To reduce issues of coordination, every baseball player on Earth was teleported to the light field, and the all-stars were chosen from their number. Once a team was chosen—nine players, nine alternates, and three pitchers—the team was teleported to a secure location to begin their practice. They would be fed, trained and cared for, but would not be allowed to see or interact with anyone until the game.
Coach Reynolds and myself as well as a team of seven alternative trainers would also be on hand to assist the Hurumpharump during their development. Once we gave them the specification for a baseball field, physical dimensions, physical makeup, cage, stadium, and specifications were recreated on their ship, seconds before we arrived on it, as I am told.
It was Yankee Stadium in every way (except there was no gum under the seats and no one hawking and spilling beer on me while I watched). When the Hurumpharump teleported us all to their field, they opened their suits of armor by running their hands down an invisible seam in the front and the suit peeled away, showing a semi-organic, semi-machine based device/organism. Oh, I wanted to be able to take a picture, but I satisfied myself with attempting to memorize everything and hoped they would allow me to take my memories home with me. We were told that once everything had been established, this field would be transported to an area in Florida temporarily so they could enjoy the heat and humidity there.
When their suits opened, the smell was horrible, almost as if something had crawled into their suits and died. They were pastel colored, and no two possessed exactly the same hues, shades, or color patterns. Some shared certain color characteristics, but I could not be sure what the riot of colors meant. Each Hurumpharump possessed excellent muscle tone and a shimmering scale-like skin. Their eyes were large and had multicolored iris-like fields, super-responsive pupils, and double eyelids, both an inner and an outer one.
Their bodies were bilaterally similar and relatively evenly proportioned. Without their suits, they were still six to seven feet tall, and all had very well developed teeth. Judging from the size of their craniums, they had a very good brain-to-body ratio, slightly better than ours, so they are at least as intelligent as we are. I would only know more if I had the option to observe their brains in action. I would have to enjoy what I learned without the benefit of hands-on study at this time.
Once out of their suits, they were immediately rubbed with an unguent of some kind by what appeared to be servants of another species. The servants were some sort of insectovoids. They moved swiftly, scraping away the ichor that came from within their suits and generously slathering on this much better smelling agent. Even without their armor, the Hurumpharump still maintained an unmistakable aura of power.
With their physical aptitude, they were naturals for the game of baseball. With two noted exceptions. When we first introduced them to the bat, they were very excited. They had no directly equivalent word, and the best they could do was “bludgeon,” and we let it go for the sake of expediency. This excitement was one of the first showings of any emotional state other than what would appear to be boredom. They took the bat, passed it around, hefted it, marveled at its weight, swung it a few times, and nodded approvingly.
I had to ask. “What are you all so happy about?”
He (I think it was a he, they all looked the same and accepted the pronoun without comment) waved the bludgeon in the air and said, “Finally a weapon; we were unsure about this idea until now. Will we all be issued a bludgeon, or will we have to share it during the struggle for dominance?” At that point, the other Hurumpharump made noises I equate with chimpanzees and dominance activity as they crowded around the bat wielder.
“No, no. While it is true, you will be using the, uh, bludgeon, you will not be using it on the other team. You will be using it to strike the ball.” Puzzled looks followed. At this time, we began to show them videos of the game, and they were fascinated and intrigued. We left them alone with dozens of recordings for three days. When we were allowed to return, they had already separated into training teams and had begun attempting to play.
This brings me to the second issue: pitching. The Hurumpharump, while physically powerful, seemed to have an inherent issue with their throwing skills. They could throw reasonably well; that wasn’t the problem. It was an issue of degree. Those that could throw accurately and with some degree of precision were not very powerful. Those who were powerful could only deliver a very general degree of precision. While the coach was unhappy to discover this weakness, he had seen it in players before and continued to push them to overcome it. The Hurumpharump refused to use gloves and did not seem hindered by the sting of the ball in any way. We offered to show them how to use them, but they did not seem to understand the point.
With this disability in mind, the inaccurate throwers became outfielders, and the accurate became pitchers and infielders, inelegant, but necessary. Overcoming their disappointment at not getting to club anyone during the course of the game, the Hurumpharump became excellent players despite their throwing handicap. And they would be quite a surprise to our human team in one other amazing attribute.
We did not communicate often with the human team, but reports said they were in good spirits and confident of their ability to win easily. I read those reports with trepidation, and hoped they would not be overconfident.
When the day of the game arrived, the Hurumpharump teleported both teams to the real Yankee Stadium, and the stadium was filled with spectators, who were allowed to enter at will. The stadium was packed with humans, wearing all kinds of baseball paraphernalia, cheering their respective heroes on. Food was passed out, drinks were dispensed, and no money changed hands.
I think it was decided if the end of the world was coming, everyone should be full and perhaps a bit intoxicated. The president and his contingent, as well as those world leaders who had not returned home, had an entire box area to themselves, and they were adjacent to the insectovoid servants of the Hurumpharump, of which there were forty or so who appeared for the game. Before the game started, the insectovoids came out to the field and groomed the Hurumpharump and provided them with uniforms with numbers. After slathering them with the unguent, the players were dressed, and they awaited the National Anthem.
We were surprised to find out that an Hurumpharump wanted to sing the National Anthem, in English, no less. It was evident he had practiced for some time, because he sang without the translator we were so used to hearing. His accent was thick but passable, and he did not embarrass himself as much as many celebrities had in the past. The song resonated with the audience, and at the end, they cheered his efforts and applauded mightily. He looked puzzled and turned to me. I made the sign of approval I had seen them show each other, and he appeared to be satisfied and returned to the dugout.
“Play ball!” the umpire shouted to herald in the most important game in human existence.
The Hurumpharump started the inning, and the first pitch was a fastball, low and outside. The Hurumpharump Number 13 seemed to be a statue until a split second before the ball crossed the plate. Then his bat was a blur of motion. It moved so fast no one could even see it. The ball disappeared in a cloud of dust as it flew down the right field line and disappeared out of the field, continuing out of the stadium. The only words spoken were, “Take your bases, sir.” And the score was one-zip. The Hurumpharump repeated this for fifteen home runs before their side was retired. After the fourth or fifth run, the stadium was as quiet as the grave. Humanity breathed a sigh of relief when the inning ended.
When the first human came to bat, a Darrell Mayers from the Philadelphia Phillies, the crowd went wild, and I found myself caught up in the infectious energy. He tapped his shoes, smiled, pointed out into right field, and stood over the plate. The pitcher watched the signs from the catcher, shook two off and then nodded. His pitch was a fastball at a whopping seventy-seven miles per hour, respectable from a Hurumpharump but nothing compared to what Mayers was used to hitting. He drove it from the stadium as if it
had been lobbed underhand. And the game was on.
Nine innings later, the game was remarkable for several reasons. It was the highest scoring baseball game in history, not because it wasn’t played well. Each team did remarkably well once they adapted to the style of play of the other. When the ball was kept in the stadium, there was some of the best baseball anyone had ever seen. Spectacular plays, incredible throws, steals. I forgot to mention how fast the Hurumpharump were stealing bases; baseball had never looked so good. In the beginning, the crowd gave no love to the Hurumpharump, but by the fifth inning, after a spectacular triple play against the humans to retire the side, the crowd cheered the sheer beauty of the game. And soon, both teams were being cheered and for just a moment, all were able to forget the fate of the world hung in the balance. During the seventh inning stretch, people got up for a moment and walked, but no one left. Even the sportscasters were excited.
The Hurumpharump added three runs to their total as their turn at bat ended, with a score of 157-154. It was possible for humanity to win, and Coach Reynolds called a time out to change his pitcher. At this time, President Fox chose to come out to address the crowd. He had to pass the Hurumpharump dugout. The insectovoids had also emerged to apply their healing unguent to the team and were bustling about the dugout as the president and his security detail passed by. President Fox shoved his way past one of the insectovoids and continued on.
The roar of the crowd was deafening, and the President had to yell to be heard. “Gentlemen, I have never been as proud of this game as I am today. I want it to be known, no matter what happens, you have been exceptional. But I want to take this moment to remind you, the fate of our species lies in your hands. You are a team comprising the finest our world has to offer. I want you to do your absolute best in this final inning.”
Coach Reynolds finished out on the mound, and the president and his team rushed back to their box. The insectovoids returned a few moments later, and the game reconvened. The new pitcher was a Hurumpharump, Number 6, who had been held in reserve until now. I remembered why. He was one of the few who had been able to pitch with both control and power. Coach Reynolds had been true to his word. He would do whatever it took to win. It did not matter to the crowd, though; they were cheering maniacally as he took the mound.
Bu Tao of China came to the plate, and after having innings of easy hits, was surprised at the speed and power of Number 6’s pitches. Stepping into a more controlled crouch, he concentrated and got a chip into left field and made it to first. Number 6 was unaffected and took the next batter in three swings. One out. The next batter was a giant from the Dominican Republic, Fernando Ayala, easily one of the best hitters in the world. The stadium quieted down after the easy out of the last batter.
The first pitch was a rocket and was outside. The second was a curve and inside. Ayala swung on the next pitch and missed, 2 and 1. Ayala grinned, and the Hurumpharump showed its teeth in challenge. The next pitch was perfect, and Ayala swung and broke his bat for a double. The outfielder, Number 12, who rushed it, had a cannon for an arm. He made the throw to home to keep Bu Tao from scoring. Men on second and third, one out.
Music blared, the crowd sang, people cheered, even the insectovoids, who until the very last few innings has sat impassively, seemed agitated, their antenna waving and their second pair of hands drumming out a strange cadence in counterpoint to the music, complementary and rhythmically pleasing. No game had ever caught the attention, the crowds, the adulation, that this game had.
David Matthews, number 42 of the Mets, came to bat; Hurumpharump Number 6 had been briefed on the team and knew he was the best hitter with the sharpest eye. So he walked him, counting on their superior infield to make the double play against the next far weaker hitter.
Matthews took his base, visibly angered. Number 6 showed no emotion as he awaited the next batter. The next batter was from the Netherlands, number 14, Dave Rajier. He was a good fielder and chosen because of his skill in the outfield. He was a decent hitter, batting .273, but no one wanted him to be hitting right now. Too much was at stake. Rajier came to the plate, tipped his hat to the crowd, and stood ready. He exuded confidence. The crowd went wild.
The two, Rajier and Number 6, filled the count, three balls and two strikes, each working his skills, and the battle came down to their indomitable wills. The next pitch would decide it. Number 6 turned the catcher down four times before deciding. Rajier squinted, gripped, and swung hard. There was solid contact, and the ball flew high into left field. Number 11, a Hurumpharump known for his leaping ability, tracked it and ran toward the wall. He leaped and everyone held their breath. The ball was just shy of his fingers by about an inch. The same inch would have been successfully covered by a glove, had he been using one. Grand slam home run! The humans had won the game.
People cheered, music played, and everyone roared as the game came to an end. Both teams seemed exceptionally excited and ran out onto the field to hug and congratulate each other. I approached a Hurumpharump, who in his excitement, hugged me closely, and I squeaked so that he might let me go. He was powerful but gentle, and placed me back on the ground.
The cheering continued for some time, and then a pleasant chime sounded and all of the stadium music subsided. “People of Earth, when we first agreed to engage in this challenge, we were certain we would be able to win. Our generations of battle experience and breeding made us believe the outcome was never in doubt. But instead, your people have proven to be resilient warriors and impeccable instructors, who taught with honor and patience. They gave completely to our players guidance in all aspects of the game, and as a result, their performance was exemplary, wouldn’t all agree?”
The crowd roared with enthusiasm, forgetting any sense of decorum, giddy with the win.
“It gives us great pleasure to announce we will not be using your planet as a breeding ground for the Triliaifid. We have found your species to be more developed in some ways than our own. We will instead consult with your world on more of these ‘games’ as you call them. On our worlds, all contests end in death, so this is a novel concept for us. In return, we shall spare your world and help guide you into the galaxy as a member of the Confederation. We will, of course, be removing weapons from your world to ensure that you do not destroy yourselves before we can experience all of your games. Your games will become the currency with which you will buy your way into the galactic community.”
President Fox, finding his way to a microphone, was incensed. “Who are you to come to our planet and dictate our defense policy or any other state policy? The United States is a sovereign nation ….”
“Enough, President Fox.” The president was teleported in a flash of light to the center of the stadium surrounded by the Triliaifid and Hurumpharump in black armor. “You are no longer in a position to dictate anything on this planet. Your second in command, Vice President Davis, will be assuming control of your United States. You will be tried and likely found guilty of assaulting a higher life form in the performance of its duties.”
“What do you mean? I don’t remember assaulting anyone.” In response, a holographic image suddenly showed the president shoving his way past the insectovoid grooming an Hurumpharump.
“And? They are just servants. Who cares about servants?”
“Your crime, Mr. President, is the lack of manners and respect due any life form. You and your entire family line will be punished and directed to tend Triliaifid at our next training facility. You will be returned at the end of a ten year sentence, should you and yours survive.”
The insectovoids turned and waved, and the Hurumpharump in battle armor escorted the former president into the beam. Number 6 turned to me and placed his hand on my shoulder, already aware of my next question. “They are not the servants. We are.”
The Farming of Gods
Ibi Zoboi
For the uprooted ones
who shift the earth as they rise.
For days we walked. Almost a h
undred of us at first. Not even in my grandmother’s time did they walk this far. She would travel by ferry or a small plane to get from her village near Jeremie to Port-au-Prince. But here and now, a mere promise of food and a future was enough to make us pack our only one most coveted possession and trade in the rest for a good pair of tennis shoes, clean water, and a small packet of dry salted meat.
My drum, the one I carved years ago out of a sickly flamboyant and covered with the skin of a precious goat, was strapped to my back. Marisol’s thin sweaty hand was held in mine. Hopeful tears twinkled in her eyes. Or maybe it was the empty gaze of hunger. Still, we were silent as we climbed the hills treading the rocky paths to this refuge. Visas to leave the country were a myth, so immigration was an excursion into the gated interior of the island where planes landed with important people and expensive equipment; where this secret of theirs born out of our Vodou was contained.
“How much did they offer you?” A young man who’d been walking alongside us asked. “Me, they paid one ripe avocado. I didn’t even know what to do with it. When I was a boy, I watched my mother shake one and listen for the soft rattling of the seed inside.” He laughed.
“Our house and all that was in it was swallowed by the winds of the last hurricane,” I said. “They did not have to offer us anything.”
Marisol squeezed my hand. She did not like when I spoke of such things. She smiled a polite smile. Beautiful, this daughter of Ezili. “Dr. Patel said that we will be free to dance. They have dances there. That was enough for me,” Marisol said.
I kissed my teeth at her and asked, “Mari, what in this shattered world would we be dancing for?”
Her smile diminished and she blinked back her tears. “To your drumming, Inno.”
There would be land and quality food, this doctor had told us. Armed men had escorted her to the curtained entryway of our bungalow from a huge truck. I hid my filthy, soil-caked hands from her. We had just buried four neighbors withered to just skin and bones. Marisol was courteous, even offering the doctor a tin cup of our precious clean water. The doctor handed Marisol a plastic bottle of clear liquid instead. Maybe this had been the payment the man had spoken of.
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