Not since Amazon bought it in 2051. Grandma’s thong.
“Let’s go inside,” Puppy said gently. “There’s a game today.”
“In that?” Ty sneered.
Puppy tensed as they walked past the A30 at Gate Six. Fortunately Mick was too angry to react to yet another monster while Ty stared dumbfounded at the robot, muttering about the danger of mixing the races.
The old guys looked around the long hallway, wide eyes taking in the decay, unable to talk for a few minutes and embarrassing Puppy as if he had something to do with the broken floors, gouged out walls, shattered glass, and defaced murals.
“I hope Tiger Stadium’s in better shape,” Cobb grunted.
Puppy couldn’t tell him there was no Tiger Stadium, that this was all that was left of the ballparks and it was coming down in five months. He led them through the runway and into the stadium. Mickey and Ty stood in the entrance, horrified.
“My seat’s down there.”
Mickey and Ty sat carefully, tucking their ankles together, shoulders tight, hands in their laps. They couldn’t bear to touch anything.
“Game’s about to start,” Puppy said cheerfully.
“No one’s here,” Ty said.
Puppy passed on acknowledging the seven people scattered in the lower field boxes. At least no one was having sex. The men sadly took in the rubble and debris.
“I would not let my chickens piss here,” Ty finally said.
Mick wiped away tears and Ty handed him a starched handkerchief. Men didn’t cry, but this was an abomination worthy of grief for which he accused Puppy with a vicious glare.
“We just sit in this shithole until one in the afternoon?”
“Game’s going to start in a few minutes.”
Mick glanced at Puppy’s watch. “It ain’t even nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Yes.” Puppy opened his notebook. “Now I’m the baseball historian. I keep a record of every game. This is the second one of the season. The Hawks won opening day, 6-3, a terrific contest. ”
The HG Hawks dashed onto the field. Puppy stood and applauded.
“You like that?” The A29 turned. “I figured the fielders could come out together.”
“Great work,” Puppy shouted back, nodding toward the ‘bot. “I’ve been after him to juice things up.”
Mystified, Mickey and Ty leaned forward as the HGs threw the holographic ball around the infield and the outfield. The pitcher warmed up.
“What the hell is all that?” Ty whispered.
“He had one in his house but I killed it,” Mickey answered. “I’ll take care of them.”
Puppy pulled Mantle back into the chair. “These are HGs.” He waited, hoping for some response other than puzzled anger. “Holograms.” He pointed at the A29 in the front row. “He projects them onto the field.”
“Why?” Ty didn’t seem to want to really know.
“They’re the fielders,” Puppy said patiently.
“The midgets play?” Mick asked.
“Sure. It’s a lot of fun. Okay, here’s the leadoff batter for the Falcons.”
Campanis lazily swung a bat, yawning. The A28 umpire yelled “play ball.”
“Is he human?” Ty asked.
“Of course. The batters are all people.”
Campanis swung and missed at the first pitch.
“Where’s the ball?” Ty squinted.
“It was there. Speed gets up to 100, 105 mph.”
“But it ain’t real,” Mickey asked.
“Campanis is real,” Puppy said, annoyed. The batter swung and the ball bounced toward the second baseman. The HG runner scampered down the line, easily thrown out.
“What was that?” Mickey pointed somewhere on the field.
“The HG runner,” Puppy said.
“The batter doesn’t run?”
“No, they just hit.”
“But did he hit the ball?” Ty asked shrewdly.
“Sort of. The program’s set up for each batter’s skills.”
“Like a video game?” Mickey frowned. “My kids had one.”
“Kind of.”
“And this is baseball?” he asked.
Puppy let loose. “It’s the best we have. Maybe not perfect, but it’s still baseball.”
“No, it ain’t,” Mick growled.
“If you don’t like it, don’t stay. But be quiet. I have a job to do. Look, you made me miss the next play. I oversee official government records, damnit.”
After that first batter, they sat in stoic disgust. By the second inning, they moved back a few rows, whispering; Puppy couldn’t concentrate. At the end of the sixth and last inning, he stood and slipped his notebook into his backpack. Ty was asleep on Mantle’s shoulder.
“That’s it,” Puppy said. “If you care, the Hawks won 4-1.”
Mantle slid away from Ty, who woke up, irritated. “I want to look around.”
“It’s dangerous. There are holes everywhere, Mick. Rotting floors. Let’s just go home.”
Mickey hopped over the fence and onto the field. Ty followed, angrily brushing past Puppy, who doggedly followed.
Mickey walked around reverently, scooping up an occasional rock and putting it in his pocket. Ty knelt, touching home plate. Now Mickey walked quickly down the first base line, breaking into a trot, Ty on his heels. The two heavy-set old men arced around second, gaining speed towards third. He thought they were racing, but if they were, it was not against each other. Shoulder to shoulder, they crossed home plate simultaneously.
They headed into the dugout. Puppy went to stop them, but in a few moments, Mick came back with a battered bat while Ty disgustedly toted a handful of lumpy balls.
Ty took the mound. From the right side, Mickey swung the bat slowly. Ty’s first pitch bounced three times before rolling across home. Mick tossed it back. Ty threw another bounder.
“Now I know you’re dead.” Mickey grinned. Cobb’s eyes narrowed. He reached home this time. Mick swung, missing and falling to one knee.
Puppy sighed. But there was some poignant familiarity to the way they tried to throw and hit. As if Mick and Ty were putting on their wedding suits, knowing it didn’t fit, but didn’t matter because they still thought they were young studs on a happy day.
He did the math. Both mid-60s, so born like 2033. Maybe they played high school ball. Around 2050, 2051. By then, the robot arm pitcher scandals, including the St. Louis Cardinals stripped of their world title, had gutted the major leagues down to twelve teams, six in either league, suffocating under the popularity of the more
