Crichton huddled closer and grabbed the two players on either side of him by the shoulders. “We’re not just anybody, team. We’re lawyers. Lawyers, damn it! We’re the best there is, the cream of the crop. We’re professionals. And that means more than just knowing how to file briefs and make convoluted arguments. It means we’re professional about every aspect of our lives, and everything we do. Including softball.
“So when this game starts, I don’t want to see a bunch of clowns and beer-guzzlers out there on the diamond. I want to see professionals. I want to see winners! All right?”
The team shouted “All right!,” slapped mitts, and ran out into the field of glory.
By the top of the fifth, Apollo was behind Memorex Telex by nine runs. Three more, and the game would be a skunk. And, sadly enough, there were men on both first and second, and it looked as if Memorex Telex would bring home the clinching runs at any moment.
The game had been a comedy of errors, except that thanks to Crichton’s shouting, bellowing, and bullying, there was nothing funny about it. Tragedy of errors, perhaps?
Christina and Candice were both warming the bench, as they had been for the entire game. It would be difficult for Ben to say which was the more unhappy about it. Although this was purportedly a coed league, and necessarily so, the managerial team of Fielder and Crichton had not played a single woman yet.
Sexism carried to its most pathetic point, Ben mused. He could tell just from watching Candice warm up that she had a strong arm, and he knew for a fact that Christina was a much better player than he was. But here he was on second base, letting grounders bounce into his face and bumping into the shortstop, while Candice and Christina cooled their heels.
Shelly had been given the job of third base coach. Rob probably was just trying to get her off the bench, but this was a job for which she was ludicrously unsuited. She remained uncommunicative. She didn’t understand the rules of the game, or what she was supposed to be watching for, or what she was supposed to be telling the runners. As Chuck sailed toward third on his one hit of the game, he had yelled, “Is it safe? Is it safe?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
He was tagged out at home.
As he trudged back to the bench, Ben overheard Chuck doing a lot of muttering with Shelby’s name in it. “Goddamn idiot. She’s no better at softball than she is at law. I’m going to have another talk with Crichton about her, and soon. This is goddamn intolerable.…”
And so forth.
The next Memorex Telex batter hit a bouncing bunt right down the middle. It slipped past Crichton (who was pitching, natch) and headed toward Ben. It passed under Ben’s glove, but he sat down on the ground and managed to block its progress with his posterior. He picked it up, then dropped it, fumbled around with it, bounced it off his chin, and eventually managed to throw it to the first baseman, much too late. The batter made it to first, the other two runners advanced.
The bases were loaded. Ben scanned the faces lining the infield. In the words of a great philosopher, it was Tension City.
Crichton marched toward the bench. “Time for my lucky glove!” he announced to no one in particular. He threw off his old glove, opened a wooden carrying case tucked under the bench, and removed a bright orange mitt.
“I’ve never lost a game with this mitt,” Crichton said, as he returned to the mound.
Ben wondered if he had ever played with it before.
Crichton and Doug, who was catching, went through their usual series of signals. Doug told him to pitch wide outside; Crichton threw it straight down the middle. The batter got a piece of it, but fortunately for them all, it flipped backward. Foul ball.
Doug recovered the ball and, obviously annoyed, whizzed it back to Crichton. Unfortunately, Crichton was trying to intimidate the runner on third and wasn’t paying attention. He turned around just in time to see the ball smash into the side of his face.
“Owww!” He fell to the ground, clutching his head.
Rob ran from first to the mound; Ben followed close behind. An extremely embarrassed Doug hobbled across home plate.
“Sorry, Mr. Crichton,” Doug said, “I didn’t realize you weren’t watching.”
Crichton didn’t answer. He was lying prostrate across the mound, his eyes closed.
“I think he may be seriously hurt,” Ben said.
“Oh, God,” Doug said. “And just when I was about to get promoted.”
“Rob,” Ben said, “you know first aid. Check him out.”
Rob hesitated a moment, then crouched over Crichton’s body. “Damn. See that clear liquid in his ear canal?”
Ben looked over Rob’s shoulder. “What is it?”
“I can’t be certain. But it may be cerebral spinal fluid. And if it is, he’s probably got a skull fracture.”
Ben swallowed. That didn’t sound good. “What does that mean?”
“It means he’s hurt bad. May require surgery. Help me stretch him out.” Ben took Crichton’s legs and straightened his crumpled body.
“Now elevate his feet,” Rob said.
Ben complied. As he did, Crichton began blinking his eyes rapidly. He was coming around.
“Thirsty,” Crichton gasped hoarsely.
“Someone get him something to drink, okay?” Rob barked.
The repentant Doug hobbled to the sidelines, snatched a beer from the thermos, then returned. Crichton greedily slurped it down, spilling half of it on his jersey.
“Help me up,” Crichton whispered. “Got to finish the game.”
“No way,” Rob said. “You’re hurt.”
“Nonsense. I’m fine.”
“Fine? You were temporarily unconscious!”
“Doesn’t matter. The game isn’t over.”
“It is for you,” Ben said firmly.
Crichton tried to sit up, groaned, then fell back onto the ground. “I never quit anything in my life, and I’m not quitting now.”
“Look, sir,” Rob said, “nothing personal, but we’re getting beaten badly enough already. We don’t need an incapacitated pitcher.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Crichton seemed relieved to have a graceful way out. “But who will take my place? We can’t move any of the men from their positions.”
“True. I think we have to ask Candice.”
Crichton looked at Rob as though he thought this little better than putting in an inanimate object, but he grudgingly nodded.
“Candice,” Rob yelled. “Take the mound.”
Candice stood up, startled. “I’ve never pitched in my life.”
“Well I have.” Christina leaped off the bench and pushed Candice aside. She grabbed her mitt and marched toward the pitcher’s mound. “I used to pitch twice a week when I played for Swayze & Reynolds,” she said. “We were division champs.”
Fortunately, Crichton’s sneer was mitigated by his pain. “Was that in a…ladies’ league?”
She shoved him off the mound. “Damn right. And every one of us could’ve showed you jokers a thing or two about softball. Play ball!”
Rob and Ben carried Crichton off the field. Candice drove, him and his family to the emergency room, and the game proceeded with Christina at the plate.
The batter was obviously amused at the prospect of having a woman pitch to him. He grinned at his teammates, made a few suggestive remarks, and held the bat with one hand as the first strike whizzed across the plate. Even throwing underhand, Christina could pack a lot of punch in her pitch.
The batter’s smile faded, and he paid considerably more attention as the second strike flew past him.
“All right, Christina!” Ben cheered.
The batter became serious. He hunkered down in a proper batter’s crouch, held the bat with both hands and choked up. His brow furrowed as he watched the ball come toward him. He swung—after the ball crossed the plate.