Marie: All right, both of you, stop it. Raymond, you have to get two more tickets.
Ray: I can't do that, Ma.
Marie: Well, just call up someone. You want me to call?
Ray: Ma, there's nobody to... You can't...
Marie: What's the number of the Super Bowl?
Ray: That's now how it works, Ma.

Frank: All right, now that he's gone, give me my ticket.
Ray: Dad, I told you I don't have one.
Frank: Fine, fine. Do what you want. Let me tell you this I know what it's gonna say on my tombstone. "My son went to the Super Bowl, and now I'm dead."

Ray: Okay, listen, you know what? I don't have a ticket for either of you. I'm sorry. I told Gianni I was gonna take him, and I'm gonna take him.
Robert: Well, that's the way it should be, I guess. You take Gianni, Raymond. Have a grand time. Hey, why don't you get one of those big "number one" foam fingers and wave it in the air? 'Cause you're number one, Raymond. You're number one! But remember this... "One is the loneliest number you'll ever do."