Murray: Face it, if Barry could hit a baseball like Mike Schmidt, wouldn't we love him more?
Beverly: No.
Barry: I can hit like Schmitty! Come out back and pitch to me, old man!
Murray: That doesn't seem like something that's gonna happen.
Barry: Touch my pec. Go ahead. Feel its shape and girthy weight.
Murray: I'm not touching your anything!
Barry: Mom! Dad won't recognize my natural abilities and physical prowess by caressing me!
Beverly: Cup your son's boy-bosom!
Murray: Do you hear your words?
Beverly: Fine. If you're not gonna help either one of your sons, then I will. [cups Barry's pecs] Very meaty, dear.
Barry: In your face.