Deathball

The flight from Shanghai to Tucson usually takes three hours, but our space shuttle goes into a holding pattern over the Pacific. I watch the curve of the earth and the blueness of the water and think to myself that this is an incredible view.

I don't mind our time on hold. The seats are comfortable, the beer is cold and the enchiladas are packed with red-hot chili peppers. Better yet, we have just beaten the Shanghai Sharks and are on our way to the 2045 World Series in Berlin. Life is good, so why mope? Everybody on the team is happy. Everybody except Lefty Williams, that is. Lefty—the best pitcher on our staff—has a problem.

My name is Raymond LeRoy Russell. I'm the catcher for the Tucson Tigers. My teammates call me Woofer, and it fits. I talk a lot of trash on the field. I like to mind-fuck opposing batters, for example, and tell them how slow their bats are and how soon they'll be back on the bench. When Lefty is pitching, I'll sometimes even tell them when a fastball is coming. Lefty can play chin music at 120 miles per hour. Nobody can hit that speed, not even Pepper Rico in Cairo or Junior Sabata in Canberra.

Lefty Williams can throw a live 120-mph fastball with good location for nine innings on only three days' rest. If Lefty doesn't win the Rookie of the Year award this season, I'll eat my mitt and shin guards and chest protector. Without the chili peppers.

I signed with the Tucson Tigers on April 15, 2027, my 18th birthday. You probably think of April 15 as income tax day, but I think of it as Income Day, day one of my pro career. That was 18 years ago, and so far, things have gone well. I have a career batting average of .356 and I've won two team MVP awards. Not bad for a trucker's son from Salt Flat, Texas.

Lefty is sleeping in the seat next to me, but then I hear a moan. "Shake it off, Lefty," I say.

"Ok," Lefty says.

"Loosen up, goddamn it," I say. "We won. We're going to Berlin next week. Have some fun."

"But I threw it," Lefty says.

"Forget it," I say. "It's the bottom of the ninth, two on, two out. We get Chen to 3–2. He fouls six straight pitches into the stands. The Robo Ump hands me a baseball. Just like he's done ten other times that night. I don't run over to the dugout and cut the ball in half. I don't ask for it to be x-rayed. Hell, no. I play by the rules. I throw the ball to you, I call for a curve, you deliver, it's a good pitch. Chen hits it and pow, it turns out to be a deathball, not a baseball. Plastic explosive, shaped charge, mean little fucker, guaranteed to kill whoever hits it. So it's goodnight, Chenny baby."

"Deathballs are terrible things," Lefty says.

"They are part of the deal," I say. "Just like the (continued on page 122) Deathball (continued from page 118) Robo Umps. Shit, Lefty, get real. Chen hits the ball, it explodes, he goes bye-bye, the game ends by default. What happened to Chen could happen to any of us. There are deathballs every season."

"Well, I don't like them," Lefty says.

"You're not paid to like them," I say.

The space shuttle shifts in attitude. The cabin begins to glow like the inside of a pumpkin. We are flying backward, reentering the atmosphere at warp speed, and there is a huge fireball outside the portholes. No matter how many times you come back from space, this is an awesome moment, and everybody in the shuttle quiets down.

Everybody except the Robo Umps, that is.

They sound like crickets on speed with their tweeting and chirping and beeping, and they fall all over one another when they try to get out of their seats and move around. They are cheap-ass technology from the turn of the century, so you would think the league could simply box them up and ship them from country to country like other computers. But not the league.

The Robo Umps are the pride of the league. They are highly promotable and marketable. The claim is that they eliminate human error, never make bad calls, need no sleep and never go on strike. That's what their PR packet says. So the Robo Umps fly first class and flash their little lights at one another and have contests computing the estimated time of arrival to the nanosecond. They are the league's precious darlings.

Ballplayers are not exactly fond of Robo Umps. They cost us valuable things, like games and money and lives. We hate them with a fucking passion. So I try not to think about them. They give me a headache, and one day I'm going to short-circuit every one of their antiquated microbrains.

I smell hot carbon and burning tiles as we hit the atmosphere. I hear creaking sounds in the bulkhead and wonder if the space shuttle will hold together. To chill out, I put my head back, close my eyes and try to think of pleasant things—like the first time I saw Lefty Williams. That was an experience I never thought I'd have in baseball.

It was the first day of training camp this year in Nogales, January 4. I am at the ballpark early, as is my habit, and I'm strapping on the tools of ignorance in the locker room. I'm smoking a cigar, just happy to be back in the saddle, when Chico Rodriguez sits down next to me and scratches his bald spot and asks how I'm doing. Asks me in a sincere voice like he really cares, I mean.

Chico and I get along. He is a decent manager who respects the way I work with our pitchers, and he knows baseball. But Chico has never been buddy-buddy with any of his players. So when I tell him I'm fine and he asks about my ranch and my horse and my knees and my cactus collection, I stare at him and wait, because I know he wants something. Finally, he says he wants me to check out somebody before the rest of the team gets to the ballpark. A walk-on pitcher, Chico tells me. Somebody named Lefty Williams, whom he saw pitch over the winter.

It is eight o'clock in the morning. Water sprinklers are still spitting in the outfield as I pick up my mitt and mask and walk over to home plate without even looking at the person standing on the mound. How many guys have I caught for Chico in secret tryouts over the past 18 years? Chico is always bringing in amateurs, and the routine never changes. I catch them, I nix them and Chico never argues with me. But it doesn't stop him from bringing in more prospects. Chico is an optimist.

I squat down and pound my fist in my mitt. I look toward the pitcher's mound and cannot believe what I'm seeing. There, red hair tied with a red ribbon in a long ponytail, long waist and long body with long legs waiting to go into action, stands Lefty Williams. And Lefty Williams is a girl.

I stand up and look over at Chico. He looks back at me. "What the fuck?" I ask.

"Let her throw," he says.

I am not against women in baseball. There are some good ones. Nina Pet-rovna is an error-free shortstop for the Moscow Cardinals. Ruth Klein covers second base with perfection for the Istanbul Sultans. And Patsy Kaimana pinch-hits like a dream for the Honolulu Surfers. But a pitcher? There has never been a woman who has made it as a quality major league pitcher. It is an unwritten rule in baseball: Girls can't throw.

I hunker down, call for a fastball and meet my next problem, one that I have to this day. Which is that Suzanne "Lefty" Williams is gorgeous.

It's not easy to concentrate on a fastball heading toward you at 120 miles an hour when you would rather be looking at your pitcher's face and hair and neck and breasts and general beauty and grace. Try it sometime. It's not easy at all.

There I am, expecting a slow freight instead of an express train, waiting for a semifastball from one of Chico's pipe dreams, trying to sneak a peek at Lefty Williams, and this goddamn aspirin tablet comes whizzing down the pike faster than anything I've ever seen thrown by a man or a woman. It's more like a laser beam than a baseball, and it blows by my catcher's mitt, hits me right in the chest protector and knocks me over.

"You OK, Woofer?" Chico asks with a chuckle. He's got his radar gun out. "That was 118 miles an hour, good buddy. She can do a little better than that. She may be too much for you, Hoss."

"Fuck you, Supermex," I say, but I am laughing, too, as I pick myself up. "You think you can do that again?" I yell to Lefty.

She nods and does it again.

This time I'm ready for her and I catch it. Then I call for a curve. Then a slider. Then a split-finger fastball. Then a change-up. Then a knuckler, which turns out to be the only mediocre pitch she throws that morning. I check her velocity by calling for a lot of heat, many pitches, no rest between them. But her last pitch is faster than her first one, and I know I'm working with a special talent.

"Have you signed her?" I ask Chico after 30 minutes.

"I have," he nods.

"Is she legal?"

"She's 25."

We walk out to the mound and Chico introduces us. I see Lefty close-up. Red hair, green eyes and skin that smells like a combination of coconut oil and strawberry shampoo and oatmeal soap. I want to stare at her, but I can't. She is so beautiful it hurts.

"You throw good," I say to her.

"Thanks," Lefty says with a smile.

"Where have you been hiding yourself?" I ask.

"She's a jock," Chico says. "Gymnastics. Ballet. Karate. Bodybuilding."

"Where did you find her?" I ask.

"I saw her pitch in a softball tournament in Las Vegas last year. She was throwing underhand, but I knew she had it."

"How long have you been throwing?" I ask.

"Overhand? About ten years," she says. "But just with my brother."

"Can he throw like you?" I ask.

"No," she says, laughing. "He's not a ballplayer."

"This game is not a nice life," I say. "There's a lot of bad food and tough road time. The league owns you. The Robo Umps are bound to mess with you. And rookies get razzed."

"I can handle it," Lefty says.

"She can handle it," Chico says.

"Welcome to the club," I say.

I shake her hand. It is cool to the touch, even after our workout. I can smell her, my redheaded strawberry-and-coconut girl. And I find myself wondering, In the history of baseball, how many catchers have fallen in love with one of their pitchers at first sight? And then I think, I don't even want to know.

The season is not easy for Lefty. There are no other women playing for the Tucson Tigers, so Lefty showers alone, rooms alone, has a locker alone. I teach her about pitching in the major leagues, and she soaks it up. Something about Lefty's training, something about her flexibility and strength and birthright, has made her an incredible throwing machine. And she consistently delivers whatever pitch I ask for. There is no arguing, no sulking on the mound, no shaking off the sign.

The guys tease her. Tony Mattola puts itching powder in her bra. Robert Cesno gives her a hotfoot in the dugout. Ernie Williams, no relation, fills the fingers of her glove with shaving foam. She sits on chewed-up bubble gum, drinks from a water bottle filled with vodka, picks up a bat covered with invisible dye that turns her hands blue. Her room-service orders disappear, her rental cars break down and more than one Tucson Tiger tries to hide in her room.

"They're testing me, huh? I'll be one of the boys someday, right, old man?" Lefty asks me.

"Right," I say. Then I think: No way, strawberry girl. You're too beautiful to ever be one of the boys.

The game itself is not easy for Lefty, either. The Robo Umps give her no calls. With her they are more tight-assed than usual, those sanctimonious cyberfucks. Opposing hitters let their bats fly toward the mound more often than usual. Some players try to bunt down the first-base line just so they can run into her. And Chico plays no favorites with her. He yanks her quickly if he thinks she is off her game.

But I know Lefty has the makings of a champion. I love her more as the season moves on, but I know that she doesn't realize how I feel about her, and I live with that. To her, I'm nothing but a broken-knuckled, bowlegged fire hydrant of a man who looks older than his 36 years. I know I look old to her. For example, she doesn't call me Woofer. She calls me old man. "How are you doing, old man?" she'll ask. "What do we want to throw this bozo, old man?" she'll say when I come out to the mound. And it hurts.

With Lefty's help, we have a 157–43 regular season. As I said, we beat the Shanghai Sharks in the playoffs. And on October 25, the Tucson Tigers land in Berlin for the first two games of the 2045 World Series. We stay at the Super K Hotel near Kurfürstendamm. Our rooms are near the Brandenburg Gate, an ancient monument with a flag on top of it.

After our last practice on the night before game one, Lefty and I order some beer and bratwurst in her room. I tell her that we have a tough series ahead of us, that the Berlin Bombers are a hell of a good ball club. I even try to go over the Bombers' batting order with her one more time. But Lefty is preoccupied.

"Get with it, girl," I say.

"I'm with it," she says.

"The hell you are," I growl. "What's wrong?"

We talk about stuff for a while. Lefty settles down with her romance novels and lotions. I belch beer and bratwurst, then I leave and go to bed. I sleep well and dream that we win the World Series, but when I wake up, I have this feeling that I have been a fool to leave Lefty in her room by herself these last nights in Berlin. Something bad is going on, something I feel but cannot see.

I walk down the hall and knock on her door. She lets me in. We go over the Bombers' lineup and talk about how we'll pitch them, but Lefty doesn't have her heart in it. She writes in her diary and stares out the window and seems not to listen to me. Even on the team bus she is more quiet than usual.

We hit the bullpen and Lefty warms up. "You've got no hop on your fastball, you're hanging your curve and your location is for shit," I yell to her. "Better get with it or I'll kick your ass."

"Ok, old man," she says. She drags around, throwing half-speed, yawning and stalling. Suddenly, she freezes as the Robo Umps walk by with their metallic faces and stiff-jointed legs. They sound like janitors with too many keys on their belts. They walk like they have bratwurst up their butts.

The anthems are played after we're introduced. The music bounces off the roof. The sponsors make their speeches, the politicians talk about unity and peace, the crowd cheers, the flags do not move in the temperature-controlled air.

"This is it, babe," I say to Lefty as we stand together on the mound in the center of the Berlin Superdome. "This is what we've worked for."

"Ok, old man," Lefty nods. "Nice knowing you."

I am headed toward home plate, but with that crack I come back to the mound. "Nice knowing you? What the fuck does that mean?" I ask.

Lefty nods toward the Robo Umps, who are meeting near the screen behind home plate. "They paid me a visit last night," she says. "And the night before. All six of them. They say I'm a goner."

"Bullshit," I say.

"Check out the Payback Rule," Lefty says.

"Never heard of it," I say.

"The league came up with it last week. They won't hand out a press release on it until the Series is over."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I ask.

"It's a new rule. If you throw a deathball and kill somebody, you die in the next game you play. It's automatic. No warning, no appeal. And you can't quit before it happens."

"Bullshit," I say.

Lefty shrugs. "It's over for me, Ray."

She has never called me Ray before. Her eyes are soft and she looks at me for a second like I'm a real man, like maybe she has feelings for me. I stand there like an asshole, not knowing what to do. Then it hits me that I'd better think of something.

"I'll take care of this," I tell her.

I trot back to home plate and start to chew out the Robo Ump while Lefty throws her last warm-ups. I do not turn my head. That's one of the rules: Never embarrass a Robo Ump while you are behind the plate. But I let that fartless wonder have it from my catcher's squat.

"Did you boys pay a visit to my pitcher, Mr. Ump Chump?" I ask him. He does not answer, so I ask again, loud and clear.

"Our activities should be of no concern to you," the Robo Ump says in that shitty voice they all have, the sound of gerbils on helium. "Catch the spheroid properly with both hands, please."

"Fuck you, metal butt. Did you Robopukes put your money on Berlin and then come by to scare my pitcher?" I ask.

"We do not wager on games or fraternize with players. We are professionally neutral," he says.

"So why have you guys been trying to shake up Lefty the past couple of nights?" I ask. "What's this bullshit about a new rule?"

"The clock has started. Play ball," the Robo Ump says loudly.

The crowd cheers. Manfred Schultz (continued on page 166) Deathball (continued from page 124) of the Bombers steps into the batter's box. Lefty looks like a ghost on the mound. There is something buzzing in my brain, and I do not want to start the game, so I stall. I stand up, tug on my jock, pretend to signal the outfield, scuff the dirt behind the plate, check the dugout, check my catcher's mask, spit as close to the Robo Ump as I can.

"Play ball!" the Robo Ump calls like a castrated monkey.

I stand there. I know I have to do something. But what?

Finally, I figure it out. I grab Schultz' bat before he can stop me, then I turn around and slug the Robo Ump in the chops. Damn, it feels good. No warning, no apologies. I use his shiny Robo Ump head for a fungo drill. Several strokes of the bat. Much happiness. Big hits.

Sparks fly and pieces of hardware bounce around. There is crushed aluminum and cracked plastic. There is the smell of smoke. The motherboard shatters. The hard disk rolls in the dirt. The speakers rumble, then go silent. The headless Robo Ump staggers around like a drunken chicken. Then he falls across home plate. Scratch one Robo Ump.

The other Robo Umps are on me like shit in a shitstorm. The crowd is stunned. My teammates run toward me. A microphone is in my face. "OK, motherfuckers," I say. I pull the rule book out of my hip pocket. In case you're wondering, I am the kind of catcher who always has the rule book in his pocket. "Show me the Payback Rule, goddamn it!" I yell. By this time the networks are feeding my voice, bad language and all, over the loudspeakers.

The Robo Umps stand there without saying anything. The crowd is confused. "You guys threatened my favorite pitcher with the Payback Rule," I shout. "You said she's going to die today. Show me the Payback Rule. You can't? You want to know why? Because it's not in here," I say.

I hold up the book. "You think I don't keep track of the rules? I'm the catcher. It's my job. Listen to this one, you assholes: Rule 734.7: No rule can be changed unless the players have been notified in writing from the league office.' "

I wave the rule book at the Robo Umps. "Rule 734.7 is in every ballplayer's contract. We have to be informed in writing about any rule changes. That hasn't happened here."

Have you ever seen five Robo Umps walking around in circles like they had to take a collective shit but couldn't find a Dumpster? Knees locked, elbows tense, and that weird habit they have of leaning slightly into the wind even though there is no wind. Those metal-and-plastic Robo Ump faces looking so sincere while their innards beep and churn and compute at hyperspeed because they don't know what to do. Robo Umps in gridlock—goddamn, I love it.

"Play ball! Play ball!" the Robo Umps squawk as they flop around like spastic puppets. They are beginning to lose it.

"We'll play ball," I say, pulling the microphone closer. "But nobody dies in this World Series, get it? If you transistor-heads kill anybody out here, we'll fry your chips. You guys are dirtbags. Your bets were on the Bombers, you lithium lightweight cocksuckers. Just like your bets were on us when we played Shanghai. Which is why Chen took the pipe with that fucking deathball you handed me. You wanted us to win. You fixed it. You fuckers really cleaned up on that one, didn't you?"

"Bay plall. Bay plall!" one of the Robo Umps chatters. He spins like a top and dust rises from his shoes.

"Lay paul. Lay paul," another Robo Ump shrieks. "Stay tall. Stay tall." He collapses in the batter's box and sparks fly out of his ears.

"You silicon shitbirds tried to spook my pitcher," I say. "You put your money on Berlin and then paid Lefty a couple of visits and fed her a line of bullshit. She's a rookie, so she bought it. She doesn't know the rules. But I do. Don't fuck with me."

Lefty stares at me. "You mean the Robo Umps did that?" she asks as she walks toward me.

"Girl, it's the oldest con in sports," I say. "They bet the farm on Berlin and then tried to scare you."

"You bastards!" Lefty says to them.

"Play ball! Play ball!" the remaining Robo Umps chirp like bluebirds.

I hand the broken bat back to Schultz. "OK," I say to the Robo Umps. "We'll play ball. But either the league updates you Robo fucks or we'll use your shiny little peanut heads for batting practice next year." The players cheer. So does the crowd. "There are rules in baseball!" I yell into the mike. "That's what makes the game great!"

"Play ball!" the Robo Umps plead.

"Play ball!" the fans roar.

Lefty hugs me. We play ball. Nobody dies. The Tucson Tigers become the 2045 World Champions in seven games. With a little help from the bullpen, Lefty wins games one, four and seven. She also wins the Series MVP award.

We take the space shuttle back to Tucson, where we're honored with a victory parade. Somewhere in the middle of it, while I'm smelling strawberries and coconut oil as I sit on the backseat of a convertible and wave to the crowd, Lefty leans over and kisses me on the cheek. I turn red.

"Thanks, Ray," Lefty says. "You made my year. I really couldn't have done it without you."

People hoot like crazy, of course, but I'm too embarrassed to say anything. I wipe off Lefty's lip gloss.

"Why do you act like that, Ray?" Lefty asks me as we pull into the Tucson stadium in front of 170,000 cheering fans. "Why are you so scared of me?"

"I'm not scared of you," I lie.

"You never look me in the eye, Ray. When you come out to the mound during a game, you'll look at Chico, you'll look at the people in the stands, you'll stare at the dirt, but you won't look at me. Why do you look at everyone but me?"

I blush again. "Maybe it's because of what my daddy taught me about women," I say.

"And what was that?" Lefty asks.

I look her right in the eye for a second. " 'You can stare at the moon, but don't stare at the sun.' That's what he said. And that's why it's hard for me to look at you. For most guys, beauty is truly hard to look at. It hurts us. That's just a fact."

Lefty kisses me on the cheek again. "Thanks, old man. That is such a sweet thing to say." She smiles.

I can't talk for a minute. "Sweet? It's not sweet at all," I finally say. "It's just the bitter truth, girl."

It's more like a laser beam than a baseball, and it blows by my catcher's mitt and knocks me over.