you'll remember me. I went to every home game you ever played.
Sam: Uh... Marge, there are a lot of people up in the stands there.
Marge: Sure, but you got to remember me. I always sat right behind first base, five rows up, remember? I used to get there, early so I could watch you warm up in the bullpen.
Sam: I'm sorry. I know, you couldn't forget this. [shouts] Hey, Malone! You pitch like my sister! Why don't you go home and make a dress!
Sam: Was that you?
Marge: Yeah.
Sam: Well, how have you been? Guys, I want you to... Do the one where you say I couldn't get the ball across the plate if I drove it there in my car.
Marge: No, no, that was then, and this is now. By the way, I'm really sorry for all those shots I gave you over the years. No hard feelings?
Sam: No, of course not. It's all part of the game.
Marge: You're a real sport, Malone. [drinks] You call this a martini?! What'd you use for vermouth, turpentine?!
Sam: The great ones never lose it.