King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court

by Kim Iverson Headlee

  ’Twas no small wonder, then, that our world plunged into a centuries-long era of intellectual and political darkness after the Yankee was done with making everything “better.”

  Since this is not the same century that gave birth to that meddling ass, I shall try not to inflict the same level of damage upon this era that he did upon mine.

  I do not, however, make any promises.

  Chapter XIX:

  Baseball as a Trade

  A FORTNIGHT AFTER the date of his original promise, Sandy finally produced the list of candidates for the seven hitters I had wanted to acquire in lieu of the overpriced Don MacDougal. One of the players I selected was MacDougal’s younger (and far less expensive, being one of my own farmboys) brother Dennis, a second baseman. Genetics do not guarantee similar performances, I know good and well from having observed Sir Gawaine best his younger brothers in tournaments—Agravaine and Mordred usually got the worst of their brother’s drubbings—but Dennis MacDougal’s offensive and defensive stats looked quite handsome, as did the man himself on his video, and thus I elected to take a chance on him.

  From Sandy’s report I learned that Duke Southmarch would be able to enter spring training to vie for the position of the Knights’ starting catcher after languishing most of the postseason on IR, nursing a sore throwing shoulder. Another player returning to active status, who had twisted his knee in the final postseason Banner game while making a superb lunging catch and off-footed throw to get an out, was the shortstop Mark Sonoma. Those were the freebies; no further contract negotiations required. I had hoped for one or two additional candidates in this category—the damned Connecticut Yankees can afford hundreds of millions in acquisitions each year; I and my Knights cannot—yet,—but all the other players coming off IR were pitchers.

  The free-agent bargains I chose included Paris’s outfielder Sonny LeDuc; the left-hitting, left-throwing first baseman from Altoona, Brian “Southpaw” Blevins; and a promising, drop-dead gorgeous third baseman, Tacoma’s Steve Sotherland. The only player I had to do a bit of horse-trading to acquire, a free agent from the Nîmes Crocodiles, was center fielder Maurice Marchand. His most recent .349 season and seven-year .324 career cost me a topflight right-handed closer, three future draft picks, and two hundred fifty thousand pounds. I deemed Maurice to be worth every last farthing, because his LIPS (that is to say, his Late-Inning Pressure Situations batting average) was reported to be a sexy .363…and the lips of his mouth, thanks in no small part to his glorious French heritage, looked sexy, too.

  All in all, quite an elegant haul.

  One issue, however, concerned me.

  While, as a rule, I did not put much stock in the Yankee’s writings, owing to the fact that he was a deluded lowborn ass, he did record droplets of wisdom amongst the torrent of his far less savory droppings. One observation cut me to the quick: while evaluating the potential of knight-errantry as a trade, and while conceding that it could be a profitable venture given fortunate circumstances, he correctly identified its speculative (and therefore risky, for economic as well as physical reasons) nature, concluding that, “No sound and legitimate business can be established on a basis of speculation.”

  I felt the hit as soon as I read his statement. For what is baseball, even within its highest echelons, other than pure speculation upon players’ performances, not only as individuals, but as a group?

  And it took me, what, five years to figure this out? Fine; so being “The Wise” does not always make me “The Quick.”

  I had already begun to see an increase in revenues based upon the decisions I had been making, especially since taking direct control of the team’s helm after finishing my duties in regard to President Malory’s re-election campaign, and yet in the face of the Yankee’s pronouncement, it seemed to me that my fine enterprise could collapse upon itself at any moment. I voiced my concerns to Sandy, and he said:

  “The truth, Boss, is that the entire baseball system does implode, now and then, player strikes and worldwide economic downturns being the biggest contributing factors. A team can’t make money when they can’t sell tickets, no matter how many endorsements and other sublicensing revenue sources the players pull in. We cannot control the economy, the players’ greed, their popularity with fans or companies, or their performances or injuries; but we can mitigate these factors somewhat by manipulating ticket pricing and player contracts, and by relying on statistics and historic similar-player comparisons to forecast performances.”

  Whereupon Sandy started his mill to grinding out the finer points regarding which statistics make the best trend indicators for hitting, pitching, fielding, and base running, citing examples and player comps dating back—I jest not—a hundred and fifty years. It was “Adjusted OPS” this, and “True Average” that, and “Defense-Independent ERA” the other thing, on and on and on yet some more until I thought my ears would begin to bleed. I cast an audio-muffling spell just in case.

  While the magically muted Sandy-mill continued its verbal production, I continued musing about the comparison of baseball to knight-errantry, and knighthood as a larger whole. The similarities bedazzled me. As with players who eschew entry into free-agentry out of loyalty to their team, you have those knights who flock to your castle out of loyalty to you, their beloved sovereign. To fill out the ranks of the knights you require to protect your castle and lands, you seek to recruit worthies who win tournaments, lead successful campaigns to conquer other castles, or fulfill (and survive) difficult quests…not counting the Quest for the Holy Grail, for the only knights to survive that ordeal were fit for nothing more strenuous than to live out the remainder of their days as monks, whether they admitted that fact to themselves or not. (A most noble retirement, to be sure, and God forgive me if I have implied otherwise,—but completely inappropriate for fulfilling one’s own security needs.) You recruit your selected worthies by bribery: your daughter’s hand in marriage and, by implication, the chance one day to rule your kingdom after you; the offer to become your official royal consort, with all the rights and privileges this entails; a revenue-rich parcel of land; or the equivalent in cold, hard treasure.

  Having no daughters myself, and since my husband King Uriens frowned upon my open use of royal consorts (but discreet bedchamber pursuits were fine by him), this left me the latter two options for recruiting knights: land, or treasure; usually in that order. In baseball the order was reversed—players preferred the lion’s share of their worth to be remunerated in cash, though occasionally they might negotiate a mansion for themselves and family, or a nice Mediterranean villa for their aging mother. To the latter requests I always agreed: ’tis hard to say no to such a noble demonstration of filial loyalty.

  “Queen Morgan, did you hear my question?”

  By this time, Sandy had raised his voice sufficiently to pierce my muffling spell. I reasoned it must have been a question of immense import for him to have done this, so I dispelled the spell, explained (even though no clause in the Royal Rulebook requires me to explain myself to a subordinate) that I had become lost in thought, and bade him repeat his query.

  “I asked whether you use your magic to enhance players’ performances.”

  The cheek! The unconscionable, unmitigated cheek!

  Once I had realized how ridiculous and suspicious magically boosted players could appear, I swore off such spells,—and for Sandy to have asked me this after I had made my personal promise to him demonstrated such a lack of faith and trust on his part that only one possible response remained:

  “Sandy Carter, you impudent ass, you are fired!”

  Chapter XX:

  The Ogres’ Stadium

  THIS TENURE WITHOUT Sandy at my side lasted a solid three months, clear into May, when I hit upon another idea to improve the Knights’ fortunes but craved his advice to bring the idea to fruition. Since all the teams’ manager positions were filled for the season, including the Knights’ fateful hiring of the knowledgeable but ever so dour (and there
fore unattractive to me) Ewan McBain to replace Sandy, I chanced upon the latter shuffling through an unemployment queue one day.

  A side word, if I may, kind reader, before I recommence my history. As Our Lord Jesu Christ foretold, “the poor you shall always have with you,” so it is even to this day upon the shores of this alien century into which I have been cast. The Church having failed in its sacred duty to minister to the needs of these unfortunates—through no fault of its own, since there exist millions more than the system was ever designed to accommodate—it has fallen upon civil governments to fill the gaps. Hence the phenomenon of the unemployment office, a sad sea of resigned individuals who appear every week to collect their dole. The honest ones make an honest go of attempting to secure whatever work is reported to be available, be it parking cars or mucking toilets; the dishonest nod their way through the compulsory interview, collect the proffered card inscribed with name and number and address of the portajohn company with openings that week, pocket their cash, and depart without a backward glance. The sidewalk outside was white with portajohn cards being scuffed around in a parody of a football game between the folks in the queue.

  Amongst this sorry lot I found my Sandy shuffling and scuffling and snuffling along with the rest of his “peers.” I sidled up next to him, ignoring the whistles and leers directed my way, and tried to attract his attention. He gave me an odd, puzzled look, as if he believed I were somebody else, and whispered, “Is it really—you?”

  I chuckled. “Of course, you silly adorable lug. Who else?”

  Sandy gave his head a slight shake. “I thought you were my—that is, I was just thinking about…” His expression grew frank. “Why are you haunting me?”

  I forgave his understandable peevishness, dismissed his strange choice of words (though later wished I hadn’t), and asked him whether he would consider being rehired as my special assistant. The poor dear eagerly said he would, and thus did I welcome him back into my court.

  This prompted a veritable riot as men and women clamored round me, begging and pleading for jobs, and cursing me when I refused them. Sandy was a complete daisy through this, bellowing at people to back off and threatening to punch them if they did not. Since I wanted no trouble with the constabulary, being as two or three were demonstrating an interest in the proceedings, I enchanted the minds of the unemployed troublemakers to make Sandy seem as an ogre to them—massive and ugly and terrifying,—and to a man they meekly shrank away. To the bobbies of course I let Sandy appear as a normal if angry man. As soon as the crowd dispersed, so also did Sandy’s anger, and the bobbies resumed their beats, if not the beatings to which they thought they might have been treated.

  My grand idea, as I explained to Sandy in the limo as we flew away, after a tender and satisfying reunion that is no one’s business but ours, was this: improve the Knights by improving our farm teams. Better farm teams, I reasoned, must produce better and more cost-effective prospects for the big club, and a better fan base because these dedicated folks tend to buy tickets to watch “their boys” progress all the way up the ranks.

  Better farm teams, however, require better ballparks, as I learned when Sandy escorted me to inspect the facilities of the first team on his list, Odiham, a mere forty-five minutes from New Wembley and home of the single-A Odiham Ogres.

  On the way to Odiham, Sandy related the team’s history as the first London farm team, established in 2025. Back then, it was deemed most cost-effective to plant the farm club where it could be cheaply overseen. At the time of our visit, threescore years hence, being in such close proximity to the parent club meant Odiham did not draw many fans, but in fine English tradition the team never had been disbanded, even after its fortunes had spiraled into the abyss.

  Aloud to Sandy I vowed to change that. I did not ken his cryptic smile until our limo arrived at the Odiham “stadium” (for want of a better term), and I found it to be an utter sty: salacious writings and pictures covered the columns and walls, the car park was no better than a cow pasture, and the entire place—walkways and seating areas alike—writhed ankle-deep in a melded morass of spilt soda, popcorn, peanuts, hot dogs, and cotton candy. One stretch was so bad that I prevailed upon Sandy to carry me across. He gave me a half-mocking look of long-suffering forbearance as he gathered me into his strong arms, but I knew he was enjoying the moment, as was I. Our entourage of reporters cheerfully up-streamed videos of us the whole while.

  Populating the sty was a staff that, from the team manager all the way down to the ticket takers, was as surly as any nine real ogres combined. And the players—Holy God, I could have enchanted a herd of hogs and watched them play much better than these men did. From the hoots and howls of the forty-two spectators, it appeared they shared this opinion.

  “I could have enchanted a herd of hogs.”

  I brandished the single most effective magical tool in my arsenal, the team checkbook, and set to work.

  First on the docket and most important, for no other work could proceed otherwise, was the hosing out of the stadium. And I do mean “hosing” quite literally: fire brigades bringing miles of high-powered hoses, and God knows how many hundreds of thousands of gallons of water—so much so that the Odiham locals jested about gathering gopher wood. Yet it was jesting of the pleasant rather than derisive sort, for after the last truck had pulled away and the last drops had drained, it could not be denied that the place looked shiny and new once again, better than it had in recent memory. Even the graffiti had been scoured off.

  Next came the stadium’s parking surfaces, for, I was informed by the facility’s manager—who transformed from a churlish ogre to a personable human being the instant he learned I would be investing in improvements—the fields became as muddy as any true sty in the realm after a typical rain. I witnessed this phenomenon first-hand after the cleansing, for all that sticky, icky spilt soda and popcorn and cotton candy, and the water for sluicing it from the stadium, had to go somewhere. While Sandy and the stadium staff puzzled over what to do with the mess, I ordered it to be paved over once it had dried to a workable state.

  Third—and by far the most popular, though the idea was met with the most resistance by the stadium manager—was my decree to institute Free Beer Fridays: a pint of draft to any holder of a valid adult ticket for that same day, presented with picture proof of age, on every Friday the Ogres played at home during the remainder of the season. The beer vendor was obligated to collect the ticket to ensure the same patron did not try to obtain a pint at another vendor’s stand, and these stubs would serve as proof of how many free pints had been distributed so the vendor could collect reimbursement from the team after the game. Naturally such a measure entailed hiring extra security personnel to patrol the stands and deal with the drunken brawls that would break out from time to time amongst spectators during the game; even so, ticket sales soared so dramatically that I did not feel obliged to raise prices to cover the increased overhead costs. Everybody won—the Ogres themselves, most especially, for it becomes an entirely new matter of pride to perform for an audience of fourteen thousand, rather than forty-two.

  In fact, Free Beer Fridays was such a rousing success that the practice became adopted at stadiums across Europe, Asia, and most of the Americas, with the notable exception of the Bible Belt of the southeastern United States. Their loss.

  What we all—except the Bible-Belters—discovered, however, was that additional funds had to be spent at the ballparks to build onsite jail cells for the most violent drunkards, and drunk tanks for the verbally bellicose ones, and to hire magistrates to be on duty during games for determining which species of drunkard had to be caged where. The request for prisoner facilities to be built at Ogre Stadium came straight from the Lord Mayor of Odiham himself. Yet compared with the annual bumper crop of cash revenues and better players from which to choose for one’s own club or for trading to another, it was but a trivial investment.

  Chapter XXI:

  The Pilgrims

>   MY CONCLUDING WORK with regard to restoring the fortunes of the Odiham Ogres lay in disbanding the hogs—I mean, the original players—and sending them off to other teams where they might better continue honing their skills. I inquired of Sandy as to which of the Knights’ farm teams would be best.

  “For which players, Boss?”

  “All of them.”

  “Great Scot! All of them?”

  “Am I hearing an echo? Yes, all of them.”

  My very special assistant stroked his chin a moment and gave me a cautious look. “All…relocated to the same team?”

  I cannot be certain why it seemed as if I was speaking to a wall this particular morning—not the thin, crumbly ones I have watched Sandy punch a fist through, mind, but the six-foot-thick, protect-the-castle-from-invaders sort. Perhaps his wits were befuddled by our all-night…session.

  I stifled a sigh as well as the urge to roll my eyes. While not prohibited by the Royal Rules Committee, eye rolling most often appears gauche, droll, or otherwise unattractive; and none of those facial traits are meet for public display by a lady of my breeding and rank. I said:

  “La, of course they do not have to all go to the same team, Sandy, you dear chucklewit! Move the pitchers to teams where they can learn their art from good pitching coaches, the infielders to mentor with retired infielders, and so forth. Why, scatter them to the four winds, if that be what is needful!”

  “Ah, yes, of course, Boss. Right away, Boss. We can send…” followed by a meandering ramble of which players ought to be shipped where, and why. I did not care to hear these particulars, but since Sandy had demonstrated difficulty in focusing on my request, I let him proceed in his verbal wanderings in the hope that he would recall at least some of it when it came time to issue the reassignments.