"Should they not be called the Black Sox? With an X."
"The Black Sox is a whole different story," Remo said dryly, "and if we get into that, we'll be here until the year 2000. But in your own way I think you're catching on."
Chiun smiled. "The Yankees are the ones who are hurling balls at their opponents?"
"Absolutely correct. But only one of them is pitching right now. They take turns."
"And what is the purpose of this pitching?"
"They're trying to strike out the player who's up at bat."
"He is the one with the club?"
"They call it a bat."
22
"Why? It does not have wings."
Remo sighed again. "Look, just give me the benefit of the doubt on terminology. Otherwise we will be here until the year 2000."
"We will save the elaborate details until I have mastered the fundamentals," Chiun said firmly.
"Good. Now the pitcher tries to strike out the batter."
Chiun watched as the pitcher threw a fastball. The batter cracked it out to left field. Infielders scrambled for it. The batter ran to first.
"I think I understand," Chiun said levelly. "The pitcher is attempting to brain the batter. But the stalwart batter uses his club to fend off the villain's cowardly attacks. Because he was successful, he is allowed to escape with his life."
"No, he's not trying to hit the batter. He just wants to get the ball past him. If he does it three times, it's called an out and they retire the batter."
Chiun's facial hair trembled. "So young?"
"Not permanently. They just switch batters."
"Most peculiar. Why is this new person taking up a club?"
"The first batter has earned the right to go to first base. That's the white pad he's standing on there. Now the second batter is going to do the same thing. If he hits the ball correctly, he gets to go to first and the second guy will go to second base, or maybe third if the first one hits the ball far enough."
The batter swung and missed. Then he popped a r ball into center field. Two Yankees collided in an attempt to catch it. The ball slipped between their meshed gloves.
"See!" Remo shouted excitedly. "He's going for second. He's at third! Now he's going home!"
The first batter slid to home base in an eruption of dust. The second was tagged running for third base.
The Master of Sinanju absorbed all this in passive
23
silence. Then he nodded. "He is going home now," he said, "his work done."
"No. He's gone to the dugout. He's already been home."
"He has not!" Chiun flared. "I was watching him every minute. He ran from third base to fourth base, and now he is walking away, dirty but unbowed."
"That's not fourth base. That's home."
"He lives there? The poor wretch."
"No," Remo said patiently. "Home plate is the object of this game. You hit the ball so you can run the bases and reach home."
"But that man started off on the home plate. Why did he not remain there, if he coveted it so?"
"Because you don't win unless you run the bases first," Remo said in an exasperated voice.
"I see. And what does he win?"
"He doesn't win. The entire team wins. They win points, which are known as runs."
"Ah, diamonds. I have heard of the famous baseball diamond. It must be exceedingly precious."
"Not diamond points. Points. You know, numbers."
"Money?"
"No," Remo said patiently. "Numbers. See the score at the bottom of the screen? The Red Sox just went from four to five. The score is now twenty to five."
"Numbers? Not gold? Not jewels? Not riches?"
"Actually, these guys make a fair piece of change. I think that batter pulls down almost two million a year."
"Points?"
"No, dollars."
"American dollars!" Chiun cried, leaping to his feet. "They pay him millions of American dollars to run around in circles like that!"
"It's not the circles, it's the points. It's the achievement."
"What do these men make, what do they build,
24
what do they create that they are worth such money?" Chiun screeched.
"Baseball is a skill," Remo insisted.
"Running in circles is not a skill. Beheaded roosters do it even after they are dead."
"Will you please calm down? Wait until I finish explaining the game before you get upset."
Chiun settled back onto the floor.
"Very well," he fumed. "I am very interested in learning more about these inscrutable white customs of yours."
"Now, see this batter? While you were jumping up and down he swung twice and missed. Each miss is called a strike."
"I see. If he fails to defend his home from the aggressor, his fellow warriors punish him with their clubs."
"No, a strike means a ... There! See? He just struck out."
"And look!" Chiun proclaimed. "The opposing forces are rushing to attack him. I see now. They are going to pummel him into submission, thereby conquering his territory."
"No, that's not it. Will you let me tell it, please? They're changing sides. Now it's the Red Sox's turn to pitch and the Yankees' at bat."
Chiun's parchment face wrinkled up. "They are surrendering their opportunity to make points?"
"Yep."
Chiun clenched his bony fists. "Unbelievable! They have all the clubs and yet they let their mortal enemy take over. Why do they not beat them back? Why do they not simply crush their skulls and run around in circles as much as they wish? Thus, they could achieve thousands of useless points after they have eliminated the other team."
"They can't. It's against the rules."
"They have rules?" Chiun's voice was aghast.
25
"Yes, they have rules. It's a game."
"All games are a form of warfare. Chess is one example. And Go another. And intelligent men know that in war there are no rules. With such wealth at stake, they should be defending their position to the death."
"Now, how can they have a contest if they don't let the opposing team have their turn at bat?"
"Did the Greeks allow the Persians to take over their cities?" Chiun countered. "Did Rome cease laying waste to Gaul, and then stand idle while the enemy besieged their own cities so the ultimate victory would not be excessively decisive?"
"It's a freaking game, Chiun."
"It is base. Now I know why they call it baseball. It is a pastime for idiots. They run around in circles for no purpose and are paid richer than royalty. More than an assassin. Why am I not paid this richly? Do I not perform a more important service in this land of cretins? Without me, your American civilization would crumble. Without me, your feeble Constitution would be only a scrap of yellowing paper."
"Louder," Remo muttered. "The neighbors might not hear you clearly."
"I am going to speak to Emperor Smith about this at our next contract negotiation. I demand parity with these base baseball cretins."
"You may not have long to wait. I think I hear knocking at the back door."
"Some journeyman, no doubt," Chiun sniffed.
"No," Remo said suddenly, getting up. "I think it's Smith."
"Nonsense. Emperors always employ the front entrance."
"When Smith accepts that he's an emperor, and not the head of the organization we work for, I'll believe you," Remo said, angrily shutting off the TV on his way to the kitchen.
26
Remo opened the back door on a lemon-faced man in a gray three-piece suit and striped Dartmouth tie. His rimless glasses rode his patrician face like transparent shields.
"Hi, Smitty," Remo said brightly. "Here to complain about the noise?"
"Quick, Remo," Dr. Harold W. Smith, the director of CURE, said. "I mustn't be seen by the neighbors."
Remo shut the door behind Smith.
"Oh, for crying out loud, Smitty. We're next-door neighbors now. You can afford to be seen paying a social call."