Away Games: Science Fiction Sports Stories

by Mike Resnick

When asked if he had a rooting interest in the game, Rathermann replied that his interest was “strictly professional.” He was later seen having dinner with Coach McNab and the owners of the Malamutes.

  • • •

  BEARS GO TO COURT TO BAR McNAB FROM SUPER BOWL January 28, 2038 (AP) With the revelation that Coach Terry McNab’s skull now houses two brains—his own and that of Professor Steven Hawking’s, which had been cryogenically frozen upon his death in 1998—the Chicago Bears went to court in an attempt to stop McNab from appearing on the sidelines during tomorrow’s Super Bowl.

  McNab’s physician, Dr. Alfredo Rathermann, called the Bears ownership “poor sportsmen” and pointed out that since McNab will not be playing, his presence will not break the NFL’s controversial new policy.

  “Besides,” said McNab as a hastily-called press conference, “I’m still the same 183-pound 57-year-old man I was last week. How can sharing the late Dr. Hawkings’ brain pose a threat to the Bears? Do I look like a Monster of the Midway?”

  • • •

  COURT RULES FOR McNAB January 28, 2038 (UPI) The U.S. District Court ruled that Coach Terry McNab’s presence will not conflict with stated NFL policy, and that he will be allowed on the field when his Alaskan Malamutes, who are 53-point underdogs, meet the Chicago Bears in tomorrow’s Super Bowl.

  • • •

  MALAMUTES UPSET BEARS, 7-3 January 29, 2938 (AP) In one of the great upsets of all time, the Alaskan Malamutes beat the Chicago Bears 7-3 in Super Bowl LXXIII.

  Using unorthodox formations and attacking from strange angles, the Malamutes’ new “Vector Defense” smothered the supposedly unstoppable Bears running game. Quarterback Pedro Cordero hit tight end Bennie Philander with a 9-yard touchdown pass at 3:12 of the fourth quarter for the winning score.

  When asked how his defense managed to penetrate the vaunted Bears line, Coach Terry McNab’s only comment was “E = MC2.”

  • • •

  MAJOR OVERHAUL FOR BEARS February 19, 2038 (UPI) In the wake of their devastating defeat in the Super Bowl, the Chicago Bears have fired Coach Rattler Renfro, and given unconditional releases to linemen Jumbo Smith, Willie the Whale McPherson, Hannibal Cohen, Mountain O’Mara, and Tiny Tackenheim.

  All five players expressed hope that they could start new careers in the World Wrestling Federation.

  ***

  Malish

  Author’s Note: Racing

  I like most sports, but the one I love is horse-racing. I don’t bet, but I’ve been known to fly to New York to watch Seattle Slew take on Affirmed, or Dr. Fager go up against Damascus, and I wrote a weekly racing column for over a decade. When Marty Greenberg invited me into a horse anthology, I figured anyone who chose to do a racing story would write about Man o’ War or Secretariat, so I chose to write about an obscure horse who gained some brief notoriety in the 1930s.

  His name was Malicious, and you can look it up in the American Racing Manual: from ages 2 to 4, he won 5 of his 46 starts, had seven different owners, and never changed hands for more than $800.

  His method of running was simple and to the point: he was usually last out of the gate, last on the backstretch, last around the far turn, and last at the finish wire.

  He didn’t have a nickname back then, either. Exterminator may have been Old Bones, and Man o’ War was Big Red, and of course Equipoise was the Chocolate Soldier, but Malicious was just plain Malicious.

  Turns out he was pretty well-named, after all.

  It was at Santa Anita in February of 1935—and this you can’t look up in the Racing Manual, or the Daily Racing Form Chart Book, or any of the other usual sources, so you’re just going to have to take my word for it—and Malicious was being rubbed down by Chancey McGregor, who had once been a jockey until he got too heavy, and had latched on as a groom because he didn’t know anything but the racetrack. Chancey had been trying to supplement his income by betting on the races, but he was no better at picking horses than at riding them—he had a passion for claimers who were moving up in class, which any lout will tell you is a quick way to go broke—and old Chancey, he was getting mighty desperate, and on this particular morning he stopped rubbing Malicious and put him in his stall, and then started trading low whispers with a gnarly little man who had just appeared in the shed row with no visitor’s pass or anything, and after a couple of minutes they shook hands and the gnarly little man pricked Chancey’s thumb with something sharp and then held it onto a piece of paper.

  Well, Chancey started winning big that very afternoon, and the next day he hit a 200-to-1 shot, and the day after that he knocked down a $768.40 daily double. And because he was a good-hearted man, he spread his money around, made a lot of girls happy, at least temporarily, and even started bringing sugar cubes to the barn with him every morning. Old Malicious, he just loved those sugar cubes, and because he was just a horse, he decided that he loved Chancey McGregor too.

  Then one hot July day that summer—Malicious had now lost 14 in a row since he upset a cheap field back in October the previous year—Chancey was rubbing him down at Hollywood Park, adjusting the bandages on his forelegs, and suddenly the gnarly little man appeared inside the stall.

  “It’s time,” he whispered to Chancey.

  Chancey dropped his sponge onto the straw that covered the floor of the stall, and just kind of backed away, his eyes so wide they looked like they were going to pop out of his head.

  “But it’s only July,” he said in a real shaky voice.

  “A deal’s a deal,” said the gnarly man.

  “But I was supposed to have two years!” whimpered Chancey.

  “You’ve been betting at five tracks with your bookie,” said the gnarly man with a grin. “You’ve had two years worth of winning, and now I’ve come to claim what’s mine.”

  Chancey backed away from the gnarly man, putting Malicious between them. The little man advanced toward him, and Malicious, who sensed that his source of sugar cubes was in trouble, lashed out with a forefoot and caught the gnarly little man right in the middle of the forehead. It was a blow that would have killed most normal men, but as you’ve probably guessed by now, this wasn’t any normal man in the stall with Malicious and Chancey, and he just sat down hard.

  “You can’t keep away from me forever, Chancey McGregor,” he hissed, pointing a bony finger at the groom. “I’ll get you for this.” He turned to Malicious. “I’ll get you both for this, horse, and you can count on it!”

  And with that, there was a puff of smoke, and suddenly the gnarly little man was gone.

  Well, the gnarly little man, being who he was, didn’t have to wait long to catch up with Chancey. He found him cavorting with fast gamblers and loose women two nights later, and off he took him, and that was the end of Chancey McGregor.

  But Malicious was another story. Three times the gnarly little man tried to approach Malicious in his stall, and three times Malicious kicked him clear out into the aisle, and finally the gnarly little man decided to change his tactics, and what he did was to wait for Malicious on the far turn with a great big stick in his hand. Being who he was, he made sure that nobody in the grandstand or the clubhouse could see him, but it wouldn’t have been a proper vengeance if Malicious couldn’t see him, so he made a little adjustment, and just as Malicious hit the far turn, trailing by his usual 20 lengths, up popped the gnarly little man, swinging the paddle for all he was worth.

  “I got you now, horse!” he screamed but Malicious took off like the devil was after him, which was exactly the case, and won the race by seven lengths.

  As he was being led to the winner’s circle, Malicious looked off to his left, and there was the gnarly little man, glaring at him.

  “I’ll be waiting for you next time, horse,” he promised, and sure enough, he was.

  And Malicious won that race by nine lengths.

  And the gnarly little man kept waiting, and Malicious kept moving into high gear every time he hit the far turn, and before long the crowds
fell in love with him, and Joe Hernandez, who called every race in California, became famous for crying “… and here comes Malish!”

  Santa Anita started selling Malish t-shirts 30 years before t-shirts became popular, and Hollywood sold Malish coffee mugs, and every time old Malish won, he made the national news. At the end of his seventh year, he even led the Rose Bowl parade in Pasadena. (Don’t take my word for it; there was a photo of it in Time.)

  By the time he turned eight years old, Malish started slowing down, and the only thing that kept him safe was that the gnarly little man was slowing down too, and one day he came to Malish’s stall, and this time he looked more tired than angry, and Malish just stared at him without kicking or biting.

  “Horse,” said the gnarly little man, “you got more gumption than most people I know, and I’m here to declare a truce. What do you say to that?”

  Malish whinnied, and the gnarly little man tossed him a couple of sugar cubes, and that was the last Malish ever did see of him.

  He lost his next eleven races, and then they retired him, and the California crowd fell in love with Seabiscuit, and that was that.

  Except that here and there, now and then, you can still find a couple of railbirds from the old days who will tell you about old Malish, the horse who ran like Satan himself was chasing him down the homestretch.

  That’s the story. There really was a Malicious, and he used to take off on the far turn like nobody’s business, and it’s all pretty much the truth, except for the parts that aren’t, and they’re pretty minor parts at that.

  Like I said, you can look it up.

  ***

  Posttime In Pink

  Author’s Note

  John Justin Mallory is a detective who finds himself in a fantasy New York. He has not only starred in three novels - Stalking the Unicorn, Stalking the Vampire, and Stalking the Dragon—but he has appeared in quite a few novelettes and stories as well. And while horses don’t race in this New York, it doesn’t mean that the tracks and the pari-mutuel machines have shut down.

  “So who do you like in the sixth?” asked Mallory as he stuck his feet up on the desk and began browsing through the .

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Winnifred Carruthers, pushing a wisp of gray hair back from her pudgy face and taking a sip of her tea. She was sitting at a table in the kitchen, browsing through the memoirs of a unicorn hunter and trying not to think about what the two donuts she had just eaten would do to her already ample midriff.

  “It’s a tough one to call,” mused Mallory, staring aimlessly around the magician’s apartment that he and Winnifred had converted into their office. Most of the mystic paraphernalia—the magic mirror, the crystal ball, the wands and pentagrams—had been removed. In their place were photos of Joe DiMaggio, Seattle Slew, a pair of Playboy centerspreads (on which Winnifred had meticulously drawn undergarments with a magic marker), and a team picture of the 1966 Green Bay Packers, which Mallory felt gave the place much more the feel of an office and which Winnifred thought was merely in bad taste. “Jumbo hasn’t run since he sat on his trainer last fall, and Tantor ran off the course in his last two races to wallow in the infield pond.”

  “Don’t you have anything better to do?” said Winnifred, trying to hide her irritation. “After all, we formed the Mallory & Carruthers Agency two weeks ago, and we’re still waiting for our first client.”

  “It takes time for word to get out,” replied Mallory.

  “Then shouldn’t we be out spreading the word after you shave and press your suit, of course?”

  Mallory smiled at her. “Detective agencies aren’t like cars. You can’t advertise a sale and wait for customers to come running. Someone has to need us first.”

  “Then won’t you at least stop betting next week’s food money on the races?”

  “In the absence of a desperate client, this is the only way I know of to raise money.”

  “But you’ve had six losing days in a row.”

  “I’m used to betting on horses in my New York,” replied Mallory defensively. “Elephants take awhile to dope out. Besides, they’re running at Jamaica, and they haven’t done that in my New York in 35 years; I’m still working out the track bias. But,” he added, “I’m starting to get the hang of it. Take Twinkle Toes, for instance. Everything I read in the Form led me to believe he could outrun Heavyweight at six furlongs.”

  “But he didn’t,” noted Winnifred.

  “Outrun Heavyweight? He certainly did.”

  “I thought he lost.”

  “By a nose.” Mallory grimaced. “Now, how the hell was I supposed to know that his nose was two feet shorter than Heavyweight’s?” He paused. “It’s just a matter of stockpiling information. Next time I’ll take that into consideration.”

  “What I am trying to say is that we can’t afford too many more next times,” said Winnifred. “And since you’re stranded here, in this Manhattan, it would behoove you to start trimming your—our—expenses.”

  “It’s my only indulgence.”

  “No it’s not,” said Winnifred.

  “It’s not?” repeated Mallory, puzzled.

  “What do you call that, if not an indulgence?” said Winnifred, pointing to the very humanlike but definitely feline creature perched atop the refrigerator.

  Mallory shrugged. “The office cat.”

  “This office can’t afford a cat—at least, not this one. She’s been drinking almost a gallon of milk a day, and the last time I went out shopping she phoned the local fishmonger and ordered a whale.”

  “Felina,” said Mallory, “is that true?”

  The catlike creature shook her head.

  “Are you saying you didn’t order it?” demanded Winnifred.

  “They couldn’t fit it through the doorway,” answered Felina, leaping lightly to the floor, walking over to Mallory, and rubbing her hip against his shoulder. “So it doesn’t count.”

  “You see?” said Winnifred, shrugging hopelessly. “She’s quite beyond redemption.”

  “This city’s got nine million people in it,” replied Mallory. “Only two of them didn’t desert me when I went up against the Grundy two weeks ago. You’re one of them; she’s the other. She stays.”

  Winnifred sighed and went back to sipping her tea, while Felina hopped onto the desk and curled her remarkably humanlike body around Mallory’s feet, purring contentedly.

  “Do you like the Grundy?” asked Felina after a moment’s silence.

  “How can one like the most evil demon on the East Coast?” replied Mallory. “Of course,” he added thoughtfully, “he makes a lot more sense than most of the people I’ve met here, but that’s a different matter.”

  “Too bad,” purred Felina.

  “What’s too bad?”

  “It’s too bad you don’t like the Grundy.”

  “Why?” asked Mallory suspiciously.

  “Because he’s on his way here.”

  “How do you know?”

  Felina smiled a very catlike smile. “Cat people know things that humans can only guess at.”

  “I don’t suppose you know what he wants?” continued Mallory.

  Felina nodded her head. “You.”

  Mallory was about to reply when a strange being suddenly materialized in the middle of the room. He was tall, a few inches over six feet, with two prominent horns protruding from his hairless head. His eyes were a burning yellow, his nose sharp and aquiline, his teeth white and gleaming, his skin a bright red. His shirt and pants were of crushed velvet, his cloak satin, his collar and cuffs made of the fur of some white polar animal. He wore gleaming black gloves and boots, and he had two mystic rubies suspended from his neck on a golden chain. When he exhaled, small clouds of vapor emanated from his mouth and nostrils.

  “We need to talk, John Justin Mallory,” said the Grundy, fixing the detective with a baleful glare as Felina arched her back and hissed at him and Winnifred backed away.

  “Whatever you’re s
elling, I’m not buying,” answered Mallory, not bothering to take his feet off the desk.

  “I am selling nothing,” said the Grundy. “In fact, I have come as a supplicant.”

  Mallory frowned. “A supplicant?”

  “A client, if you will.”

  “Why should I accept you as a client?” asked Mallory. “I don’t even like you.”

  “I need a detective,” said the Grundy calmly. “It is your function in life to detect.”

  “I thought it was my function to save people from mad dog killers like you.”

  “I kill no dogs,” said the Grundy, taking him literally. “Only people.”

  “Well, that makes everything all right then,” said Mallory sardonically.

  “Good. Shall we get down to business?”

  “You seem to forget that we’re mortal enemies, sworn to bring about each other’s downfall.”

  “Oh, that,” said the Grundy with a disdainful shrug.

  “Yes, that.”

  “The battle is all but over. I will win in the end.”

  “What makes you think so?” said Mallory.

  “Death always wins in the end,” said the demon. “But I have need of you now.”

  “Well, I sure as hell don’t have any need of you.”

  “Perhaps not—but you have need of this, do you not?” continued the Grundy, reaching into the air and producing a thick wad of bills.

  Mallory stared at the money for a moment, then sighed. “All right—what’s the deal?”

  “John Justin!” said Winnifred furiously.

  “You just said that we needed money,” Mallory pointed out.

  “Not his money. It’s dirty.”

  “Between the rent, the phone bill, and the grocery bills, we won’t have it long enough for any of the dirt to rub off,” said Mallory.

  “Well, I won’t be a party to this,” said Winnifred, turning her back and walking out the front door.

  “She’ll get over it,” Mallory said to the Grundy. “She just has this irrational dislike of Evil Incarnate.”