Page 5 - Way Out to the Old Ballgame

World Series

Korok pushed back the brim of his meter-wide cap and chimed in
discordantly. “It would be very, very bad for us to fight with our
weapons, on our own ground, using our own tactics. You
understand, don’t you, Commissioner? This strategy is not unknown
on your own planet, incompetently executed though it may be. For
ages we have scoured the galaxies for competitive engagement
systems suitable for our purposes. They are few and far between,
satisfying extensive mutually acceptable physical and moral criteria. It
looked like baseball would work. Now, we are not so certain.”
Bosconi was flattered; his artificially-stimulated hypothalamus
issued waves of well-being and narcissistic joy. Yes, the grand and
glorious game was just that, its venerable American tradition truly
universal in defining sportsmanlike conduct, fair play, and manly
achievement. True, these were not men, but they had taken the
trouble to learn the rules, build a ballpark, and field two teams
representing the best their worlds could offer in speed, strength, and
guile. And he was being consulted on a point of order; his word
would be law for these aliens, who had no other resort or recourse.
“Well, gentlemen,” he uttered in the gravest manner possible for a
natural soprano, “please state your grievances. I am ready to make a
ruling.”
Both managers sought precedence, bending and stretching in their
evidently ill-tailored uniforms. The commissioner could not listen,
much less retain his equilibrium, under the onslaught.
He said: “Please! I will hear the manager of the visiting team first.”
Lussessi cocked a head. Instantly the field became a blur, and then
snapped back into focus filled with players, umpires, ball boys, and
bits of paper blowing across the pitcher’s mound. “It was back here
in the fourth inning,” he intoned ominously, “when these cheating
Arthrodonts stole a run from me.”
Bosconi stared at the scene before him. Events weren’t happening
in slow-motion, but somehow he could be aware of all the players at
once. The scoreboard in left field showed zero to zero, with one out
and a man on first. The Arthrodont pitcher, working from the
stretch, looked the Writher base runner back to the bag and delivered
a slider, high and outside, from between two teeth. The Writher at
the plate, after faking a bunt to lure the corner men off their bags,
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