by John Shirley
Grace dug in her toe, lifted her bat above her shoulder, flexed her thighs in her stance. Arendsen bent at the waist, nodded to the catcher, and went into her high kick, that incredible kick that made her look like a seven-foot ballet dancer.
Fastball. Grace swung, pivoting on her heels, the bat whistling. Miss.
She stepped out of the batter’s box and took a couple of swings. Arendsen circled the mound, bent to the rosin bag, stretched her shoulders. Grace saw the coach flashing signs at her, and she nodded again. He wore a glum look, and she knew he thought the game was already over. The runner took a long lead at first. Arendsen glanced at him from under her cap, but didn’t bother with a throw. Her eyes came back to Grace, gleaming with determination across the sixty feet and six inches’ distance. Grace paused at the edge of the batter’s box. She felt the ump’s questioning glance, but she was transfixed by Arendsen’s gaze.
She knew all about the Newsmaker’s stem-cell modifications, her incredible speed, coordination, the flexibility in her hips and knees and shoulders. She knew her height was enhanced, her musculature, her vision.
But Ricky Arendsen’s mother’s patent had failed. The other recipients of the engineered virus had been failures. One child was born with a beautiful body and incredible strength but with a brain that never matured. Another grew so fast in infancy that her bones deformed. One volunteer gave birth to twins who became implacable competitors—with each other. They had to be institutionalized when they were five.
Ricky Arendsen—and only Ricky Arendsen—had grown into a superb athlete, with a mind to match. But the gleam Grace saw in her eye was all hers. No virus had made her the competitor she was. She was a ballplayer. A gamer.
And so was Grace.
Grace’s nerves vanished as if they never were. As if this was just another game, another ballpark, one in a long season. The din seemed to fade from her hearing as if someone had turned down the volume on a radio. She nodded to the umpire, glanced briefly at the coach, turned her face to Ricky Arendsen. She wanted—really wanted—that fastball.
The second pitch missed way outside, and Grace raised her eyebrows. Arendsen tiring? The catcher fell to his left, barely spearing the ball before it escaped to the wall. The runner dashed to second base. Scoring position.
Grace grinned and lifted her bat, painting air circles. The coach stared at her, eyes hopeless. She watched Arendsen shake off her catcher’s signs, one, two, three.
She’d thrown nothing but fastballs to Grace. But now it was the ninth inning, a runner on, only one away. Would she do it again? Grace dug her feet into the dirt and eyed the pitcher.
The kick, the windup, Arendsen’s impossibly long arms high over her head . . .
Time slowed, in that way it sometimes did, that way that let Grace Everett know the pitch that was coming was all hers. Great ballplayers, she knew, saw pitches differently, understood their speed and trajectory and spin in a way no ordinary mortal could. Grace didn’t know if she had it in her to be a great ballplayer, but once in a while she experienced that perfect moment of perception, that pinnacle of sight and sense and instinct. This pitch, turning seam over seam on its sixty-foot-six-inch path, was no fastball. Grace couldn’t have said how she knew, but she knew. It was the splitter, Arendsen’s famous, nasty pitch, that fell over the plate as if it had run into a wall.
Grace’s heels braced, her gut tightened, her thighs flexed as she wheeled on that ball. She knew exactly where it would be. And she connected.
She felt the impact from her shoulders to her toes, that sweet, hard jolt that sent the baseball leaping for the infield, bouncing in the base path, dodging the shortstop as if it had eyes.
Grace didn’t watch it go. She knew. She tossed her bat away and dug for first base, head down to hide her grin.
As she approached first base, she looked up and saw the coach waving her on. She spun on toward second, seeing Ditch Daniels scoop up the ball—her ball—and heave it toward home plate. She could hear the fans again, the shouts of dismay, the yells of approbation. She pulled up on second, panting, grinning. A double. An RBI. Whatever happened now, she’d had her chance, and it felt great. She felt like she had wings on her heels.
She flicked a quick glance at Arendsen.
Ricky Arendsen stood, baseball in hand, watching Grace. She lifted the baseball with a flick of her wrist. A salute. Then she pulled down her cap and turned to face the next batter.
“You think I don’t know what you’re up to?” demanded the Skipper, glaring down at Ricky. She sat with her head back against the dugout wall, her cap tipped up, her legs stretched out to their full length.
“What, Skip?” she asked languidly.
“You wouldn’t take Ray’s calls, you wouldn’t use the curve or the change. You just had to see if she could hit your fastball.”
“I threw the splitter, Skip. She got lucky.”
“Well, now the damned game is tied, and their closer’s out there. We’ll probably go into extra innings. You’re already in trouble, Ricky! What did you think you were doing?”
She pulled her cap over her eyes. “Just playing ball, Skip. I’ll get ’em next inning.”
“You will not.” He wheeled and stamped away to the bullpen phone.
Ricky abruptly sat up. “Skip, no! Don’t take me out. I’ll get ’em, I promise.”
He stopped and glared back at her. “Oh, yeah? You know what your count is?”
“I’m fine. Look, I’m sorry.” Ricky stood up and went to stand beside the manager. “I just—” She shrugged. “I wanted to see what she’s got. This may be the only day she gets.”
“It’s a fuckin’ game, Rick,” the Skip said with disgust. “It’s not tea and crumpets.”
She stiffened, and her cheeks flamed. “Come on. I get enough of that from the stands.”
He hesitated, and then his stiff stance relaxed. “Yeah, yeah, I know, Rick. Sorry. It’s been tough on you. It’s tough every time you go out.”
“I don’t care about that, Skip, you know I don’t. But let me have another inning.”
He shrugged. “What the hell. It’s early in the season.” He pointed a thick finger at Ray, listening from the bench. “But remember, you pay attention to Ray’s calls, okay? Your losses are mine, too, and the rest of the guys’. No more grandstanding.”
Ricky grinned at him and touched the bill of her cap with her forefinger.
In the bottom of the ninth, Grace watched the closer mow down the batters in order: one, two, three. She hardly had to move her feet. In the tenth, Ricky Arendsen was still pitching, unbelievably. Her shaky start seemed to have evaporated with Grace’s double, and she, too, started mowing down batters.
In the dugout, the manager groaned, watching her. “She oughta be beat,” he said. “There oughta be nothing left in that arm.”
Somebody swore. “That’s Arendsen for you.”
Somebody else said, “Too bad we don’t have our own Lab Rat.”
Grace stiffened at that, but the player closest to her—the left fielder, a veteran who’d been one of her heroes when she was in high school—patted her shoulder. “We’re doin’ okay with Little Red, here,” he said gruffly. “Game’d be over if it weren’t for The Natural.”
Two or three of the guys added their compliments. Grace blushed and ducked her head.
She didn’t have another at bat until the twelfth. They were still tied at two. Arendsen had settled into a rhythm, and since the ninth, no batter had looked at more than five pitches. There had been two hits, three guys on base, but no one scored. Arendsen’s count was high, but it didn’t seem to matter, to her or to her manager.
The fans seemed to have fallen into a rhythm, too. When Grace appeared in her batting helmet, the chant of Natural, Natural washed out across the field. The stands were still full. No one, it seemed, had left the ballpark. They’d bought tickets to see The Natural go against the Lab Rat, and they were getting their money’s worth.
Arendsen ha
d stopped trying to tempt her with the fastball. This time she threw a curve, a change, a splitter that missed outside, and then another change, that also missed outside.
Grace stepped out of the box to catch her breath. Two and two. She had that feeling in her gut again. One last chance.
She heaved a deep breath and stepped back in. She lifted her bat and met Ricky Arendsen’s cool gaze across the expanse of grass and dirt.
Ricky rolled her left shoulder. Her arm, at last, was starting to tire. Heat ran from her shoulder to her elbow, and she felt the warmth in her ribs and in her wrist as well. When Ray flashed the sign for the splitter, she hesitated. He looked at her for a long moment and then called time and trotted out to the mound, pushing up his mask as he went. She stepped down to meet him, and they turned their backs to the box.
“You okay?” Ray asked.
“Getting tired,” she admitted.
“Wanta call in Baxter?”
Ricky glanced out to the bullpen and saw that Baxter and one of the middle relievers were both up and throwing. She scratched her neck. “No,” she said finally. “No, I want this one, this inning. Get this over with.”
“Yeah. But you don’t want to risk letting Everett get another hit.”
Ricky looked back over her left shoulder, where Everett was swinging the bat and squinting out at them. Shadows stretched across the infield now, fingers of darkness pointing away from the setting sun. “What do you think, Ray? You think the splitter?”
“Yup.”
She nodded, and he jogged back to the plate. She bent at the waist, then straightened. Everett’s blue eyes glittered slightly as they met hers.
She lifted her left knee, high, and brought her hands above her head. She threw the splitter, but it got away from her. Chin music, they called it. It sure wasn’t anywhere it was supposed to be. It didn’t drop, but spun directly at Everett’s face.
The rookie spun backward, landing on her butt in the dirt, her bat dropped, her helmet gone. The screams of the fans intensified, an eruption of rage.
Ray called time again and sprinted to the mound. When he got there, Skip was there, too. Ricky turned her back, pulled off her cap to rub her fingers through her hair, and ducked her head to hear what the Skipper had to say.
They were shouting it now, Natural, Natural, against the screams of Lab Rat. But they were wrong, Grace reflected. This wasn’t about modified genes, about great eyesight or elongated fingers or a designer skeleton. This was about desire.
Grace wanted it. She didn’t want to walk; she didn’t want to get on base by being struck by a pitch. She wanted a hit. She wanted to win, not because of Arendsen, not because it was her first day in the big leagues, not to prove the Natural could do it. She wanted to win because it was baseball and she was in the game.
She lifted her bat to her shoulder and met the Newsmaker’s eyes once again. Ricky Arendsen straightened her shoulders, dropped her chin. She wasn’t looking at her catcher now. She was looking at Grace.
Grace looked back. Her bat circled above her, and time slowed down.
It should have been something crafty, of course, another splitter, or the curve, or the change. But she knew in her bones the fastball was coming. She would have to anticipate, to be there before Arendsen was, to see it barreling toward her . . .
And she did. This time the crack of her bat made her wrists ache, drove her heels deep into the dirt around home plate. The ball exploded from her bat, a long, high arc that had nowhere to land except in the left-field bleachers, far beyond the reach of the outfielder, into the outstretched hands of the fans. A roar greeted her as she jogged around the bases. Arendsen watched her, tossing a new ball in her hand, turning on the mound as she made her circuit.
Before she reached home, the manager was on the mound and the catcher was on his way to join the conference. Grace touched the plate and turned to the dugout, the chant following her. Natural, Natural. The coach met her, grinning, and swatted her rear as she passed him.
Ricky said, “No, Skip. Just this inning.”
“Hey, Rick, I gave you more time than I should have. You lost her.”
Ricky stared down at him, her jaw clenching. “I didn’t lose her. She hit the fastball. Just like she hit the splitter. There’s a reason she hit over .300 in Triple-A.”
Ray grunted, “True, Skip. It was a great pitch. They both were.”
The Skipper glared at them both for a long moment, and Ricky saw movement over her shoulder as the umpire started out toward the mound to break it up. “Okay,” the Skipper growled, half under his breath. “Okay. But this is it, Rick.”
“Right. Thanks, Skip.”
The last two outs were easy. One batter fanned on the curve, the other on the splitter. Ricky walked with deliberate slowness back to the dugout, letting the catcalls fall around her like warm rain. She stretched her arms, her shoulders, and reached for her batting helmet. It was the bottom of the order, and she was the bottom of the bottom. She had never hit .300, not even in high school. It didn’t help that she made such a big strike zone.
Ditch Daniels singled to right. Ray came next, waging a long battle at the plate, but it ended with Ray flying out to short, not even advancing the runner. Williams, the third baseman, grounded to third. And then it was Ricky’s turn.
The closer smirked at her, expecting an easy out, anticipating the W. Ditch poised just off first base. At second, Everett half-crouched, mitt at the ready for Ditch’s steal attempt.
Whenever she came up to bat, Ricky thought of her father. Her mother, the doctor, the research scientist, had never forgiven him for encouraging Ricky’s enthusiasm for athletics. When she decided baseball was her game, he spent hours lobbing balls to her, playing catch, and later, catching her first pitches. When the virus failed in every case except her daughter’s, Ricky’s mother hoped that Ricky’s achievements would prove her right after all, validate her tireless, all-consuming endeavors. But Ricky’s father—who had spent six years in the minor leagues in his youth—found her athletic ability his only consolation for what he regarded as betrayal by his wife. It was when the two of them divorced, and Ricky overheard their last bitter argument, that she learned her mother had injected herself with the engineered virus without telling her father. Ricky was already determined to be the first woman to play major-league baseball. She felt no resentment, but her father never willingly spoke to her mother again.
What she remembered when she came to the plate was her dad laughing that as a hitter she made a great pitcher.
The closer’s first pitch was a low strike, a neat fastball just at the knees. It was in the zone. She swung, but it dropped away over the plate. She missed by two inches. The catcher threw hard to second, but Ditch was in there, standing up. Tying run in scoring position.
The next two pitches Ricky let go, seeing before they reached her that they would be outside, tumbling off to the catcher’s left. The fourth pitch was a slider, the pitch Ricky hated the most. It came inside just at belt level, a nasty height for a batter with long arms. She bent back away from it, and the umpire called a second strike.
The closer tried to tempt her with the change, but Ricky knew by his stance, a slight hesitation at the release point, what he was throwing. It dropped too soon, bouncing right off the edge of the bag. Ditch was on it, tearing to third before the catcher had his mask off. Full count. Runner ninety feet away. A little spark of hope flickered in Ricky’s belly, and she called time to eye the coach’s signs and ponder what the next pitch might be.
As she stepped back in, she glanced out to the infield. Everett looked back, her cap pulled low, that skinny ponytail flopping over one shoulder. The infield was fully in shadow now. Game time.
Ricky lifted her bat, loosened her shoulders. Okay, she wasn’t the hitter Everett was. But she could keep the game alive, get something. She eyed the closer. What would she throw, if she were on the mound and the game were on the line, the stands packed, the press box jammed? She would
n’t take a chance walking the batter and facing the top of the lineup. She’d throw her very best pitch and locate as if she were doing surgery. This guy didn’t have a splitter, but he had a mean slider, if it didn’t miss.
The pitch looked as if it would be outside, but she knew it wouldn’t. It would turn, whip across the plate at the last moment, slide across the corner, jam her hands. She watched the pitch come, seeing it so clearly she could almost see the seams revolve. She thought of Everett, poised just beyond the infield. Okay, Gracie. Try this.
The din from the stands deafened Grace, and the tension in the ballpark electrified the short red hairs on her arms. Lab Rat, Lab Rat. Did they ever shout for Arendsen?
Arendsen slapped at the last pitch, and it spiked between Grace and the shortstop. The shortstop leaped to his left, but the ball bounced just beyond his reach. Grace launched herself like an arrow, arms extended, torso parallel to the ground. She hit with a mighty grunt, rolled, closed her mitt tight, and hoped for the best.
As she bounced to her feet, the roar from the crowd had changed somehow. Cheers blurred the chant as Ricky Arendsen loped to first base. Ditch Daniels charged, head down, toward home. Grace opened her mitt, found the ball in it, seized it, and threw.
The ball smacked into the catcher’s mitt just one split second after Daniels crossed the plate. Ricky Arendsen, one foot on first base, grinned across the diamond. Tied again.
Chagrined, Grace ducked her head, brushing at the infield dirt on her uniform.
The next batter smacked a double into right field, and the closer, getting desperate, threw the next man four straight balls. The third man in the order hit a long, looping fly ball that dropped into left field, and Arendsen galloped easily into home to score the winning run.
It was over. Over for the night. Over for Grace.
Her feet felt like lead as she crossed the infield. She kept her eyes down, not wanting to look at the fans, to look up into the now-shadowed bleachers, at the flashing scoreboard with its garish ads and celebratory displays. It was over. Her big chance. She allowed herself one glance at Arendsen before she stepped down into the dugout.
