Our own pitcher had done almost as well as the robot. But an error by our substitute third baseman, a sacrifice fly, and a squeeze bunt had given the Cubans a 1-0 lead. That one run looked as big as a million.
Our shortstop led off the ninth inning and managed to get his bat on the ball. A grounder. He was out by half a step. The next guy popped up—not bad after three strikeouts.
I breathed a sigh of relief. The next man up, Harry Bates, would end the game, and that would be that. I was next after him, and I sure didn’t want to be the guy who made the last out. I went out to the on-deck circle, kneeled on one knee, and watched the final moment of the game.
«Get it over with, Harry,» I said inside my head.
«Don’t put me on the spot.» I was kind of ashamed of myself for feeling that way, but that’s how I felt.
Raoul cranked his metal slingshot arm once, twice, and then fired the ball. It blurred past the batter. Strike one. The crowd roared. «Ole!» The catcher flipped the ball to the shortstop, who trotted over to the mound and popped the ball into the robot’s slot like a guy putting money into a video game.
The curved metal arm cranked again. The ball came whizzing to the plate. Strike two. «Ole!» Louder this time. Castro leaned back on the dugout bench and clasped his hands behind his head. His grin was as wide as a superhighway.
But on the third pitch Harry managed to get his bat around and cracked a solid single, over their shortstop’s head. The first real hit of the day for us.
The crowd went absolutely silent.
Castro looked up and down his bench, then made a big shrug. He wasn’t worried.
I was. It was my turn at bat. All I had to show for three previous trips to the plate was a strikeout and two pop flies.
Automatically, I looked down to our third-base coach. He was staring into the dugout. Nixon scratched his nose, tugged at the bill of his cap, and ran a hand across the letters on the front of his shirt. The coach’s eyes goggled. But he scratched his nose, tugged at his cap, and ran his hand across the letters.
Hit and run.
Damn! I’m supposed to poke the first pitch into right field while Harry breaks for second as soon as the pitcher starts his—its—delivery. Terrific strategy, when the chances are the damned ball will be in the catcher’s mitt before I can get the bat off my shoulder. Nixon’s trying to be a genius. Well, at least when they throw Harry out at second, the game’ll be over and I won’t have to make the final out.
The mechanical monster starts its windup, Harry breaks from first, and wham! the ball’s past me. I wave my bat kind of feebly, just to make the catcher’s job a little bit tougher.
But his throw is late. Raoul’s windup took so much time that Harry made it to second easy.
I look down to the third-base coach again.
Same sign. Hit and run. Sweet Jesus! Now he wants Harry to head for third. I grit my teeth and pound the bat on the plate. Stealing second is a lot easier than stealing third.
Raoul swings his mechanical arm around, Harry breaks for third, and the ball comes whizzing at me. I swing at it but it’s already in the catcher’s mitt and he’s throwing to third. Harry dives in headfirst and the umpire calls him safe. By a fingernail.
The crowd is muttering now, rumbling like a dark thundercloud. The tying run’s on third.
And I’ve got two strikes on me.
Nixon slumps deeper on the bench in the dugout, his face lost in shadow. Both Harry and our third-base coach are staring in at him. He twitches and fidgets. The coach turns to me and rubs his jaw.
Hit away. I’m on my own.
No, my whole life didn’t flash before my eyes, but it might as well have. Old Raoul out there on the mound hadn’t thrown anything but strikes since the fourth inning. One more strike and I’m out and the game’s over and we’ve lost. The only time I got any wood on the ball I produced a feeble pop fly. There was only one thing I could think of that had any chance.
You can throw, you goddamned Commie tin can, I said silently to the robot. But can you field?
Raoul cranked up his metal arm again, and I squared away and slid my hand halfway up the bat. Out of the corners of my eyes I could see the Cuban infielders suddenly reacting to the idea that I was going to bunt. The first and third basemen started rushing in toward me. But too late. The pitch was already on its way.
Harry saw it, too, and started galloping for home.
I just stuck my bat in front of the ball, holding it limply to deaden the impact. I had always been a good bunter, and this one had to be perfect.
It damned near was. I nudged the ball right back toward the mound. It trickled along the grass as I lit out for first, thinking, «Let’s see you handle that, Raoul.»
Sonofabitch if the mechanical monster didn’t roll itself down off the mound and scoop up the ball as neatly as a vacuum cleaner picking up a fuzzball. I was less than halfway to first and I knew that I had goofed. I was dead meat.
Raoul the Robot sucked up the ball, spun itself around to face first base, and fired the baseball like a bullet to the guy covering the bag. It got there ten strides ahead of me, tore the glove off the fielder’s hand, and kept on going deep into right field, past the foul line.
My heart bounced from my throat to my stomach and then back again. Raoul had only three pitches: fast, faster, and fastest. The poor sucker covering first base had never been shot at so hard. He never had a chance to hold on to the ball.
Harry scored, of course, and I must have broken the world record for going from first to third. I slid into the bag in a storm of dust and dirt, an eyelash ahead of the throw.
The game was tied. The winning run—me!—was on third base, ninety feet away from home.
And the stadium was dead quiet again. Castro came out to the mound and they didn’t even applaud him. The catcher and the whole infield clustered around him and the robot. Castro, taller than all his players, turned and pointed at somebody in the dugout.
«He’s bringin’ in a relief pitcher!» our third-base coach said.
No such luck. A stumpy little guy who was built kind of like the robot himself, thick and solid, like a fireplug, came trudging out of the dugout with something like a tool kit in one hand. He was wearing a mechanic’s coveralls, not a baseball uniform.
They tinkered with Raoul for about ten minutes, while the crowd got restless and Nixon shambled out of our dugout to tell the umpires that the Cubans should be penalized for delaying the game.
«This ain’t football, Mr. President,» said the chief umpire.
Nixon grumbled and mumbled and went back inside the dugout.
Finally, the repair job at the mound was finished. The infielders dispersed and the repairman trotted off the field. Castro stayed at the mound while Raoul made a few practice pitches.
Kee-rist! Now he didn’t wind up at all. He just swung the arm around once and fired the ball to the catcher. Faster than ever.
And our batter, Pedro Valencia, had struck out three straight times. Never even managed to tick the ball foul. Not once. Nine pitches, nine strikes, three strikeouts.
I looked at the coach, a couple of feet away from me. No sign. No strategy. I was on my own.
Pedro stepped into the batter’s box. Raoul stood up on the mound. His mechanical arm swung around and something that looked like an aspirin tablet whizzed into the catcher’s mitt. «Ole!» Strike one.
I took a good-sized lead off third base. Home plate was only a dozen strides away. The shortstop took the catcher’s toss and popped the ball into the robot’s slot.
If I stole home, we would win. If I got thrown out, we would lose for sure. Raoul could keep pitching like that all day, all night, all week. Sooner or later we’d tire out and they’d beat us. We’d never get another runner to third base. It was up to me. Now.