First Puppy had to strike himself out.
He lobbed the ball, which bounced off the tip of Frecklie’s glove. The teen underhanded the ball back with an air of vague disgust. He knew enough to know that wasn’t a pitch.
Puppy waited another few moments for the sun to scamper west. He went into the tight wind-up and fired. The pitch went right through Frecklie, who chased it down.
No pain, Puppy half-smiled. Yeah, a regular stud from twenty feet. Frecklie tossed the ball back wildly, elbows and legs in opposite directions. Imagine what Ty would say about that throw, Puppy’s smile broadened. He stepped back to thirty feet.
Frecklie sat cross-legged, holding the glove up and away with a prayerful gesture. To his surprise, the next pitch wedged into the pocket of the glove, knocking him backwards. He bounced up on his shins, delighted, and flipped the ball back.
Frecklie patted his heart. Good.
Good. What was good, what do you know about good? I was once great. Puppy fought the anger chasing the doubt and threw again. Frecklie chased after the pitch which would’ve broken at the waist. A softball fastball, but a strike.
He rotated the shoulder. Frecklie anxiously walked the ball back.
Hurt? Frecklie tapped his own arm. Puppy impatiently shook his head, turning rudely and retreating until he was about fifty feet away, then a little more until he was under the weed canopy, gray shadows creeping around Frecklie. He wished the dusk would swallow up the kid and he could do this alone.
From just over sixty feet, Puppy took a long breath and threw hard, hip rotating. The ball ran steadily at Frecklie, hitting him in the chest and knocking him down. The boy gasped and rubbed his breastbone. Puppy waited. One, two, three, four, five.
Grandma’s bra straps, he grinned.
No pain.
Frecklie crawled to his knees, still dazed. Off to the left, the wire fence sang out like rusty birds. Along the top, seven DV teens wedged their shoes into the squares, standing erect, expressionless. Off to the right, another eight kids took up similar positions. No pleading urchins with soiled faces, they wore clean white shirts and perfectly patched jeans.
Puppy walked halfway toward Frecklie as a few more kids found wedges just below the top of the fence.
“You told them?” Puppy asked angrily. “This was private.”
Frecklie shook his head and touched his ear. They heard.
The fence cooed again and soon about fifty kids filled the fence top to bottom in staggered rows. Almost as one, they raised up on their toes, then down again, then up and down one last time.
Puppy tugged on his ear. Heard what.
Frecklie’s eyebrows raised in deep surprise. He pointed. About you.
• • • •
THE THREE A14S in gray suits squished together on Kenuda’s cramped couch, finding pleasant expressions which didn’t match the wary glitter of their rotating eyes. The stares suddenly locked into place, covering Kenuda like a scanning device. Vile little ashcans, he smiled back politely. The middle one inched forward. They’d been silent for about five minutes.
“Again, we stress how unfortunate it is that we’ve had to bother you, Third Cousin.” The robot motioned about the office at the balls and helmets and nets; Kenuda frowned at the subtle irony. “We’ve always enjoyed the fondest relationship.”
Kenuda nodded agreeably. “Any problem in my department is my problem, Steward.”
“I’m the Steward,” the robot on the left complained.
“Sorry…”
“I’m the Executive Director,” continued the middle one. He tapped the colleague to his right. “Our Coordinator. I appreciate we do look alike.”
“Not at all.” Kenuda’s cheeks ached from smiling out of that trap. “How can I help you?”
“It’s your baseball, sir.”
“What baseball?”
The robots exchanged mystified looks. “At Amazon Stadium.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” he snapped. “What about it?”
“Members of the Little Extended Family were replaced, Third Cousin.”
Kenuda tried to remember. “Was some hate law broken?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet means it might be.” Elias hoped a glance at this watch would hurry them along. Nothing hurried along a ‘bot unless it was a bulldozer. Circuitous, maddening things that acted as if they could take a lifetime doing a small deed. Well, they could.
“When the humans replaced the HGs,” the middle one began as if Kenuda were one of his leathered basketballs, “we lost three jobs.”
“As I recall, you officially lost only that one position.” Kenuda twirled a football for effect. “Your colleagues then quit.”
“They would’ve been next.”
“Had you been threatened?”
“We saw what happened,” the Steward blurted angrily. The Executive Director patted his arm.
“Let’s say that the ‘bots who’d worked so long were aggrieved and reacted emotionally.” The metallic face indented at the cheeks. “But their fears were warranted. Seven new jobs have been added to the stadium staff. Jobs which are supposed to be earmarked for robots.”
Elias twirled and stalled. No paperwork or requests came to mind. “What’re the jobs again? Baseball’s not exactly at the top of my list.”
“The things we do best,” the Steward rasped.
Kenuda’s smile frosted. “You do so much well.”
The three robots bowed.
“There were three maintenance positions, three at the food stands and someone is doing something with the grass. All positions guaranteed under the equal opportunity laws.”
“Not exactly guaranteed. Robots are to be considered.”
“They’ve gone to DVs. Thanks to that baseball historian.”
Kenuda raised an eyebrow. The Executive Director regarded him with a shrewd smile.
“You’re aware of this, aren’t you, Third Cousin?”
“Yes, Executive Director. I’m aware of everything that happens in my area.”
“And you approved…”
“I approve everything, as I just said. Baseball’s given a little latitude considering it’s the final season.”
“We don’t see how that matters,” the Executive Director said firmly. “We hold 82.4 percent of the stadium staffing positions at NFL games and 77.3 percent at NBA arenas.
