The Waltons Say Goodnight, World Series Style

I swear someone was standing behind me just now. I felt the presence, the shadow. Jebus? No. Nobody. Was it a ghost? No. Rather, I attribute the presence to the three Summit Oktoberfests (Summits Oktoberfest?) that I tossed back as the Red Sox laid their eggs in the silly corpse of St. Louis.

Mama?
Yes, St. Louis.
You asleep?
Almost.
You reckon Ben is asleep?
Ha, wouldn't surprise me.
Goodnight, Mama.
Goodnight, St. Louis.

John-boy? D'you think we could be champs when we grow up?
You want to be?
That's what I need to ask you about.
Well, what, St. Louis?
Is St. Louis allowed to like licorice whip as much as winning?
I wouldn't let that stop you, St. Louis. Goodnight, now.
Goodnight, John-Boy.

Mama?
Yes, St. Louis?
I got a sharp hurt in my side. You reckon I could be getting appendicitis?
I hope not. Try turning on your back.
It's alright Mama.
Hurt gone?
I was laying on a harmonica.
Goodnight, St. Louis.
Goodnight, Mama.