|
Copyright © 2000 by Shane
Tourtellotte
First published in Artemis Magazine, Summer 2000
Kenji Kokabu pulled himself through the water, stubbornly ignoring the discomfort. It was an early June day in Massachusetts, chilly enough that his heated pool couldn't compensate entirely. That was nothing.
The tightness in his right shoulder on every second stroke: that was another matter.
He kicked off the pool wall to complete his twentieth lap, then spied someone at the far end. An angular face was smiling, a hand waving from a muscular arm. Kenji put on speed. "Sam," he said a second after reaching the edge.
He reached a hand out, but Sammy Paul stepped back. "No way, K. You may have an old rookie grudge to take out on this brand-new suit." His attitude changed when Kenji started pulling himself out, exposing the scar on his back. "Oh, wait, I'm coming."
Sam's reward for his tardy assistance was a wet hand on his back and a quarter-strength push toward the water. "Your suit's innocent," Kenji said. "Take it off, and we'll talk."
Sam guffawed. "Good to see you, too."
They shook hands, but Sam's grip was weak. "You don't have to baby me," Kenji said. "The hand is fine."
"With the money you make, I'm not taking chances."
"Fair enough." Kenji grabbed a towel hanging on a deck chair, the socks on its logo faded to a heavy pink. It was a souvenir from his first big-league start, and victory, one Sam had celebrated as much as he had. God, I was literally a kid back then. He snapped himself out of his daydream. "Give me five minutes to put on some clothes."
Sam waited in the rec room, watching sports news on Kenji's new 3-V. He didn't know whether to smile or frown at the Dodgers' continuing winning streak. Kenji returned in a tee and shorts, carrying two tall glasses of orange juice.
"Too early for anything else, Sam ... except an explanation. You don't answer your mail for two weeks, then you drop into my lap. Is something wrong?"
"Look, Ken, I'm sorry about the mail. I was getting so much sympathy thrown at me that I dumped the mailbox after the first hour. I didn't see anything you sent me, and I'm sorry. Still, I have been busy."
"But not successful."
Sam froze, and puffed out a breath. "I've asked around with every team in the North American leagues. San Antonio wouldn't nibble, Toronto said call back in the stretch drive, and so on. Not even the third-year expansion clubs want me. Looks like they agree with the Brooklyn brass. Thirty-nine equals washed-up."
Kenji tried to sound confident. "Well, you cleared international waivers last week. Any bites overseas?"
Sam shrugged. "Can't go to the Japan-Korea league. Language. Same with the Caribbean League, and they like youngsters better anyway. Nothing from Europe after that one call from Birmingham. As for Australia ... what I said in thirty-three about women players is rebounding on me, huh?"
"You mean boomeranging."
Sam's mouth puckered. "You said it. I was restraining myself."
"Sure you were." Silence hung for five long seconds. "Have you thought about hanging it up?"
"I've done lots of thinking, Ken, none about quitting baseball. Listen, the press has been ignoring you for a while. How's rehab coming?"
Kenji patted the shoulder through his shirt. "It's getting stronger. I'm doing more laps each day, and I start weight exercises in a few weeks."
"Will you be back this season?"
Kenji shook his head. "The doctors are cautious. They're learning from experience with clone grafting, and I'm the experience."
"How are the Sox brass taking it?"
"They've gotten over expecting me back this year, but ..."
"They won't make guarantees about your new contract?"
"I've asked. They haven't answered." Kenji rolled his shoulder, working out the stiffness. "Rotator tears are career-killers, and this surgery isn't proven yet. They'll want to see how I'm doing in the fall, I guess." He sighed. "Some are already saying this comes of letting a pitcher complete his starts. They may never let me pitch my way again. My record contracts could be behind me."
"Oh, you've got record contracts all around you," Sam said, sweeping his arm to encompass the massive house. "And this is peanuts. How much do you have in assets you aren't living in? Three hundred?"
"Three forty-five, last my accountant crunched the numbers." Kenji sensed a destination to his friend's maneuverings. "You haven't done shabby yourself, remember."
"Yes, but I didn't earn three forty-five in eighteen seasons, never mind what I've spent. I'm worth just under two hundred mill ... and for what I've started planning, that isn't enough."
Kenji sat up. "All right, Sam." Only friends used the more formal name. To fans, he was always Sammy. "You've been building up to something. Spill it."
Sam leaned forward. "You know how the GM of the Blue Sox wouldn't know talent if it hit a ball over his head. When I sent him a feeler, he shot me down by collect e-mail. Quote: 'You'll sooner play baseball on the Moon that sign a contract with this company.'"
His brown eyes were sparkling. "Ken, I want to start a new league."
Kenji spent more than an hour throwing curves at his friend, but Sam had indeed been busy, formulating defenses for his wild scheme.
"Ken, it doesn't matter there are only sixty thousand people in the colony. Why do you think nobody plays in sixty-thousand seat ballparks these days? People watch on their televisions, and with holovision coming out, the crowds will get smaller still. The last fifty years have proven you don't need capacity crowds to turn a profit. You need good stadium contracts and good media contracts. Now tell me who won't pay to show games where you can literally hit a ball half a mile?"
"Who will pay? Playing on the Moon will be a freak show compared with regular baseball."
"Not a chance. Lots of things will be different, but they'll be exciting and different. It's something nobody's seen before, and people always pay good money for that."
Sam had the answers, so far. "Who will be the players?"
"Anybody. We'll take them from across the world. We'll respect active contracts, so the established leagues don't take it as total war, but that leaves plenty of players available. Lots of them will play on the Moon for the novelty, the challenge. With a few superstars, we'll have instant credibility."
"That's where I come in," Kenji surmised. "Do you want me just for my body, or for my money, too?"
Sam smiled uneasily. "Ken, you give any team instant respect, so I want that arm. As for your money ... it helps, but three forty-five doesn't go as far as it did. If we pooled all our assets, we could barely make an offer for the Sacramento A's. A lunar league is going to need lots more capital, but with both of us on board, investors won't be so fast to dismiss it."
Kenji started thinking, not realizing that Sam was starting to hook him. "How many teams?"
"I figure six. Four would get tedious fast, and eight would strain the initial investment."
"Got that right. Eight stadiums would cost fortunes."
"You don't need eight, or six. Three is all. You don't have separate communities there. It isn't one stadium per city. Three will let all the teams play at once. They won't cost as much, either, because we won't need many seats. Five thousand apiece to start would be more than enough."
"Sam, that's a minor league park."
"We don't need more. You said there were too few fans there, right? Remember, a lot of the assumptions that go along with baseball on Earth aren't going to apply. It's--" He couldn't suppress a chuckle. "It's going to be a whole new ballgame."
"You were waiting to say that, weren't you?"
For anybody else, Kenji's response would have been polite deferral and death by silence. But this was Sam, the man who had shepherded a raw, talented teenager through his first rough months in the major leagues. He was also fighting to preserve his career somehow, and Kenji newly appreciated that motivation.
Several individuals and companies had lost out in the North American expansion back to thirty-two teams, the highest number since the disastrous era of government management. Kenji split the list with Sam, and made some initial inquiries. Nobody made firm commitments, but the interest was there. All they wanted was assurance of firm financial footing, a deep talent pool, and the knowledge that lunar baseball was truly possible, and would still be baseball.
Simple.
After a Friday examination at the hospital, Kenji returned home to find Sam there. He was sitting in the living room with an attractive, if blandly dressed, woman of thirty-five.
"Ken, meet Professor Jean Landrum. Melissa's been friends with her since high school. She knows physics, she's a baseball fan, and she'll keep a secret. That makes her our perfect science advisor."
Kenji shook her hand. "Any friend of Melissa's." She looked over his five-foot-eight body. "I know, I don't gain any height in person."
They gave her the plush chair, sharing the sofa themselves. "I got Melissa's call yesterday, Mister Kokabu," Jean said. "I haven't had much time to work on details, but I'll advise you the best I can. There are definitely obstacles."
"Any show-stoppers?" Sam asked.
"Depends on how much of a purist you are. Your big problem is the outfield fences. Home run distance will be six to eight hundred meters. Even with the ball hanging six times longer, I don't see a three-player outfield covering an area that large."
"Yeah, we've knocked that around ourselves," Sam said. "We figured, though, in one-sixth gravity a fielder can run after a ball six times as fast. Less to hold him down, right?"
Jean made herself be patient. "No. You're confusing weight with mass. You'd have to apply the same force to accelerate as much. Also, running is essentially lateral, not vertical. You'll have a bit more force to put into horizontal movement, but with lower gravity it will take your feet longer to come back to the ground, so you'll be pushing off less. You'll need more time to reach top speed than you would on Earth."
She folded her hands on her lap. "I know neither of you went to college. Was physics a strong subject in high school for either of you?"
"Math was my subject," said Sam lightly. "That's why I played baseball. I could count the money."
"Biology was my best," Kenji offered. "Physics, well, I could always throw a ball better than tell you why it moved."
Jean nodded. "I'll tell you what. There are texts on practical lunar kinetics, some of them by lunar inhabitants. I'll mail you the URL's tonight, and you can get up to speed."
They didn't hide their abashment well. "We're coming off as real chumps, aren't we?" Sam muttered.
"You need to know the physics to reinvent a sport," Jean replied, "same as you need to know the rules to play one. You two will be fine." She patted Sam's leg. "Now, let's get back to basics ..."
It had seemed so easy a subject, tossing it around between themselves. Jean Landrum's lecture and texts changed their perspective. They had a rough Saturday, but confidence returned in time for Sunday brainstorming.
"So you see," Sam explained, "we don't need to make the infield six times bigger. The hits will move no faster than before. Grounders will bounce much higher, but infielders will be able to jump high after them." He grinned. "It should be something to see a shortstop turn and throw from two meters in the air."
"Didn't Ozzie Smith always do that?"
Sam cuffed him playfully, having gotten over most of his chariness about Kenji's injury. "Nice. Anyway, we can make allowance for infielders' diminished range. Say we make the bases thirty meters apart, instead of the bigs' twenty-seven point five."
"I thought you were the one who wanted the fewest changes possible." Kenji's eyes suddenly widened. "Wait a minute. This is your Trojan horse to move the pitcher's mound back. All batters think alike, Sam, don't deny it."
"Hey, both sides benefit. Batters will need more time to adjust to pitches falling slower than on Earth."
"Spring training will handle that, a month of the season at most."
"Yeah, yeah, but for pitchers, they'll want the longer distance, because lower gravity will flatten out the pitch. The ball will have more travel time for your dipsy-doos to take effect. It balances."
Kenji turned his eyes, aching from the computer screens. "We're forgetting something. Pop flies."
"What about them?"
"Lots of things. First, how high can we make the roof? Most stadiums go up to sixty meters, and the occasional ball gets hit off them. Look what we have here." Kenji worked for a few minutes with a calculator, pencil and scratch pad. "Dismissing air resistance, our typical hundred-twenty-meter homer goes seven hundred six meters on the Moon, but look. Its vertical distance tops out at one seventy-six, and pop flies will go higher still."
Sam nodded. "That's a problem. Carving a space two fifty, three hundred meters high out of the rock will be plenty expensive."
"It gets worse. Our model homer on Earth takes about five seconds to hit the ground. In lunar gravity, call it half a minute." Sam whistled. "Yeah. If that were a pop fly, and nobody caught it, you'd be around the bases before it fell. Some speedsters could be around twice."
Sam put his fingers to his temples, trying to think. "Okay, but half a minute is plenty of time to get under any ball, right?"
"On Earth, yes. On the Moon, if the fences are seven hundred meters back, maybe not. The real problem is, any high hit will end up an out or a home run. The balance of play is ruined." Kenji slapped his forehead. "And baserunners. Someone on third might tag up waiting for a fly ball to fall, and the batter would pass him while he's waiting. Fielders could pull tricks to make the old infield fly shenanigans look silly."
Sam's fingers had moved over his eyes. "Are you saying lunar baseball can't work?"
"Not yet. What do we do, though, to make it work?"
Sam jumped in before Kenji could conjure an answer. "We give it a rest, that's what we do. Work on other things for a while."
"This is important, Sam."
"So is the rest. You've heard the investors we're sounding out. They want league structure; rules can wait. Now, we agreed about extended spring training, right? First game the first Monday in May?"
"Yes," said Kenji, reluctantly putting rules talk in abeyance. "I still worry about starting up next May. We can use an extra year."
"The majors can, too, for running us out of business before we start. I say we act fast, don't give them time to concentrate their opposition."
Kenji bristled, but his research of old upstart leagues confirmed Sam's fears. "May fourth next year it is, then." He pulled up a file on his monitor. "One hundred twenty games; season ends in late September; Lunar Series finished before the North American playoffs begin."
"Looks good. Now, have you thought over player buy-ins?"
"M-hm. I like the idea of players supporting the league themselves, but we don't dare have separate team investments. It invites last decade's scandals all over."
"Make them buy equal shares, then? I can accept that, Ken, but still ... I wish I didn't have to retire before I could buy a team."
"Some things you have to live with," Kenji said. "Like women players."
"Bringing that up again? I said I'd accept it, Ken, and I meant it."
"Well, some people have long memories. The women investors I talk to, for example."
"Which is why I let you handle them. I have some sense. If we don't get them on board, this is never going to happen."
"True." Kenji turned dour. "It's also true we need someone else's approval. The home field, so to speak. We haven't done much with that."
"I always assumed they'd be glad to have us."
"Maybe, Sam, but investors prefer a big fat 'yes'. I'll start making inquiries, discreetly. Nothing to spook the administrators."
Sam nodded wearily. "A lot easier to imagine something than to accomplish it. Listen, I need to return to Connecticut soon."
"Sure. Making your calls from home is no problem. Sick of my company already?"
"Completely," he said, grinning, "but Melissa also expected to see me more, not less, after the Dodgers released me. I need to go home and mollify her."
"I never heard it callled that before," Kenji said, then ducked an aptly-named throw pillow.
Kenji got in touch with lower-level administrators at Lunabase, asking general questions, not giving anyone enough information to blow their cover. He found himself agreeing with Sam: nothing public until absolutely necessary. For that reason, the call he got the first Wednesday in July shot panic through him.
After seven rings, Sam's face appeared on the screen. "Ken, what's happening?"
"Sam, I'm connecting you into a three-way call. The man on my line insisted on speaking with you, too."
"You're worrying me, Ken. What is it? Who is it?"
Ken swallowed. "Roosevelt Parker. The Governor of Lunabase."
"Him? I didn't think you were--"
"I wasn't. He called me." He took a deep breath. "I'm putting us back through. Remember the time delay, and ... act casual."
"Oh, absolutely."
The screen split into two boxes, Governor Parker's broad brown features filling the new one. "Good evening, Governor," Sam quickly said. "How can we help you?"
"Easily, gentlemen," Parker replied in a sonorous baritone. "Tell me why you couldn't come to me with your plan for a lunar baseball league."
Kenji regained his voice first. "Sir, where did you hear this?"
"From my subordinates, the ones you've been calling with inquiries about construction timetables, grass growth figures, and shipping costs. Singly, they thought your questions were strange. I saw them together. Are you telling me I'm wrong?"
Kenji sighed. "No, Governor. We simply don't want a frenzy of publicity before we have something solid to show them. I apologize for our secrecy, and hope it doesn't predispose you against our enterprise."
"Me?" Parker laughed. "A Cubs season-ticket holder until they moved to Carolina? A man with--" His hand paused in mid-reach to a desk drawer. "Anyway, rest assured. I am a fan and a friend, and your league is exactly what we need here."
Sam recovered first this time. "You don't know how glad we are to hear that, Governor."
"I think I do. From now on, you can send your questions through me. Not that I don't trust my staff, but it's easier to keep a secret this way."
"Governor Parker," Kenji said, "you can count on hearing from us, a lot."
"I wouldn't mind seeing you, either, but that in good time. Good night, gentlemen, and best of luck to you."
His half of their screens blinked off. Sam and Kenji stayed connected. "One ... two ... three," Sam said, and Ken joined in after the last number.
"YIPPEE!"
Sam's car arrived at the mansion a week later. The Pauls were going with Kenji to Vancouver for the All-Star Weekend, a trip part pleasure, part business. The eleven and eight-year-olds began running through the rooms the moment they entered, despite their mother.
"Ken?" Sam called. "Ken, we're here."
"Sam, come in here a minute." It came from the computer room. "Make yourself at home, Melissa. I'll see you in a moment."
"What is it?" Melissa asked her husband.
"Probably something about the league. I won't be long." He entered the computer room, finding Kenji before a frozen screen. "Okay, Ken, shoot."
Ken grinned. "Why don't I let him shoot?" He hit a key, starting a replay of a video mail message. There was no mistaking the caller: Christopher Akiona Keau, the Hawaiian hardware tycoon, and failed expansion franchise bidder of four years ago.
"Mister Kokabu, I've reached a decision. My lawyers are drawing up documents that will commit two billion dollars to your league. Mister Paul's spreadsheet shows that should be ample to purchase one franchise free and clear. This commitment is contingent on certain things, nothing unreasonable, which will be in the documents. I will remain in touch. Aloha." His image froze on the last frame.
This time, Kenji responded with a simple, warm clasp of Sam's hand. "We're on our way, pal."
"Yeah. That's more than we need, though." Ken raised his eyebrows at Sam. "We figured nine billion to be safe, right? He's bought himself more than one team. That's trouble."
"Sam, I'll take that kind of trouble. Now you go get Melissa. I have to dig out the champagne, and there will be plenty for three."
At five nineteen, Friday, July twelfth, thirty-four thousand fans cheered Kenji Kokabu, honorary co-captain of the American League All-Star team. He toed the rubber, as all the commentators mentioned that this was his first pitch since his injury, and threw the ceremonial first pitch right through the strike zone. Buoyed by this favorable omen, the Americans walloped the Nationals, 10-2.
Sam and Kenji missed the next afternoon's Federal-Continental game, an epic thirteen-inning struggle. Ken was meeting a holopic entrepreneuress in person, trying to lock down a half-billion-dollar commitment. For his part, Sam had buttonholed the Pirates' GM for negotiations of another kind. "One way or another," Kenji heard him say beforehand, giving him an awful floating feeling in the stomach.
The reporters clustering around Kenji soon melted away, chasing all the other stories at the All-Star Weekend. With Sunday's climactic match set, American League versus Continental League, the media heat was off--until someone else decided to change that.
Sam and his family were dining with Kenji at the hotel restaurant. The first they heard was a buzz from other patrons, with sidelong looks in their direction. Then the storm broke, as a dozen reporters burst in with microphones, cameras, and loud questions.
Before either of them understood the commotion, hotel security was there. One contingent showed Melissa and the girls back to their room. Another made a phalanx around Kenji and Sam, herding them out of the restaurant. The largest guards remained to obstruct the reporters from following. Sam silently blessed the Canadians: they knew how to handle the press.
They went into an office, where a 2-V set showed the end of Keau's question-and-answer session. Seconds after he left his podium, a young woman in hotel uniform hooked up a VDR set, and they got to see the event from beginning to end. Employees left the room, though a few remained outside, at once guarding and infringing their privacy--not that the second required much effort.
"When did his stake become three billion?!" Sam thundered.
"When he said it in front of cameras," replied Kenji, "and we'll hold him to that." He patted Sam's arm. "Don't worry."
"You'd think he'd keep quiet. Professional courtesy or something. If we didn't need his money so much, I'd tell him what volcano he could jump into, head first."
"But we do need the backing." Kenji hit 'pause' before the questions began. "We have to arrange our own press conference now, to make the most of what he's handed us." He renewed his grip on Sam's arm. "Stop being anxious. This might be our best break yet."
"It better be, or I've got some K-Teq hardware that's headed for early recycling."
The hotel staff had set aside a hall during All-Star Weekend for news conferences, and were already preparing it before Sam and Kenji had finished their VDR disk. The two discounted the dubious advantages of taking time to prepare, and were winging when they stepped into the room.
The crush of reporters had already violated the fire code, and were still streaming in. Sam was curiously relieved: the more here, the fewer pounding on Melissa's door. The one thing they had decided beforehand was that Sam had originated the idea, so he would begin explaining it. He stepped up to the podium, cleared his throat, and hoped that, back in his office at Rickey Stadium, a certain general manager was choking on something right now.
He recited an abridged history of his brainchild, from the anonymous GM who inspired him to Wednesday's call from Keau. Kenji gritted his teeth, but Sam didn't bad-mouth Keau for spilling the beans. After a pause, and another nervous look from Kenji, he continued.
"The Lunar League will be the best thing to happen to baseball since the Federal Commission was disbanded. It will draw fans who have never before followed the game. The game itself will be new in many ways, a greater challenge than the Earth variety. The league will draw talent from across the world, so it's only a matter of time before lunar baseball becomes the best baseball there is."
Sam heard the first ripple of derision from some journalists. He put on his best locker-room smile. "You don't have to believe me now. Hey, it makes a better story if you don't. Overcoming the odds is always great news, and we're gonna do that."
A tide of questions inundated the several sardonic grumbles. Sam waved Kenji to the microphone for assistance. "Instead of answering questions," Kenji said, "I want to sketch out the format of the league, and some of the unusual rules necessitated by playing on the Moon."
Sam caught himself the instant before saying "What?" The massive media presence stilled his tongue, but not his nerves. After Kenji's stop-and-go comments on league structure, he started in on provisional rules.
Basepaths were now twice as long; ceilings reached one hundred meters; walls were three hundred meters distant. Walls, he said, not fences. Carom shots were now in play, catchable for outs. No hit, regardless how hard, was an automatic home run. Sam held his poise, imagining he looked like a politician's spouse during a particularly trying speech.
The inevitable flurry of questions followed, thankfully aimed at Kenji. One leather-lunged woman in front silenced the room with a sharp whistle, and interjected her question. "Your moonball rules sound fine, in theory." Other reporters began murmuring 'moonball' to themselves. "What if your theories don't work? Who's to guarantee that any kind of baseball can be played there?"
Kenji stepped back toward Sam, and whispered something not intended for the microphones. Sam listened, then began arguing. Cameras with the right angle easily read Kenji's lips when he said, "Yes, now. Right now." The argument ended, and Sam caused some commotion by leaving through the side door. Kenji ambled back to the microphone. "Could you repeat your question, ma'am?"
She did, louder than before. "That's what I thought you said," he replied, making some reporters cross. "The rules are admittedly theoretical. Any player will tell you, you can't judge how you'll play in an unfamiliar ballpark until you've actually played there. Nobody's ever swung a bat on the Moon ... so Sam and I are going to be the first."
The room erupted.
Sam made the reservation with seconds to spare, before reporters booked the Sunday launch solid. They spent the charter flight to Texas in various consultations, including Sam's apologetic calls to his family. Brief hopes that the journalists would miss the launch perished in a babble of questions, one which take-off mercifully truncated.
They unbuckled immediately after lunar trajectory burn, and pulled their way past the questioners into their tiny cabin. It consisted of two anchored sleeping bags, a flat touchscreen, a microscopic bathroom, and most important, a lock on the door. They used the last immediately, right before Kenji began using the second to last item.
There was a muffled whoosh, and a wan Kenji opened the door. "Thank God for science. My insides may be floating, but not my vomit."
"Feeling better?" Sam asked. Kenji nodded. "Sure?" Another nod. "Okay, then, grace period's over. Where'd these rules of yours come from?"
Kenji submitted to the inevitable. "From me. I wanted to give Governor Parker some idea of what we needed. I sent him a copy, provisional as I said."
"Why didn't you consult me?"
"Because you had family concerns, and all your investors' calls to make ..." He straightened his carriage, which had been sagging despite zero-gee. "... and you weren't so keen to hammer out the rules, anyway."
"Well, you sure hammered on them for both of us. When did the basepaths go to fifty-five meters?
"When we needed to relieve traffic congestion on fly balls. Changing passing rules would have been too weird. It also helps solve range problems for infielders. Regular basepaths would have let too many grounders through before they could start moving. This will even things out."
"You've got more evening out to do than that," Sam groaned. "These walls, and ricochets in play. Kenji, you just outlawed the home run."
"Sam, fly balls can't hang forever, or tagging up becomes gridlock. Ricochets cut down the time runners spend wondering whether balls get caught. As for home runs, fielders won't be able to judge caroms precisely, maybe not well at all. Hit a ball in the right place, between outfielders, and you can still leg one out. It'll be closer to early 20th century conditions than mid-21st, but it's still baseball."
"It's racquetball with bats!"
Kenji raised a finger to his lips. The cabin walls were thin, and reporters' perseverance axiomatic. "We have three days to ourselves. If you can write rules closer to Earth baseball that work, fine, but I want to see them. We're past theorizing now. We need concrete results, or we are going to be laughingstocks."
Sam nodded firmly. "Okay, you want results? I'll get you results." He opened a bag, and sorted through floating clothes for paper and pencil. "They will have computer pads if I need them, won't they?"
"Sure. Trouble is, we'll have to go through them," hooking a thumb at the door, "to get them."
Sam chewed his lip. "It can wait."
They walked through the docking port, the clamor of irate passengers ringing the walls behind them. Roosevelt Parker met them at the end of the short hall. "Let's get moving, gentlemen," he said, "so we can debark the other passengers. I don't want to sour my relations with them more than necessary."
"We understand," Kenji said, "and thanks."
"My pleasure." He looked solicitously at Sam. "Space sickness, Mister Paul?"
"Me, actually," said Kenji. "We're both fine now."
"Good. I suppose you've seen and read some of the reactions from Earth. 'Moonball' seems to be the popular appellation, and "Take me to your manager" is becoming quite the catchphrase." He snorted. "Nobody makes fun of my game. For that alone, I'd support you two to the hilt. Fortunately, it's also something Lunabase can use about now."
"How's that?" Sam said. "For the constant infusions of reporters?"
"Something like that, yes. A few years ago, there would never have been an empty seat on a tourist shuttle the day before launch. We've gone through our adventurous, exotic, and status-symbol phases, and interest is beginning to wane."
A door opened before them onto a private garage, and an enclosed four-seat electric vehicle. "Begging your pardon, Governor," Kenji said, "but you don't need tourism to stay afloat any more. You have industry."
"Yes, and business is fine, but the tourism slump is symptomatic of something else. We're a little too routine to draw as many pioneers to work here, but not attractive enough to lure people with big salaries alone. Figuratively and literally, we're too dry. If Lunabase were more like home, people would make it home. Now, do you see where you come in?"
Kenji halfheartedly restrained a smile. "Through the front door."
"Got that straight. You need me, I need you." They lurched slightly as the driver started them moving. "You've got a lot of people to see here. Construction managers, architects, importers, biotechs--"
"We've compiled lists," Kenji said. "We're going to start arranging meetings once we're settled in."
Parker chuckled. "Actually, I have your afternoon filled with appointments already. First are our 'foreign corespondents'. They requested prompt access, seeing how those other reporters had you to themselves for over three days."
"Don't remind me," Sam moaned.
"Don't worry. These two are housetrained. After that is Rudolf Bauer for cost projections: I've had him revising his spreadsheet since Monday. Then there's--"
Kenji had his hands up. "What about our hotel rooms? What about our equipment bag? If that gets ruined--"
"We're handling it. Everything will be in place, including a direct comlink to Earth for talking to potential investors, on my tab. It's a small compensation for rushing you so, but we have plenty of work. I have you booked pretty solidly through Friday."
"But I need--"
"I've included extensive workout time for both of you. You see," he said, facing them and winking, "I have thought of everything. And I've deliberately left your weekend free. By then, I should have a more pleasant surprise ready."
Kenji's mouth lifted. "Governor, we owe you."
Roosevelt Parker grinned. "When I throw out the first pitch on Opening Day, I'll consider the debt paid in full."
Kenji and Sam spent the next sixty hours working off the interest of their debt to Governor Parker, and starting to wonder how two men had ever thought to launch a baseball league by themselves.
Rudolf Bauer's cost projections closely matched Sam's ... but he couldn't understand why these two would want to import bulky, ephemeral wooden bats instead of using cheap, locally produced aluminum. Baseball types were just strange.
Construction supervisors knew their crews were masters at rapid excavation, and could guarantee three arenas the size Kenji wanted within six months. They balked when he and Sammy ordered three separate stadium configurations rather than one uniform design ... but the customer is always right.
Doctor Laura Simms, Lunabase's top exobotanist, could promise three sustainable grass fields. She also thought the project a colossal waste of her limited resources of soil bacteria, a drain on building self-sufficiency in food and air reprocessing. Governor Parker overruled her objections. She yielded, still firm in her conviction that overgrown boys were running the Moon.
When Sam and Kenji weren't bewildering the experts they needed to make the league work, they were exercising heavily to preserve their Earth-gravity tone. Kenji was especially diligent, which didn't forestall his therapists' hysterical demands that he return to Earth for proper treatment. His request for a treatment schedule to follow got no reply but more screaming, so he pieced together a regimen and went ahead without them.
Sam had his own Earthly undertakings. When he wasn't setting up a framework for telecast rights bidding, he had prospective investors to bring into the fold. Two entrepreneurs finally did bite, promising a combined sum not quite half of Keau's ante.
Still, success was success, ripe for trumpeting at the Friday press conference Parker insisted they hold. He knew nobody could sink them quicker than scorned journalists, and the partners had to admit they needed any help they got. Sam and Kenji faced a few dozen reporters, live and video-linked from Earth, including a few new arrivals ostensibly covering the Armstrong anniversary the next day. They met the media's persistent skepticism with patience and stiff smiles.
The conference ended just as two sports outlets on Earth reported that the owner of the Baltimore Orioles was suddenly seeking a buyer for his team. The ballplayers missed fresh interrogation over that--as well as the advance warning it might have provided.
By Saturday morning, everybody on the Moon knew what Governor Parker's surprise was. Regardless, Parker made a show of bringing his guests there personally. They tried to look pleasantly surprised for the cameras, though they were already in uniform minus the armor, and toting equipment sacks.
The cavern was nearly all gray, dusty rock, with only a few metal braces overhead to buttress the ceiling. Long fluorescent tubes clung to the walls inside makeshift cages to light the chamber. The ground was ashy and sterile, but a few features relieved the sameness. A long, low rise pushed above the surface, with reporters on and around it filming Sam and Kenji. Three lumps of white barely stood out from the colorless dirt. A flat plate completed the diamond, and from it ran two long lines, not chalk but charcoal, extending to the far walls.
"We begin building Lunabase's first open-air residences here in three weeks," declared Parker. "Until then, it's yours, gentlemen. The dimensions aren't perfect, but it's good enough for practice. We've done our share to make it playable. Look around; see if there's more you need."
Kenji dutifully jogged to the pitcher's mound, setting his equipment bag at its foot. Someone had fashioned a plastic pitcher's rubber and placed it at the right distance. Narrow holes extended ahead and behind, so they could experiment with distance.
Sam walked the black basepaths, seeing the same holes set for bases made of coarse cloth and stuffing. The improvisations were echoes of the earliest days of baseball, and Sam turned a lot of cameras his way by laughing.
"Is everything in order?" Parker asked with gusto.
"Better than you know," Sam shot back. He trotted through a knot of reporters to the mound, where Kenji was getting comfortable with a pitching stance. "Hey, Ken, think you can handle some BP?"
Kenji shook his head. "I need some warmup tossing first. Go behind the plate."
"I don't play catcher." After a long second of mutual staring, he decided to start. "All right." He walked off, found a glove in his bag, and squatted behind the plate. "Hm, not bad. Catchers will add five years to their careers playing in low gravity." He realized that statement might draw player interest, and hoped the journalists would bother reporting it.
Kenji dumped the balls out of his sack, but Parker approached him with something in hand. "I'd consider it a favor if you used this first." In his palm was a baseball inside a thin plastic shield, which Parker unsealed. Kenji caught the slow toss, and discovered slightly faded pen strokes opposite the official league mark. 'Henry Aaron', it read, and below it, '#738'.
"Something my grandfather caught back in '75. I plan to use it again next year, but I wanted you to have the first opportunity."
Kenji beamed. "An honor, sir." He gently gripped the ball, as Parker moved reporters back toward the walls, and did some calculations. With lower gravity and Denver-like atmospheric density, he needed to aim about five decimeters lower to get the ball in the right spot. He shook his head unwittingly. Instinct said he'd be pitching into the dirt, but this game would require new instincts. Without allowing himself another thought, he reared and threw. Cameras turned with its flight, as it struck Sam's glove for a knee-high strike.
Governor Parker led scattered applause as he retrieved his ball from Sam. "One small throw for a pitcher," Parker said. "I think you can guess the rest."
Reporters clustered around Parker to see the ball, incidentally getting a rundown of Armstrong Day activities they were welcome to cover. As the governor did his work, Kenji settled into his, finding his rhythm easily. Four pitches a minute, all straight and slow, all finding their marks.
Sam only dropped a few balls from positional inexperience and gravity misjudgment. One high throw brought him standing up, and he took a few paces forward before lobbing it back. "No stadium," he said, looking around. "No fans, no safety armor to wear, no coaches chewing us out. It's like playing in the nineteenth century."
Kenji thumbed his free hand toward one line of cameras. "Did they have people like that at nineteenth-century practice sessions?"
"Hey, some things never change. Whaddya think, Ken? Would I look good in a handlebar mustache?"
"No, but Melissa would love you in knickers."
Sam resumed his position with a smirk. "Let me know when I can start poking at these."
"Not too long."
Kenji made another good throw, and wriggled his shoulder to relieve a momentary kink. As the ball came back, a reporter on the first-base side shouted a question. "Kenji, how's your rotator cuff holding out? Having any problems?"
Kenji winked at Sam, then made a perfect pickoff move and hurled his best fastball. It hit the rock face between the questioner and his cameraman before either could duck. "No problems," he replied, as the ball bounded away. "Go get your bat, Sam. I think I'm ready for you."
Sam groaned as he swiveled his body at the waist, hands grasping his lower back. "Reporters or no reporters, next time we warm up before practice."
"Seconded and carried." Kenji was working out his own knots and cramps. "Who would have thought we could work up such aches in one-sixth gravity? Still, low gravity has its advantages. Right, Sam?"
"Guess so."
Kenji had expected more verve than that. Sam's shots had been spectacular, and very photogenic. "You're lucky I'm holding back, though. My doctors are probably screaming about that one hard toss I made." After a silence, he shed subtlety. "I said, you'd never be able to hit my good stuff."
Sam smirked crookedly. "No, probably not," he said, and loped toward the bathroom.
The phone interrupted Kenji's solemn reflection. He left the video off to spare the caller his undressed state. Hopefully the reporters hadn't learned their number. "Hello?"
"Governor Parker here. Turn on your TV, channel twelve, quick."
"Is there a problem, Governor."
"Yes. I'll hold the line while you watch."
"What's the commotion?" Sam came out, clad in a towel, and Kenji activated the TV. Twelve was Lunabase's access to a leading sports network. The image of Commissioner Burr appeared a second after they could hear his voice.
"... approved the sale of the Orioles to Mister Keau by a twenty-nine to three vote. The owners also voted today in their telecouncil to authorize the franchise move, twenty-five to seven. The team will begin operating from Honolulu starting with the twenty forty-eight season. The league welcomes Mister Keau to the ranks of its owners, and is confident his franchise will flourish in Hawaii."
Sam was too busy raging to hear the press questions. "Double-crosser! Offer us three billion, then get in bed with that toad Burr! I thought the Orioles had a decent owner. Teaches me."
"Hold on, hold on," Kenji said, not as soothingly as he had hoped. "Baltimore's had trouble for a while. Maybe this is a coincidence."
"Coincidence that the team goes right to Keau, that owners who didn't want Honolulu in the league before are giving him three-fourths majoriKenji frowned. "No, not really."
Burr was answering a question. "I assure you, this sale has no connection to the notion of an outer space baseball league. Naturally, to avoid conflict of interest, we have asked Mister Keau to withdraw his support from that venture, and he has, but my office has no need to sabotage a league that does not exist."
Sam stormed into the bathroom, trailing curses. "Technically, I'm a politician," Parker said to Kenji over the open line, "but I couldn't lie half as brazenly as that. He does have nerve."
"Nerve and owners who don't want any more competition. A powerful combination."
"What will you do now?"
Kenji stole a glance at Burr, still talking. "We have to shore up our newer investors, and those undecided. Fighting the NAL will scare people off, but we could also benefit from a public backlash after that performance." He pushed out a heavy breath. "It's bad, and could get worse, but I've learned how to pitch through bad innings. Let the press corps know we'll be practicing again, same time tomorrow. The game isn't over."
They arrived an hour early, and still weren't alone. Two camera crews followed their bending and stretching, and delivered questions about the previous night's bombshell. They were diverted only by the arrival of two unfamiliar faces.
"Mister Paul, Mister Kokabu?" the taller, darker one said. "Governor Parker sent us. We're--"
"We know," said Sam. "We got the message this morning." Parker had found two native athletes to practice with them, partly for convenience, partly for a local angle in news reports. They shook hands all around, then returned to limbering up.
Kenji soon made some warmup tosses to Sam. Once finished, they handed their gloves to the new arrivals, who jogged into the outfield.
Sam grabbed a bat, rubbing the ash end to end. "The day the league threw away aluminum bats," he announced, "is the day I really started playing baseball."
A couple reporters laughed, but one had to be a spoilsport. "With an aluminum bat," he shouted, "you could have four hundred homers by now, Sammy."
Sam shot a glare at a suddenly nervous reporter. "So could you," he sneered. The laughs came stronger this time. Sam turned his eyes to the mound, still hot with intensity. "Any time, kid."
Kenji didn't keep Sam waiting. He served them up, and Sam began smiting them even better than yesterday. Many hit the far wall on the fly, some caroming off the ceiling first. Even with two amateur outfielders, though, a good number got caught before touching ground.
Sam began simmering. Each time the reporters applauded a catch in the outfield, his choke-hold on the bat tightened. The pause for the locals to collect the baseballs didn't cool him off. "Keep 'em coming," he growled at Kenji, while staring daggers at the outfielders resuming their positions.
He took vicious cuts at everything, missing some pitches, fouling or weakly dribbling others. When he connected solidly, he followed the ball with exclusive intensity. This one towered--then hit the ceiling and plopped into a glove. The next was a thundering line drive--that ricocheted off the wall so hard that it touched ground at second base, easy pickings for an infielder.
Sam shook his head violently. Nothing got out of their reach. He unloaded at the next pitch, not watching it closely. It got inside on him, and struck his right hand.
The short, sharp yell rebounded off the walls. Kenji was off the mound like one of Sam's shots, but Sam was already moving before he got there. "I'll be okay," Sam rasped quietly. "Keep them off me."
The nearest reporters converged on them. Kenji elbowed and shouted at them to give Sam room. His exertions must have worked, for Sam was out of his sight within seconds.
Sam heard the knock on the interior door, and held still and quiet, hoping Kenji would go away. "I know you're in there," Kenji said through the door. "None of the doctors said you came to them. Come on, Sam, let me in."
He couldn't stand it for long. He undid the lock and stood back, and Kenji burst in. "Sam, are you all right? I'm sorry about that pitch. How's the hand?"
"Fine," Sam mumbled, displaying it for Kenji. "Knuckles sting, nothing else."
"That's a relief. I'm impressed you shook off all the reporters getting back here." He slapped Sam's shoulder gently. "Come on. We've got the afternoon left, and I bet we'll have the field all to ourselves."
None of Kenji's enthusiasm carried. "I think I'm done for the day," Sam said, sitting wearily on the bed.
"But you--" No, this wasn't the injury. "Sam, don't be sore at those two locals. It's not fair to them, or Parker."
"It isn't them," he said, balling one fist into his palm. "Not completely. Geez, kid, you know my story. A right-handed power hitter, and I play on the teams with the highest left-field walls in the hemisphere. How many round-trippers have I bounced off the Green Monster or Big Blue? Fifty? A hundred?"
"Three hundred fifty-three homers is a pretty good career number, Sam."
"No, it isn't. Four hundred is." He shook his head limply. "Trust me to shuttle my career between the two most snake-bitten teams in history--not counting the Cubs."
"Hey, the Cubs won a Series this century. My team can't say that."
"Federal Commission years don't count." Sam's head drooped. "Every change we've made--all right, that we've had to make--has taken me farther from the game I wanted to play. We've accomplished a lot, and I'd love watching the game we've made. But--"
That word hung in the air until the phone rang. "Leave it," Sam said. "They've called before; I haven't answered. Probably reporters, or maybe--" He stopped short.
Kenji was on Sam's page. "The governor." He bounded over, snapped on the screen, and froze. Sam appeared over his shoulder, and his stomach went cold.
"Good evening," said Robert Mize, general manager of the Boston Red Sox. "Let me do my talking first: signal lag is a nuisance. I'm glad to see your arm's in good shape, Mister Kokabu." Oddly enough, he looked sincere. "Mister Paul, you look unscarred by your small contretemps today, and from the video I've seen, your swing would still be pretty good even on Earth. I'll come to the point. I've called to offer you two contracts."
The line was silent for some seconds, until Mize decided they weren't going to say anything. "I can upload the contracts themselves to your hotel's mainframe, but I'll summarize. Sammy, surely you're following the standings. We're two games behind New Jersey, and we need some clubhouse leadership. You'll earn two hundred thousand for each game you're on our roster to the end of the season. I don't have to tell you, the sooner you sign and report, the better for both of us.
"Kenji, the Yankees would be watching our heels if we had you, and I won't let bad luck deprive us for next season. I'm offering two years, guaranteed, at fifty million annually. With your ... uncertain status, there isn't another team anywhere that would guarantee you that much. We will, out of loyalty."
Kenji showed his first reaction, a snort. "You mean you're buying me out of the lunar league."
"We do have to discuss that. Your joint adventure has caused you to neglect proper therapy, and training. These offers are valid only if you return on the next shuttle, which I've learned is midday tomorrow. We've made two reservations, anticipating favorable replies." His smile wrinkled a face already pinched as a miser's penny. "You can transmit the signed contracts any time. I'm looking forward to seeing you both play for us again. Good day."
The screen winked off. Kenji wanted to let his anger build, but there was none yet, just a hard numbness. "They went about this professionally," he said. "First Keau, now this." He stalked toward the bed, finally getting some wrath. "Neglecting my therapy. Bull! He knows me better." He leaned hard against the wall.
Sam went to console him. "Look at it this way. We're both milking them for millions. They wouldn't be throwing these contracts at us if we hadn't scared them. Something good came of this." He waited for a reply. "You are going to take their offer, aren't you?"
"Are you?" Kenji's eyes were heavy, but still bore a spark of defiance. "Sam, I don't want them to win, to stomp the league out of existence before it gets started. I have to fight, if only a little longer. Promise me something, Sam. Promise you won't do anything with Mize's contract until next morning."
"Sure, Ken," Sam answered softly, "but what can you change before then?"
Kenji pushed up a smile. "Whatever I can."
Kenji surrendered to sleep just past midnight. He hadn't left his room, eating there, exercising there, making calls to investors there. He got a new one committed, at a scant three hundred million. Better than nothing … but not enough.
He had told Governor Parker to tell the media Sam was resting his hand, and practice would resume tomorrow. He also told him all that happened with Mize. He didn't tell him the experiment was teetering near collapse. From Parker's words of grim encouragement, though, it was apparent he knew, and was fighting it. Kenji wished he were equally as determined.
Kenji's sleep was fitful. He dreamed himself back on the practice field. The crack of wood on horsehide echoed at intervals, even though Kenji was not pitching in his dream. He watched balls sail over his head, into the shadows covering the far walls. Another crack, and another--and then the ping of metal.
He woke with a spasm. That last sound had jolted him back to reality. Sam wouldn't use an aluminum bat, not even in a dream. Except, of course, he just had--unless Kenji wanted to pretend it was something else.
In a sudden vision, Kenji imagined that something else.
He groped for a light, and sat at the computer in his shorts. He plotted trajectories by himself, plugging in data he had from Jean Landrum on disk. He didn't want to call and wake her, if he could do this himself.
It looked right, but what mistakes might he have made? He realized it didn't matter. The conclusion was more important than the details. Briefly checking the time--almost five already?--he bolted toward the interior door, not even knocking.
Turning on the light showed Sam in bed, eyes open. "Sam," Kenji said breathlessly, "I just reinvented the home run."
"Huh? Ken, you don't have to do this ...."
"Already done. I can't believe I didn't think of it before." He was bouncing on his feet, making short, excited hops. "If a ball's hit well enough that it would be a home run on Earth, its trajectory has to be in a certain range. On the Moon, the wall intercepts that trajectory. There's a certain section of the walls where most Earth home runs would hit, so why not make those shots home runs?
"And it's so easy, too. A loose sheet of metal does the trick. A ball hits, makes a distinctive noise, and the umpire hears it and signals 'home run'. He'll have to watch for caroms, but that isn't so hard. And the best part is, it's adjustable. We can shift it to suit play balance. It won't look contrived: Earth stadiums do it with their fences all the time. We could even put advertising on it. Imagine that, Sam."
Sam sat up listlessly. "Sounds like a plan, Ken. Good work."
"Is that all you can say? I've got you back into the game, Sam. Now you don't have to--" Suddenly he recognized the embarrassment on Sam's face. "You did," he whispered. "Cancel it. Call the league office and say you want out. They'll annul the contract if we act fast."
Sam turned his head away. "I don't want out of the contract. I want to play. I want to play the game I've played and loved all my life. Whatever this version of ours is becoming ... it doesn't feel right. I can stick with this, and maybe not last long enough to get to play anyway--or I can go home, and know I'll be playing the real thing, for a little while longer." Sam shrugged. "Maybe Mize knew that before I did, but I know it now."
Kenji didn't want to believe his ears. "Sam, lunar baseball was your idea. You can't abandon it. It isn't like you. You don't run away."
"Oh, what do you think this trip was?" Sam shot back. "I couldn't face being released, so I made up my own fantasy where I got to keep playing. Well, real life's given me another chance, and I'm taking it. Don't be dumb yourself. You don't have to take Mize's offer--it's half of what you're worth--but don't throw away your career on my account. You don't owe me, Ken."
Sam pushed past Kenji's arm, and shut the bathroom door behind him. Kenji marched to the door, raised a fist, then slowly pulled it back. Sam wasn't in a mood for his arguments, and wouldn't be until it was too late. He walked back to the bed, sat down, and started thinking about himself.
Had he been pitching, he wouldn't have given one thought to interrupting his career. His receptivity had come of idleness, and fear about his surgery. Time to think of what he was throwing away if he persisted with this notion.
And what he'd be throwing away if he didn't.
Reporters were slow in digging out the story--meaning hours rather than minutes--but they knew where it would be ending. The scheduled flight was leaving at noon, and most of the corps had the terminal staked out an hour in advance. Regular tourists weaved past the cameras and writers unimpeded. Once Kenji and Sam arrived, the net tightened immediately.
They said a few last words before the crush arrived, then shook hands. Sam pressed through the milling crowd without a word, and some of the reporters followed him. Kenji stayed behind, waving once before Sam disappeared into his cloud of questioners. The few astute people who had noticed Kenji's lack of luggage were half a step ahead of their colleagues.
Kenji held up a ticket, long enough so cameras could get a good look. "Anybody who wants my seat can have it." The gabble of questions reached a painful crescendo, and he waved them into a state of milder commotion. "I do have a statement, so if you're interested, pay some attention." Quiet came in seconds.
"You know the Red Sox made contract offers to us last night, hoping to squash the lunar league once and for all." Making the accusation public was the fail-safe point; now he was committed. "You can see Sam accepted. We've talked about it, on and off, all morning. He has lots of reasons: getting back home to his family is one, and the others ... he can discuss with you if he wants. I wish him the best of luck." He grinned. "Someone's got to stop the Yankees, and it can't be me."
A few laughs fell hard into the hush. "Lunar baseball was Sam's idea, and maybe the front offices and the Commissioner think getting him back kills the idea. That isn't how imagination works. Ideas are infectious, enthusiasm is contagious, and I've caught both.
"The owners in the North American Leagues, and all the other leagues too, had better learn this now: I will not quit. I don't need whatever money they can offer me to play their game; I've got one of my own to build. I've spoken to Governor Parker, and he's as eager as ever. The investors who came on board recently are still willing to support the league, and if Mister Keau wants to renew his commitment, he's welcome. That is, if the NAL will give him that long a leash, and I don't think they will."
Kenji looked around. Microphones and cameras were teetering high over people's heads, vying for the best positions. More than ever, he was a sapling amidst a forest of media, but he was the center of this forest.
"Commissioner Burr's press conference on Saturday was a declaration of war, whether he'll admit or deny that. So I have my own declaration. The Lunar League will not respect the contracts of players in the North American Leagues or their farm clubs, and will sign their players regardless of such status. Mind you, this does not apply to the other established leagues of the Earth--unless they cross us too. Yes," he said, answering the disbelief he saw, "I know I'm talking big, because that's how I'm thinking.
"Baseball will work here--and it will be baseball, not some unrecognizable mutant game. Longer basepaths and carom shots are no different from any other innovation. Retractable roofs and metric measurements came and stayed; designated hitters and aluminum bats came and went. Baseball evolves, but it stays baseball. If it didn't, I'd be pitching underhand and fielding without a glove, so believe me, new ideas aren't all bad."
Kenji took two long breaths, and nobody asked a question the whole time. "I've rattled on enough," he said. "I've seen Sam off, and now I have investors to contact Earthside." He made to leave, but turned back before they could follow in their usual crush. "I'm going to be at the field sometime around two. Would any of you consider standing in for Sam, hitting a few?"
The reporters started waving their hands, and not all to get in questions. Kenji answered the more harmless queries, carrying the crowd with him as he left the terminal. Maybe he could get to like the attention.
|