Cobb spit on the ground. He grabbed a bat and swung it in a menacing arc. The players backed away, murmuring like natives witnessing a god walking into the jungle.
“You slobs, take a bat and a glove,” he snarled. They didn’t move.
“Ty, I think we should just hand them out,” Puppy suggested.
“How are they gonna know which feels right?”
“I don’t think we’re quite there yet.”
Ty glared at the players, who inched away again. He suddenly grinned. “That means our team gets the best. Mick.”
Mantle woke up, propped against the fence. He waved merrily and then went back to sleep. Cobb sighed unhappily. “Hawks slobs. Line up.”
Puppy encouraged the Hawks to obey. They formed a line. He clustered the Falcons team in its own line. He and Ty handed out the gloves and bats. The players walked away, wonderingly swinging the bats and shoving their fingers inside the gloves. Ty peered into the opposing dugout.
“Who’s the Falcons manager so we can exchange lineup cards?”
“Manager?”
“Yeah. The guy in charge.”
“I know what a manager is, Ty.”
“I keep forgetting. You’re a baseball historian. So who’s in charge?”
Puppy really didn’t want to answer. “No one.”
Cobb squeezed the bat handle. “No manager. No coaches, either?’
“We’re lucky to get soap for the shower.”
Ty stomped around angrily. “I’ll be my own coach.”
“And manager?”
Cobb slapped him on the cheek. “Bright boy.”
“Isn’t that too much work? I think it’s more important to focus on playing.”
“You saying I can’t do it?” Ty scowled. “I was player-manager for six years with the Detroit Tigers and would’ve won a few pennants if I had anyone as good as me. Now get those assholes off the field so my team can practice. What the hell are they called again?”
Ty clapped his hands to gather the Bronx Hawks for the first batting practice in America in thirty-three years. The players shuffled forward tentatively.
“Jackson,” Cobb barked. Vern stepped out from the semi-circle. “You’re the catcher.”
Jackson nodded unsurely.
“That a goddamn yes or a no?”
“Goddamn yes.”
“Godamn yes, skipper. That’s what you all call me. Skipper. I’m the manager. The boss. You don’t listen, you get fined. After I’ve reamed your asses. Jackson,” he snapped as Vernon tried rejoining the team, thinking this was a brief interrogation. “You understand the importance of a catcher?”
Jackson shook his head.
“You’re like the field leader,” Puppy said.
Cobb flared scarlet and beckoned Puppy over with a gnarly middle finger. He wrapped his arm around Puppy’s neck like a comfy noose. “Never say anything when I’m addressing my team. I don’t care if the stadium’s on fire. I don’t care if three whores with big tits are lying on second base, calling my name. Never open your mouth again.”
“Yes, skipper.” Puppy smiled and Cobb slapped his cheek again, this time with some authority. Puppy rubbed his jaw and sat by Mick, who managed to stumble sitting down.
“Can you play?” Puppy whispered.
“Course.” Mickey belched. “Ain’t the first time I was a little relaxed before a game.” He squinted around the empty stadium. “There is a game, right?”
Puppy patted his shoulder. Mickey tipped over. Puppy straightened him up before going into the Falcons clubhouse.
Boccicelli paced angrily, wheeling on Puppy. “What is all this?”
For a moment Puppy wasn’t sure if he meant the equipment or the sullen Falcons players. “The team.”
“I know it’s the team. I’ve lost enough money.” He glowered at the players so there’d be no doubt who was responsible. “The gloves and things. I’m not paying for them.”
Wiping his suit of any airborne germs especially transmitted by baseball, the owner rolled out of the clubhouse which, Puppy figured, might’ve been his first visit in years. Maybe ever.
“Mr. Boccicelli,” Puppy said as they walked down the dusty hallway. “All this is free.”
Boccicelli hadn’t expected that. He removed the handkerchief from his mouth. “How?”
“Commissioner Kenuda is loaning us the equipment used in 10/12.”
Boccicelli went white. “The very same equipment?”
“Yes, yes. Game Seven and everything.”
Boccicelli shuddered. “I’m not sure I like that, Nedick.”
“Why not? It’s free,” he repeated slowly.
Boccicelli pressed the elevator button. “What happens if the equipment is damaged?”
Puppy thought a second. “Like how?”
“A broken bat. That occurred a few years ago, remember? Or if one of the balls goes missing.”
Puppy tried imagining someone hitting the ball into the bleachers. “I don’t think that’ll happen.”
“Get it in writing. We are not responsible for breakage.” Boccicelli stepped into the elevator. “You made this arrangement. You’re responsible. You’ve already gotten us in trouble with the Little Extended Family. I had three ‘bots in my office yesterday complaining about you, Nedick.”
• • • •
TWO BICYCLES THUMPED down the chipped front steps in a race they were both destined to lose. The red bike flipped over, sending the little girl smashing against the metal fence, while the blue bike overturned and pinned the little boy. Lots of howling and screaming.
Maybe next time don’t ride down concrete steps, Zelda thought, watching the parents tend to their brats, wiping blood, scolding over torn clothes and dented equipment. The rest of their brood played their own stupid games. Seven of them, Zelda counted distastefully, finally able to get into the building sometime before her sixtieth birthday.
DVs were like incubators, parents scrambling to produce as many children as possible before their organs gave out. Anything to increase the odds. The more kids, the better chance some will make it out. And the more kids, the more the population was replenished. They cannot defeat our will to live on. Love, love, Grandma had urged. About four million children had died in the Allah War. That required a lot of love.
The apartment was up five flights at the end of a narrow staircase. Food smells changed on each floor, as if entering a different restaurant zone.
Zelda slowed down, wheezing on the fourth floor landing.
“Hi,” Diego called down from the top floor. “Need help?”
Zelda waved the bottle of wine with a
