I’d been toiling a decade in the minors, playing for the Venusian Vagabonds, one of team’s three Earthling players, and I finally get called up for the end of the 2065 season to the intergalactic big leagues, and now I’m standing in the batter’s box, during a crucial ballgame in one of the galaxy’s most beautiful domed stadiums, batting against the Martian Magicians’ stellar five-armed pitcher. This ferocious-looking hurler, even by Martian standards of ferocity and their ability to shape various bizarre and intimidating game faces, had a reputation for throwing not only a wickedly curving pitch that harkened back to the olden days of baseball when it was rumoured some of the unscrupulous pitchers threw cheating spit balls, but also was not averse to throwing his 200-mile-an-hour fastball treacherously close to the cranium of any batter who dared to stand too near to the plate.
Waiting for the first pitch, I told myself I wasn’t afraid of cheating spit balls or treacherous brush-back pitches. I told myself I had made it to the intergalactic big leagues, and my family and friends back on Earth couldn’t be more proud of my athletic accomplishments, not to mention huge salary in the coveted Venusian currency. But the fans in the stands were frenetic and I was trembling as if my life depended on getting a hit. I started my swing, but before the ball reached the plate, it disappeared as I did, my baseball career evaporated in the vastness of outer space. The Martian Magicians never did play fair.
Art by Denny Marshall
No comments:
Post a Comment