Future Sports

by Gardner Dozois

  * * *

  Brady was in the Eaton’s china department with Janice when he spotted the alien over in housewares, examining a Eurostyle toaster.

  The alien in housewares looked exactly like all the other aliens Brady had seen on TV. He looked remarkably humanoid, with only his exceptional tallness and thinness—all the aliens were more or less seven feet tall—calling attention to his alien nature.

  This was, to Brady’s knowledge, the first alien to be seen in Toronto. He found a store phone and called Hugh Vernon to explain the situation.

  “You want me to follow him?”

  “Can’t hurt,” Vernon said. “First-person report on an alien shopping spree. What’s he bought so far?”

  Brady craned his head to see the alien at the cash desk.

  “Looks like a nonstick frying pan.”

  “Jeez,” Vernon said. “This is already sounding like a real thriller. But stay with it, you never know.”

  Abandoning Janice to select the china pattern, Brady tailed the alien out of the department store and into the mall proper. The alien led him into W.H. Smith’s, a bookseller. Like all the stores in the mall, it was nearly empty this beautiful mid-June day. Half the population of the city had headed out for their cottages. The rest were probably glued to their TV sets, watching Victor Garmez go for hit number fifty-seven.

  The alien browsed for some time at the magazine racks, at first flipping through the car magazines, then becoming engrossed in Playboy. Brady wondered whether the alien might be homesick for his own large-breasted alien wife, back home on Arcturus 3 or wherever it was that they had come from.

  As far as anyone knew, there were no alien women on Earth. Or at least, all the aliens looked the same, and the general assumption was that they were male, although that assumption could have been quite unfounded. So far, none had been publicly forthcoming about their sexual natures, despite several multimillion-dollar offers for syndicated rights to such disclosures. Really, very little was known about the aliens.

  Finally, the alien left the store and headed for the escalator, making his way down to the lowest level. Brady realized that the alien was heading for the subway station. He followed the alien to the southbound platform. A train pulled up, and the alien got on. Brady got into the next car.

  The alien disembarked at Union Station. After exiting the subway, he stood for a moment, apparently confused.

  Brady seized the opportunity. “Need some help?” he said.

  “Thank you, yes. Which way is SkyDome?” The alien spoke a fluent, accentless English.

  “It’s this way,” Brady said, pointing. “I’m going there myself, I’ll show you.”

  “That would be appreciated,” the alien said. He was still holding the Eaton’s shopping bag containing his nonstick frying pan.

  “You’re interested in baseball?”

  “Very much so,” said the alien. “In fact, you might describe this as the high point of our visit.”

  * * *

  Aliens. Just when everything was going so well, some aliens had to come along and screw everything up.

  Garmez got the story from Mel Hewlett soon after arriving at the ballpark. Earlier that week, the Canadian government had booked a block of tickets for the aliens, along with assorted federal, provincial, and city politicians. It was supposed to be kept secret until game time, for security reasons. But Hewlett had got the word from a secretary in the front office, and he seemed delighted to pass it on to Garmez.

  “Why would aliens want to see a baseball game?”

  “I don’t know, Vic,” Hewlett said, grinning. Garmez hated being called “Vic,” as Hewlett well knew. “Maybe they’re here to see you. Maybe your fame has spread throughout the galaxy.”

  Garmez had been feeling excited when he arrived at the stadium. It had been a pleasant excitement, full of anticipation. Now it turned into a dull agitation.

  Aliens. Garmez had not had time to give much thought to the alien visitors. His own life had been moving ahead much too fast. But when he thought about them at all, it was with a kind of derision. If they were going to come all this way, you would think they would have something to tell us. Something important about God and life and the secrets of the universe. But from what he saw on the TV, they had nothing to say at all, except “that’s nice” and “how much is that?”

  Really, the aliens reminded Garmez of nothing so much as the North American tourists who streamed into the Dominican Republic every winter, buying all kinds of awful crap and burning themselves up on the beach and drinking themselves into oblivion.

  It must be awfully boring, he thought, back where these aliens came from. To come all this way to see us.

  And now, of all the things in the world to see or buy, they had to come here. Shaken, he went to see the team manager.

  “How come you never told me about these aliens?” he demanded.

  “Only found out myself a few hours ago,” the manager said, mildly. “What you got to do now is forget about it. Forget about the aliens. Forget about your streak. Just go out there and play your normal game.”

  “My normal game, sure,” Garmez said. He gazed out through the window at the stadium. It was beginning to fill up. “These aliens. What the hell they want here, anyway?”

  “Someone invited them, I guess.”

  “You think they know about my streak?”

  “I’m sure someone told them. Although it probably doesn’t mean a hell of a lot to them. I mean, how could it?”

  “Yeah,” Garmez echoed. “How could it?”

  * * *

  Brady used his press credentials to gain entry into the ballpark. But instead of heading for the press box, he followed the alien to a special roped-off section. Within this section were dozens of aliens, along with various local dignitaries.

  A security officer rose to bar his progress.

  “It’s all right.” the alien said. “He’s with me.”

  Gratefully, Brady sank down into an unoccupied seat next to his unexpected sponsor. He realized that he was staring at the thick, reddish neck of the prime minister of Canada in the seat ahead of him.

  “Very kind of you,” he told the alien.

  “Think nothing of it, Mr. Brady.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I saw it on your press pass.”

  Brady distinctly remembered that the alien had been ahead of him at the time. But perhaps he was wrong. Or perhaps the aliens were somehow possessed of 360-degree vision.

  He could not help but wonder why the alien would knowingly invite a journalist to sit beside him. Since their initial press conference, the aliens had granted no further interviews to the media.

  “I most enjoyed your article in this morning’s Tribune,” the alien said, as if in answer to this unspoken question. “Highly insightful.”

  “You’re interested in probability theory?”

  “Fascinated by it.”

  The alien leaned forward in his seat to watch the proceedings on the field. The Red Sox were batting in the top of the second inning. There was no score as yet, but the Sox, with only one out in the inning, had runners at first and second.

  “If there’s anything you don’t understand,” Brady told the alien, “go ahead and ask.”

  This was rather a bold offer from a man who, for all his recent research, still had at best a dim understanding of the intricacies of the game.

  “Thank you,” said the alien, “but I am quite well acquainted with the game, having made a certain study of it. In some ways, it is much like our own . . .” Here he said something untranslatable into Earthly phonetics.

  Mumblypobble, Brady scribbled into his notebook, this being the best approximation he could manage.

  “Ah,” said the alien. “I believe the Sox will certainly sacrifice in this situation, in all likelihood a bunt down the third-base line.”

  Brady scribbled down this alien prognosis.

  “Games,” said the alien, “ar
e in a way the essence of a culture. The externalization of its most deeply held values about life, time, and existential meaning.”

  Polite applause rippled through the ground as the Red Sox hitter fulfilled the alien’s prediction and gave himself up, laying down a bunt that moved the runners to second and third.

  A new hitter took his place. He walked stiffly, and his hair was peppered with gray. “Batting .425 lifetime with runners in scoring position,” murmured the alien. “But this will certainly be his last season. It’s all so wildly nostalgic, is it not?”

  “Nostalgic?”

  The alien waved his hand in a disconcertingly human gesture. “The knowledge that each moment is precious precisely because it is ephemeral, and will never recur in quite the same way. The awareness of the fleetingness of life, the immediateness of death. The infinite poignancy of history in the making. Consider Victor Garmez.” He gestured toward the Blue Jays’ left fielder. “Will he ever have a finer moment than today?”

  The alien smiled. It was a perfectly pleasant smile, yet it was also oddly chilling. Because somehow Brady knew that Victor Garmez would never have a finer moment. Ever, ever again.

  * * *

  A roar went up around the stadium as Victor Garmez stepped into the batter’s box in the bottom of the second.

  Sure, he thought. Today I’m their hero. But if I don’t get a hit, it’s back to being a bum. I’ll be the guy who couldn’t quite get past DiMaggio.

  He stared sightlessly into the crowd to where the aliens were supposed to be sitting. He couldn’t pick them out. Maybe they hadn’t come. But of course, the aliens looked pretty much like humans.

  The roar of applause continued. Some idiot was trying to get a wave going. Garmez called time-out and stepped back for a moment to review the situation. One out, a man on second. Red Sox leading five to nothing. A sacrifice fly would bring home the run, but one run would not make enough difference.

  What he needed to do was get on base. He would look for the hit, but accept the walk.

  “They’re not going to give you anything to hit,” the manager had told him. “They’d rather walk you than let you get number fifty-seven against them. If they offer the walk, take it.”

  “What if they walk me every time?”

  “The way they count it now, the streak stays alive. You get another shot tomorrow.”

  “But what about then? How did they count it then?”

  “For DiMaggio, you mean? Back then, it had to be consecutive games.”

  “Then that’s how I got to do it, too.”

  Bold words. A lot bolder than he felt, right now, facing the ace of the Red Sox staff, a big, tough right-hander with a fastball averaging ninety-five miles per hour.

  He watched, mesmerized, as the Boston pitcher went into his windup. And stood, transfixed, as the ball hurtled into his face.

  * * *

  “A close one,” remarked the alien, as the hitter seemed to wait until the very last moment to weave out of the way of a high, tight fastball. “Very close. This is a game of surprising violence. And all so very much more vivid in its actuality.”

  “Actuality?” echoed Brady. “You mean, you used to watch it on TV?”

  “Hush,” said the alien. “Let us savor the opening round of this most fascinating duel.”

  Brady watched as, to applause and scattered boos, Garmez walked on four deliveries, without once having attempted contact with the ball.

  * * *

  The afternoon wore on. The Blue Jays picked up a couple of runs, cashing in Garmez’s walk. Boston replied with another in the third. Garmez came out to bat again in the fourth with the bases empty, but grounded out to the shortstop. The next player up hit a solo home run.

  The heat of the fierce afternoon sun was making Brady sleepy. He had difficulty keeping his eyes open during the scoreless fifth inning.

  “Ah, baseball,” the alien said. “It’s hypnotic tedium, its mystic transformation of the immediate.”

  Brady stared at him blankly.

  “Philip Roth,” the alien said, apparently surprised. “My Baseball Years. Surely you’ve read it?”

  “Actually, no.”

  “It breaks your heart,” the alien said. “It is designed to break your heart. Bart Giamatti.”

  “Who?”

  The alien shook his head in apparent disappointment, and returned his attention to the game.

  * * *

  In the sixth, Garmez walked again but was left stranded. The Red Sox continued to lead, six to three.

  The Blue Jays scored another run in the seventh and threatened to score more, as the starting pitcher began to tire, but a relief pitcher came on and shut them down.

  “You think Garmez is going to do it?” Brady asked during the seventh-inning stretch.

  “Surely,” the alien said, “you wouldn’t want me to spoil it for you?”

  Neither side scored in the eighth.

  There was an almost palpable air of expectation in the alien section now, as the Red Sox went quietly in the top of the ninth.

  The first Blue Jay hitter of the ninth grounded out to first base. Waiting in the on-deck circle was Victor Garmez.

  “Why are there so many of you here?” Brady asked.

  The alien seemed surprised at this question.

  “To see Victor Garmez, of course. As your article points out, this man defies probability. Against astounding odds, he achieves continuity in a universe of flux. In a sense, he defies death. For all of us.”

  The alien leaned forward in his seat as Garmez took his stance in the batter’s box. “Besides,” the alien said, “you wouldn’t expect us to miss this? To miss the wonderful aching poignancy of it all?”

  The crowd gasped as Garmez swung at and missed a breaking ball in the dirt. But Brady was not watching. He was consumed, suddenly, by a terrible situation.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “You’re not aliens at all! You’re time travelers, isn’t that right? On some kind of baseball junket.”

  “We are indeed aliens,” the alien said, “by any possible yardstick you could imagine. There is a certain quality of brilliance to your deduction, but I am really not at liberty to discuss it with you. At any rate, I now wish to turn my fullest attention to this most diverting spectacle.”

  * * *

  Behind 0 and 2. One more strike and it would be over, the whole crazy circus.

  Maybe it was better that way, Garmez thought. Better to be a footnote in baseball history than the man who beat DiMaggio. There would be less to live up to afterward.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow, took his stance, waggled the bat. Easy, he told himself. Nice and easy.

  Curveball, floating way outside. 1 and 2.

  Breaking ball, in the dirt.

  Fastball, high and inside, jackknifing him off the plate.

  A full count. Another walk? If it came, it came. He watched the pitcher go into his windup.

  He’s got to throw me a strike, Garmez thought. Streak or not, he doesn’t want to bring up the tying run. Got to be a fastball straight down the middle.

  He watched it coming all the way, as though it were traveling in slow motion. He felt as if he had all the time in the world. The cheers of the crowd damped down to a dull roar as he brought his bat around. There was a satisfying crack, and he watched the ball streaking into the right-field corner. Then he was rounding second base and being waved on to third.

  * * *

  As the crowd sank back into their seats to watch the next batter, the aliens remained standing. Then they began to file out of the grounds.

  “Don’t you want to see who wins?” Brady asked his alien seatmate.

  The alien shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter who wins. Either way, the outcome is well within the normal distribution. We’ve seen quite enough, thank you.”

  Brady realized that the prime minister had turned around in his seat and was watching this exchange.

  “Surely you’re staying for the
reception?” the prime minister asked, a little petulantly.

  “Oh, no,” the alien said. “This has been extremely entertaining, but it really is time to be moving on.”

  * * *

  The departure of the aliens caused considerable discussion among the crowd. The umpires called time-out as they waited for the noise to subside. Garmez stood patiently at third base.

  “Aliens,” the third-base coach said. “Go figure them.”

  * * *

  With the help of Garmez’s triple, the Blue Jays tied up the game in the ninth, sending it into extra innings. The Red Sox, however, finally prevailed in the twelfth. Brady, slumped low in his seat, stayed until the end. It was the first and last major-league baseball game he would ever attend.

  Garmez’s streak was broken off the following night, at County Stadium in Milwaukee. But he continued to hit well, and was named Rookie of the Year. Endorsement contracts, including offers from rival ketchup manufacturers, poured in. He was able to build a house for his family in the Dominican Republic, and another for himself in Florida. He did not, however, marry a movie star.

  Brady married Janice, but they separated a year later. She took the china, which he had never liked.

  The aliens, after their visit to SkyDome, were not seen again.

  Life, within the normal distribution, continued.

  Author’s note: I am indebted to Stephen Jay Gould’s lucid and poetic article “The Streak of Streaks” (New York Review of Books, August 16, 1988) for the information on sports probabilities used in this story.

  THE HOLY STOMPER

  VS.

  THE ALIEN BARREL OF DEATH

  R. Neube

  New writer R. Neube (and no, it’s not a pseudonym!) has made frequent sales to Asimov’s Science Fiction in the past few years, as well as to Tales of the Unanticipated, and elsewhere. He lives in Covington, Kentucky.

  Here, he gives us ringside seats for the fast-paced, funny, and action-packed story of a professional wrestler who must face his greatest challenge in an arena far from this Earth, in a match with the fate of millions at stake, and on a mission that will redefine our definitions of diplomacy forever.