Grantville Gazette Volume 93

by Bjorn Hasseler

  He bent down and offered his hand to Domenico. "You are Giovanni Cassini? The Cassini? The one they named that space probe after? Well, I'm very delighted to meet you, young man."

  "We just gave him and Mr. Crovese a tour of our science labs," Signore Saluzzo said. "Care to join us for lunch?"

  "Oh, I wish I could," Signore Flannery said, "but I have to pick up some equipment for the game tomorrow."

  "Baseball?" Domenico blurted out, barely keeping his enthusiasm contained.

  "You like baseball? Well, why don't you guys come by the game tomorrow," Signore Flannery said, pointing his thumb toward the back of the high school. "It'll be played here out back. The Grantville Mountaineers versus the Jena Sliders. It's a five game championship series to determine who wins the first half of the season. It's Little League, boys your age. I run a small summer league of anywhere from eight to twelve teams, depending on interest. Come on by. You'll be my personal guests."

  Antonio was about to object, but Domenico was up in his face quickly. "Can we, Uncle? Please, can we?"

  What could he say in the midst of all these up-timers? "Very well, Domenico. But only for a short time. We have things to do."

  ****

  July 4, Day of Departure . . .

  Giovanni dared not show his face. There were too many people coming and going at the high school. He hid behind some trees, then some bushes, just to inch closer and closer to get a peek at the field. The bases had been picked up, and now a person was cutting the grass, riding some loud, red machine that clipped the grass beneath it and spewed it out of its side. A couple others were raking the dirt paths between the bases and making sure the white lines that ran from home plate to the outfield wall were patched and ready for the next game. There would be another game, and another, and another. He was certain of that. But not for him, not to Giovanni. He had to go back to Italy.

  He wanted to step forward, hop the fence, and just walk the bases, even if they weren't there at the moment. He wanted to hear the roar of the crowd when he swung his bat and feel the ping! of the ball as it struck his aluminum bat. The boys played with a mixture of aluminum and wooden bats. Giovanni didn't know which one he preferred, but what did it matter? When he hit the ball, the crowd would cheer, and he would run the bases, and they would love him, and he would be famous and rich and . . . have everything he had ever wanted.

  What do I want? It was a question that had plagued his thoughts ever since he and Uncle Antonio had arrived in Grantville. But why bother asking the question when he couldn't answer it? It didn't matter what he wanted, did it? It was Uncle Antonio's decision to make, and to a lesser extent, his mother and father, though in a time like this, he had wished that his parents had brought him to Grantville instead of Uncle Antonio. They, in their infinite ability to show him little concern, would have likely not cared what he wanted to grow up to be. Maybe. It was hard to know. He didn't know his mother and father like he knew Uncle Antonio. He wanted to fill little ‘Domenico's' mind with mathematics and chemistry and physics and astronomy, to be ready for a future he claimed was coming, whatever that meant. Those things were indeed appealing to Giovanni; he found fascination in all of them. But I want to play . . . I just want to play . . .

  He got up the courage to take several steps toward the field. Then he saw Uncle Antonio. He jumped behind the bushes. His uncle seemed angry, very angry. He talked to the people working the field. Giovanni could not hear what he was saying, but his animated expression, his hand waving, his pointing left and right, made it clear that he was asking them if they had seen his ward.

  He wanted to leap out and show himself, to apologize to Uncle Antonio for embarrassing him in front of all those people at the Higgins Hotel. He had embarrassed himself as well. He had embarrassed the family. And he would be punished for that, he knew. So he did not move, though he wanted to. What he had done, yelling at his uncle and running away, was inexcusable. But what else could he have done? Uncle Antonio wasn't listening. Nobody was listening.

  Uncle Antonio left. Giovanni watched him leave. The man seemed confused, uncertain as to where to go, where to look. Giovanni felt even worse now. But he did not move. He just sat there, hidden among the thick bushes, and watched his uncle walk away.

  I'll go to Jena, he thought, as he settled down to plan his next move. I'll join the Sliders and become an outfielder. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll join them, and they will go on to become a famous team. I will become a famous player, and everyone will love me . . . everyone will . . .

  He was exhausted, and before he finished the thought, he closed his eyes and fell fast asleep.

  ****

  The Big Game

  July 3

  At their luncheon, Principal Saluzzo had explained the basics of baseball as best as he could without the help of Coach Flannery. It all seemed pretty simple to Giovanni.

  Each team fielded nine players, one for each position on the field. When it was time for a team to bat, they switched, and the other team took to the field in defense.

  A regular Little League game was played in six innings, and each team had an opportunity to send at least three players up to bat each inning. A so-called "pitcher" stood about 45 feet away from the batter and threw the ball toward home plate. The batter then tried to hit the ball with his bat and get to at least first base before being "tagged out." If a player managed to touch each base and run to home plate without being tagged out, they scored a "run."

  A player was ruled "out" when he got three strikes, or when someone in the field caught the ball before it hit the ground, or if he managed to throw the ball over to the base that the runner was running to before the runner touched the base. There were other little rules here and there that Principal Saluzzo threw in, "exceptions" to the rules he called them, which dictated the ebb and flow of the action on the "diamond," but that was the essence of the game.

  The team with the most runs at the end of six innings won. Giovanni immediately asked what happened if there was a tie score at the end of the sixth inning.

  Principal Saluzzo was not entirely sure, but he thought Coach Flannery had established the rule of one extra inning. If the score was still tied after an extra seventh inning, then it went into the record as a tie.

  As the rules were being explained, Uncle Antonio looked utterly bored. Giovanni was fascinated with all the details and could not understand why his uncle was so disinterested. For when you peeled away all of the rules and the exceptions to those rules, baseball was nothing more than mathematics and physics. Little Giovanni could understand that. Why couldn't Uncle Antonio?

  As Coach Flannery's guests, they were placed along the first base line, so that Giovanni could get a good look at the base runners. And as the game progressed, he picked up a lot of those little rules and exceptions that Principal Saluzzo had mentioned in passing. There were subtleties in the rules that were difficult to appreciate until you actually watched a game. Giovanni was learning a lot.

  As the coach had said, today's game was between the Grantville Mountaineers and the Jena Sliders. There seemed to be as many Slider fans as there were Mountaineers, which confirmed its importance. Today's game was the third in a five game championship. The Sliders were up two games to none. If they won this third game, the series was over, and a new season would begin in a couple weeks. If the Mountaineers won today's game, however, the series would continue to a fourth and possibly final fifth game to determine a victor. This was an important game indeed.

  "Isn't it exciting, Uncle?" Giovanni said over the cheering crowd. One up-time lady nearby shouted so loudly that Uncle Antonio winced and covered his ears.

  "What did you say?" he asked.

  "Isn't it exciting?"

  "Oh yes," Uncle Antonio shouted. "Very exciting. What inning is the game in?"

  "Bottom of the fourth. The Mountaineers have two outs and players on first and second. The score is tied three to three. The big boy is coming up to the plate."

  Th
e "big boy," as one of the fans nearby kept calling him, was an up-timer kid who had gotten his growth spurt early. This was a league for eleven and twelve-year-olds, but this kid looked every bit fourteen. Some of the Slider fans were booing and hissing and crying foul, claiming incorrectly that it wasn't fair for a boy that size to be playing. The boy had already come up to bat twice. He had hit a pop fly into center field for his first out; his second was a line drive between second and third that was first bobbled by the shortstop, but who then quickly recovered and threw him out at first. The boy was big, indeed, and if he managed to hit the ball, it went far, but he was slow, so Giovanni did not think that the boy's size gave him an advantage over any of the other boys.

  The Sliders were good, very good. They handled the ball well in the field, and they were all down-timers. The thought of a whole team of down-time boys just like him . . . well, it was almost hard to believe, but there they were, hitting, running, making plays.

  Fascinating . . .

  Big Boy swung the bat. Strike one! He stepped away from the plate, clearly upset at himself for swinging at that pitch, one high and outside.

  The Jena pitcher was amazing in Giovanni's eyes. He was short of stature, but he had a decent fast ball and a good eye for the corners of the strike zone. Giovanni had watched each pitch—the wind up, the release, the flight of the ball towards the plate—and noticed how the ball subtly deviated course from time to time. Not only because no one could throw a perfect pitch every time—Giovanni was certain of that—but the boy changed his stance and his arm position in the wind up to try to make it go where he wanted it to. Could I be a pitcher? Giovanni wondered. It's just physics and ball contr—

  Fwang! Big Boy swung his aluminum bat and struck the ball, but it flew foul, and unfortunately in the other direction, away from Giovanni and his uncle. Darn it, he thought, reciting a word he'd heard many up-timers use. Uncle Antonio had scolded him on its use, so he always cursed now in his mind. The up-timers had a number of colorful phrases to choose from.

  Two strikes. Now Big Boy and the pitcher focused as the Mountaineer fans gave rousing encouragement from their stands, and the Jena fans shouted in kind for their boy on the mound. It was a chaotic mixture of English and German. Giovanni understood little of it, but the tiny hairs on his neck and arms rose up like the fans around them. He stood and shouted in Italian, "Fuori campo! Fuori campo! Vai in cortile! Vai in cortile!"

  Go yard, go yard, as he had heard the fans shout the last time Big Boy had stepped up to the plate. Uncle Antonio had translated it for him, and Antonio assumed it meant home run. So, he shouted Fuori campo! Fuori campo! Adding his joy to the cacophony of voices that rose up towards heaven from their little speck of Earth. And Giovanni imagined that if God himself were looking down on them, he too would be shouting Fuori campo!

  The Jena pitcher released the ball, a slower pitch this time, down and away. Big Boy was ready. He waited, waited. Then he swung.

  His bat connected soundly, a nice meaty Fwunk! that sent the ball high and to right field. But alas, not far enough, as the Jena outfielder easily moved up and waited for the ball to come down into his glove. Giovanni's enthusiasm deflated as he waited for the inevitable.

  But wait! The boy miscalculated his move. The ball hit off the lip of his glove and bounced to the ground.

  "Go! Go!" Coach Flannery screamed as he waved the runners forward.

  The Mountaineer boy who had been standing on first base made it to second before the boy in the outfield recovered the ball. The second base runner rounded third and was waved at to keep going.

  They're going for home? Giovanni couldn't believe it. The Mountaineer boy was fast, yes, but all the way home? It didn't seem possible, and yet, there he was, rounding third and racing for home plate.

  "Vai! Vai!" Giovanni shouted. Uncle Antonio pulled him back.

  "Domenico, please! You're embarrassing yourself."

  Giovanni didn't care. He sat down, but continued to shout as the Jena outfielder threw to second. The second baseman turned and slung the ball toward home plate.

  It was going to be close. The second baseman's throw wasn't very strong. It didn't reach the plate. Instead, it bounced just past the pitcher's mound, then again, and again. The runner fell and slid.

  The Jena pitcher took position, his big glove waiting.

  Slide.

  Bounce.

  Slide . . .

  The catcher scooped up the ball and swiped his glove across the slider's leg. An agonizing pause, and then the umpire shouted, "Out!"

  A collective "awwww" ran through the crowd.

  "Goddam—"

  "Domenico!" Uncle Antonio said, giving a light, but firm, tap on the back of Giovanni's head. "Do not blaspheme!"

  "I apologize, Uncle." And he was sorry. He had gotten caught up in the excitement, the drama, the energy of the moment. It was unlike any feeling that he had ever experienced before. His heart, his mind, were racing. He felt an association with the Mountaineers, as if he were on the team, as if he were Big Boy swinging that bat, trying to "go yard" as the crowd shouted their encouragement. It did not matter that he was just a little Italian boy from Perinaldo. Today, he was a Grantville Mountaineer.

  The Mountaineer fans quieted down and buried their disappointment in a congratulatory clap for the effort, for it was a glorious effort, and it certainly scared the Jena coaches, who were now rather animated on their side of the field. There were only two innings left, and could they pull off another win? Giovanni did not know, but was excited to find out.

  Before the fifth inning started, Coach Flannery went to the pitcher's mound. He held something in his hand which was attached to a long cord that unraveled behind him as he walked. He spoke into the thing in his hand. "Is this thing on?"

  Uncle Antonio translated, and the answer was yes. Coach Flannery's voice rang out across the field from a box near the Mountaineers' bench. What an amazing place was this little town of Grantville. One could even project one's voice through a wire.

  "I want to thank everyone for coming," Coach Flannery said, "and I want to thank the Jena Sliders for travelling all the way here." His greeting was met with claps. When it died down, he continued. "Before we begin the next inning, I want to announce that we have a very important guest in the stands today. All the way from Perinaldo, Italy. You up-timers will likely know him from his last name, but he's come to Grantville with his uncle, and they have graciously agreed to be my guests today. Please welcome Giovanni Domenico Cassini and his uncle Antonio Maria Crovese. Come on down!"

  Coach Flannery waved them onto the field. Uncle Antonio balked, shook his head. He stood and accepted the warm greeting, but refused to take the field. Giovanni, on the other hand, was out of his seat and heading to the mound before Uncle Antonio could do anything about it.

  Coach Flannery shook Giovanni's hand when he reached the mound and then patted him on the shoulder. He then began reciting Giovanni's credits, his scientific accomplishments, which was absurd on the face of it, since Giovanni had not accomplished a thing yet, at least not in this timeline. But that didn't seem to bother the crowd. They seemed genuinely impressed. Even Uncle Antonio sat there smiling, despite his discomfort with the situation, at the accolades his ward was receiving. "I want to thank you and your uncle for attending today, and we hope that, when you return to Italy, you'll tell all your friends and neighbors about the greatest game on Earth . . . baseball!"

  The crowd approved of the emphasis that Coach Flannery had placed on the last word. When they were finished cheering, a young up-time lady in a Mountaineers' cap and uniform came forward and gave the coach a cap, a glove, and a ball. "And we want you to take these home with you as well, with our thanks. And if any of your friends or neighbors don't believe the stories you will tell them of the greatest game you've ever seen, show them these . . . and they'll believe you."

  Giovanni looked toward his uncle before accepting the gifts. Uncle Antonio hesitated, looked around him
at the fans who waited in kind, then nodded.

  ****

  "Awww, but that was a great game!"

  Giovanni couldn't contain his excitement as they walked back to the hotel. The Mountaineers had pulled it out. Bottom of the sixth, boys on second and third. One out. A long pop fly to center field sent the runner from third base home with room to spare. Four to three.

  What a game!

  He wore his hat and glove. He was pretending to be an outfielder. He threw the ball up and then ran after it and caught it before it hit the ground. Then he'd shout, "Out!" and do it again and again. "I didn't think they were going to do it," he said, as Uncle Antonio followed quietly. "I thought the Sliders were going to throw the boy out just like they did in the fourth. Didn't you, Uncle?"

  "I suppose."

  "Yes, oh, what a great game. Can we see another before we go? Maybe they'd let me bat or run the bases at least. In between innings. If you ask Coach Flannery, I'm sure he'd—"

  "That's enough!"

  Giovanni came to a dead halt, and this time, he missed the ball. It hit the sidewalk and rolled away. Uncle Antonio reached down and snatched the cap off Giovanni's head.

  "You listen to me, Domenico." Uncle Antonio grabbed Giovanni's shoulders, knelt, and stared into his eyes. "I have allowed you one game, and that is all. You will now put this wretched sport behind you and focus your mind on what we came here for."

  Giovanni shook his head, now frightened. "I—I don't understand, Uncle. Why are you so angry? Baseball is fun, and it's really nothing more than math and ph—"

  Uncle Antonio drew back his hand as if he were about to strike the boy in the face. Giovanni pulled back, terrified of his uncle for the first time in his life, shocked beyond understanding. He did not understand what was happening and why Uncle Antonio was so angry. He put his small arm up to shield his face.

  Uncle Antonio did not strike him. Instead, he let Giovanni go, stood, straightened his shirt, coat, and hat, and quietly walked over to where the ball had rolled. He picked it up, turned, smiled, and nodded to the onlookers who seemed just as shocked at the outburst. He then handed the ball to Giovanni, and said in a whisper, "I will give you the dignity of keeping your gifts, but I see now that it was a mistake coming here. These . . . people, and their ways, have corrupted your thinking. We will cut our visit short and leave promptly tomorrow morning after breakfast, put Grantville and baseball behind us, and no more will we speak of it. Do you understand?"