path to conquest

by Unknown Author

  “You’re gonna fall out, girl,” George quipped, snagging the waistband of her jeans and yanking her back into her seat.

  “Hey, Daddy,” she said, pouting. “I never saw Pete in his baseball suit. I didn’t know he could still fit into it. Come to think of it, maybe that’s what took him so long.”

  “Ooo, that’s mean,” Sari said. “Besides, I think Pete’s got cute buns.”

  “We agree on that," Lauren laughed.

  “So as you can see,” the announcer continued, still not saying the player’s name, “he’s been pretty busy. Now here he is, wearing his old number eleven, resistance hero, doctor, and ten-time American League all-star, nine-time Golden Glove, two-time MVP— Peeeeete Forsyyyyythe!”

  With an audience reflex that probably dated back to the arenas of the ancient Greeks, everyone in the stadium stood and cheered. Then the cheering suddenly turned to astonished laughter. Lauren and the others in Pete’s box still couldn’t see him, but the players on the field were doubled over in hysterics. Joey Vitale was laughing so hard he nearly fell, but he managed to stumble toward the Yankee bench.

  “Well, folks,” said the announcer, barely controlling his own laughter, “seems Pete's been away for so long, he forgot about that top step.”

  Joey spotted his friends in Pete’s box and waved.

  “What happened, Joey?” Lauren yelled. “We can’t see.” “He tripped!” Then the young star bent down and helped Forsythe to his feet.

  Lauren covered her mouth. She didn’t want Pete to see that she was laughing, too. Blushing a bright crimson, he shrugged, grinned boyishly, and blew her a kiss. Then he scooped his blue cap off the ground and saluted the fans. Their reaction was roaring admiration for a returning if slightly klutzy idol. Lauren sighed. She didn’t mind sharing him for a little while.

  ‘‘Is there a doctor in the house, Pete?" said the announcer. ‘‘Or don’tcha need one?”

  Pete flagged the press box with his hat, set the cap over his blond curls, and backed carefully into line with Joey. The cheering went on.

  ‘‘Then let's play ball!” cried the announcer.

  The Yankees took the field first, with Pete at his familiar third-base position. He tossed a warm-up ball to Joey, who fired it across the infield to first base.

  “What’s with playing shortstop, Joey?” said Pete as he bent in a limbering stretch. The tightness in his thighs warned him this could be a mistake.

  “When I heard you were playin’, I just wanted to be able to talk to you more,” Joey grinned. “It’s good to have you back, buddy.”

  “You sure you’re not in here to cover up for me, kid?” Pete accused good-naturedly.

  Joey curled his thumb and finger in the OK signal. “You’re not gonna need any covering for, Pete.”

  “Huh! We’ll see about that. But, you know, it feels so damn good to be out here, I don’t even care how I do.”

  Well, that's not entirely true—•/ do care a little, he admitted to himself.

  Then he saw the first batter ambling to the plate, and he felt the color drain from his face and his palms begin to sweat. “Oh, no,” he moaned. “Not Popeye Malloy.”

  The player’s given name was Matthew—a mobile mountain who got his nickname because of biceps roughly the size and shape of pickle barrels. He was a right-handed hitter, and he took loose practice swings with a bat that looked like it could double as a telephone pole. Each swing ended with the bat pointing directly at Pete Forsythe.

  Pete swallowed, trying to raise some saliva into a mouth suddenly gone dry as the Saudi Arabian desert he’d crossed a week before. “Does Popeye still hit down third base?” he croaked.

  “Dead on.”

  “Wonderful. ...”

  Lowering into a crouch, Pete set himself, elbows leaning lightly on his knees. The pitcher, a wiry veteran named Ron Guidry, started his windup. He was a lefty, and his back was toward Pete. Guidry’s arm cocked, then whipped toward home and the catcher’s mitt.

  The fastball never got there. Popeye Malloy’s bat swung ferociously and smacked a sizzling liner toward the hole between Pete and Joey. Joey twisted back, playing it safe and giving himself an extra second to try to reach the low drive.

  But Pete’s instincts had already trampled his fears. He was diving, flying flat out, parallel to the ground, gloved right hand reaching across his body. The ball slammed into the leather pocket and Pete landed on his belly, skidding painfully on the dirt, the wind knocked out of his gut.

  But he still had the ball, and he held it up triumphantly as the umpire bellowed, “Ooouuuut!” Pete casually flipped the ball to Joey and sat on the ground for a moment to regain his breath. Popeye Malloy trotted across the infield grass en route to his bench.

  “Forsythe, you little shit, ” he said; a sly grin on his meaty face. “Good to see you back.”

  “Thanks, Popeye.”

  Slowly, Pete got to his feet and moved back toward the base. The ball park was rocking, the organist stirring the place with the familiar chords of the “Charge” theme.

  It all felt great—digging his spikes into the rich dirt of the infield, hearing the musical cacophony of the fans and the flapping of the pennants from the top rim of the upper deck, smelling the fresh-mown grass. He basked in all the comfortable sensations and in recollections from the old days. It was almost enough to make him forget all about starships and lasers, Visitors and war.

  Almost . . .