America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 4: Demilitarized Zone (15 page)

“Luck won’t have anything to do with it,”
said Guido. “Baseball is embedded in our genetic code. You spiders
just learned the game yesterday.”

“You spiders?” said the spider guard. “What
do you mean by ‘you spiders’? I hope you human pestilence bet the
farm. I need all the extra cash I can get for my investment
portfolio.”

“Whatever,” said Guido.
This is going to
be easy money,
he thought.
Whoever heard of aliens playing
baseball?

* * * * *

“Is there any way we can fix the game?” I
asked. “I like to bet on a sure thing.”

“Not unless you want to throw the game,” said
Guido. “It’s hard to do business with the spider commander.”

“Losing a baseball game to the spiders is not
an option,” I said. “Not on my watch.”

“We need to play this smart,” said Captain
Lopez. “What kind of odds are the New Memphis bookies giving?”

“Surprisingly, the spiders are favored,” said
Guido.

“Someone knows something we don’t?” I asked.
“Have we been set up?”

“I’ve heard rumors the spiders are flying in
a bunch of ringers from the professional leagues on Arthropoda,”
said Guido. “We need to get a stipulation that all players be
military and local.”

“Even bringing in players from the North is a
violation of the spirit of our agreement,” protested Captain Lopez.
“Just give me the word, and I’ll have that shuttle shot down while
it’s still in orbit.”

“Can we bring in our own ringers?” I
asked.

“On such short notice?” asked Guido. “We can
try.”

“Do it,” I said. “How come the spiders have
time to bring in pro players and we don’t?”

“I think they have been planning this game
for quite some time,” said Guido. “Now that I think about it, we
are being played.”

“What else can we do?” I asked. “I am not
shooting down any shuttles.”

“Cheat,” said Captain Lopez. “Cheating is a
baseball tradition. We’re human. It’s our game. We should be able
to out cheat the spiders. We have centuries of baseball cheating
experience on them.”

“Can we pay off the umpires?” I asked.

“No,” said Guido. “The New Memphis Sheriff’s
Office is providing the umpires. They can’t be bought. We’ve tried
that before. Remember?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “Try.”

“We have enough baseball talent and expertise
right here in First Division to beat them,” said Captain Lopez.
“I’ll put together an all-star roster from the recreation leagues.
My Military Intelligence people will work with the players to see
what technology we can use to help give us more of an advantage.
And guess what? We already have one of the best pitchers in the
Legion.”

“Oh?” I asked. “Who?”

“Me,” bragged Captain Lopez. “My knuckleball
and spitball can’t be hit.”

“We have one week to make this happen,” I
said. “I’m betting a lot of money on this game. If I lose my money,
someone will be joining Sergeant Williams, counting weather
balloons and penguins at the South Pole. I don’t forget, and I
don’t forgive.”

* * * * *

Weather for the game was perfect. The sky was
blue, and the temperature was moderate by local standards – 90
degrees. Captain Lopez recruited a fine team and organized an
extensive support staff. I looked out to the center field stands. A
legionnaire scout team had a spotting scope set up, pointed at home
base. They radioed they should have no problem stealing signs from
the catcher. Video cameras covered the base coach positions, and
listening devices were installed in the spiders’ dugout. Our
pitchers would be throwing ‘heavy’ baseballs. The baseballs had
been humidified, then frozen earlier that morning. We were storing
them in dry ice chests in the dugout. We all had corked bats. Other
bats had been coated with a layer of lacquer, making them as hard
as metal. Sergeant Green and I labored to carry a cooler of
‘special’ Gatorade to the spider dugout.

“Do you think we really need to cheat to beat
a bunch of spiders?” asked Sergeant Green. “It just doesn’t seem
right.”

“It’s only cheating if we get caught,” I
replied. “We won’t get caught. Getting caught would be
unprofessional. Call it gamesmanship. It’s a baseball tradition.
It’s an American tradition. So is winning – a tradition I aim to
maintain.”

“What’s in the Gatorade?” asked Sergeant
Green.

“Something nasty Captain Lopez cooked up,” I
said. “I’m not sure what’s in it. Just don’t spill any on yourself.
It might have some nerve agent mixed in.”

The spider commander met us halfway to the
spiders’ dugout. He was managing for the spiders. He ordered the
Gatorade poured out on the ground. I walked around the puddle,
watching the grass wilt.

“I know better than to let my team drink your
poison,” said the spider commander. “And we found your listening
devices in the dugout, too!”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I
said. “I heard the New Memphis mob is still upset about you bombing
their brewery. It was probably them.”

“That is ancient history,” said the spider
commander, looking up in the stands for Mafioso types. He didn’t
see any Italians except Guido.

“I called Rudy Juardo and reminded him of
your handiwork,” I said.

“I am warning you,” said the spider
commander. “I have taken special security precautions. Legion
provocations will be dealt with harshly.”

“I should have had your team shot down like
Captain Lopez wanted,” I said. “I didn’t do it because we can beat
the best ringers you can field.”

“Play ball!” shouted the umpire.

We had home field advantage. Captain Lopez
took the mound. Lopez threw mostly knuckleballs, with a few
fastballs to keep the hitters honest. The first spider hitter
seemed agitated and highly animated. He continuously waved his bat,
and was in and out of the batter’s box, calling timeout and
adjusting his equipment. He choked way up on the bat and hit a
couple foul balls. Finally I called timeout and approached home
plate. The spider commander immediately charged to home plate
too.

“This spider is amped up,” I complained.
“He’s higher than a kite. Check the dilation of his pupils!”

“You can’t prove that! Team Leader #39 did
not take drugs,” the spider commander objected.

The umpire looked at Team Leader #39’s eyes.
There were eight eyes, and they did not all point in the same
direction. “Good grief,” he mumbled, then turned to us and ordered,
“Managers, get back to your dugouts. Play ball!”

Captain Lopez then ‘plunked’ Team Leader #39,
putting him on first. The spider easily stole second base, and then
third. He was brought home on a weak single. That spider stole
second base, too. I called timeout and went out to talk to Captain
Lopez. “This is not a good start,” I said. “I have several million
bet on this game. I thought you said you could pitch.”

“I can’t believe how fast those spiders are,”
complained Captain Lopez. “They must run sixty miles per hour.”

“I’m taking care of that,” I said. As I
spoke, the automatic sprinkler system came on, delaying the game
about a half an hour. Tarps could not be found because it never
rains in New Gobi. No one could figure out how to turn off the
sprinklers. In the meantime, the base pads turned to wet clay. The
soft pads slowed the spider runners considerably. When the game
resumed, the spider on second was thrown out while trying to steal
third. Lopez finished the inning, down only 1-0.

The spider pitcher had some wicked action on
the ball. The first two batters struck out. I called timeout again,
and ran out on the field. “Examine that ball!” I told the umpire.
“He’s doctoring the ball.”

The catcher immediately threw the ball back
to the pitcher. I ran after the pitcher demanding to see the ball.
The pitcher shoved me back, causing both benches to clear. When
order was restored, the umpire took possession of the ball. Several
stitches were cut, and the ball was scuffed up a bit.

“It’s just my claw,” explained the spider
pitcher. “Sometimes the ball accidently gets nicked.”

“Don’t let it happen again,” warned the
umpire, tossing the ball aside. “Play ball!”

The spider pitcher ‘plunked’ our batter, too.
The next batter hit a home run – he knew what pitch was coming
because the spotter in center field radioed in the sign. Minutes
later, a fight erupted in center field between legionnaires and
spider marines. The spotting scope was broken and thrown out onto
the field. The fight continued until Legion security clubbed and
pepper-sprayed as many spiders as they could catch.

We went into the second inning, up 2-1.
Captain Lopez struck out the side. As he walked off the mound, the
spider commander ran onto the field to confront Lopez and to
complain to the umpire. “There is a brown smudge on one of the
digits of this human pestilence,” accused the spider commander.

“It’s just dirt and rosin,” explained Captain
Lopez, holding out his offending thumb.

“There is more under the brim of his cap,”
yelled the spider commander.

“That’s just more dirt,” advised Captain
Lopez. “I give my word as an officer and a gentleman.”

“It could be pine tar,” said the umpire.

“And maybe he was scratching his butt,” I
yelled, marching up to the center of contention. “I am sick and
tired of the commander’s harassment of my players!”

“Wash your hands and get a new cap,” ordered
the umpire. “I am warning everyone. I am kicking players out of the
game if this nonsense continues.”

During the next inning, the Legion scored
seven runs, going up 9-1. But it came to a crashing end when our
cleanup hitter broke his bat. The bat was corked.

“You are out of here!” yelled the umpire,
ejecting the batter. “I want all your bats checked. I want bats
picked at random to be sawed and examined.”

“You can’t do that,” I argued. “That was
someone else’s bat that got mixed in with ours from the recreation
league. It will take too long to saw open the bats and have them
examined.”

“I am making time,” said the umpire. “The
matter will be investigated.”

“What? If I find out you have been paid off
by the spiders, I’ll have you shot. Do you know who you are talking
to?”

“I know who you are, Colonel Czerinski,” said
the umpire. “This game has not been compromised, and I will not be
intimidated.”

I kicked dirt on home base as we talked. When
the umpire pulled out his brush, about to clean up my mess, I
snatched his brush and threw it into the stands. The crowd cheered
as I walked away. The umpire, not catching what I had done, swept
the plate off with his hands.

In the fifth inning, the Legion was up 11-2
when the spider commander called timeout and complained about
Captain Lopez again. An examination of the baseball showed a
cut.

“What now?” asked Captain Lopez, holding out
his hands. “I washed the rosin and dirt off my hands and got a new
cap. What more do you want? It’s not my fault you spiders can’t
hit.”

“Search him!” demanded the spider commander.
“This human pestilence is cuffing the ball.”

The umpire checked Lopez’ glove and patted
him down. A file was found in Lopez’ hip pocket.

“I’m a knuckleball pitcher,” explained
Captain Lopez. “I need to keep my fingernails filed to get a proper
grip on the ball.”

“I warned you earlier I would not put up with
more nonsense,” said the umpire, giving Lopez the thumb. “You are
out of here!”

Both benches cleared again, and there was
some pushing and shoving while our relief pitchers scrambled to
warm up. When order was finally restored, the sprinkler system came
on again. Captain Lopez sat down in the dugout, saying he could not
leave the stadium for security reasons. Our new pitcher was Private
Krueger. He claimed he had pitched back in junior high school and
had quality time in the recreation league. Krueger gave up five
runs. The next pitcher wasn’t much better. By the middle of the
seventh inning, the score was 13-13. As I watched the spiders take
the field, I began to worry. Their new pitcher was getting a good
groove and was shutting us down. Then my cell phone rang. “This had
better be important,” I growled.

“I wish to defect,” said the voice on my
phone.

“What?” I asked, switching to speaker so
Captain Lopez could listen. “Now? Who is this?”

“This is the pitcher,” said the voice. “I am
also the Arthropodan team leader who blew up your golf course.”

“That was good work, team leader,” I said. I
looked out to the mound and saw that the spider pitcher was indeed
talking on a cell phone. The pitcher waved.

“Thank you, sir,” said the spider pitcher. “I
have specific issues with my commander and with the Empire in
general. Political disillusionment forces me to defect. I want to
pitch for the New York Yankees.”

“Sure,” I said. “I can arrange that. But
first I want you to give up at least two quick runs.”

“You want to negotiate?” asked the spider
pitcher. “I will let you talk to my agent.”

“Hello! Can you hear me now?” asked the
spider’s agent. “I’ve been monitoring this call. My client also
wants a two year no-cut contract!”

“Who is this?” I asked. “What about those two
quick runs?”

“Yes, yes, we can do that,” said the agent.
“That is the easy part. I am also playing first base.”

“I suppose you want to play for the Yankees,
too?” I asked, eyeing the spider first-baseman. He was also talking
on a cell phone.

“No way, José,” said the spider
first-baseman. “New York ain’t much of a town. I want to play for
Boston.”

“I want two quick runs,” I repeated. “Do we
have a deal?”

“Deal,” both spiders chimed in.

“What do you think?” I asked, turning to
Captain Lopez.