Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [19]
Then came the more difficult part—identifying the game’s objectives and rules. He could deduce some of that from the physical characteristics of the playing field and even more from offhand references made around the batting cage. The android had been able to clear up much of his confusion through casual conversations with the other players. He also found out that, due to the injuries the clubhouse man had referred to, Terwilliger had no choice but to start him in this game.
However, even after the game began, there were gaps in Data’s comprehension. So during the first half of the first inning, while he stood beside third base with his glove on his hand, he observed as carefully as he could—not only the occurrences at home plate but also those on the pitcher’s mound, in the field, on the scoreboard, and even in the stands.
Before he knew it, however, his teammates were trotting off, abandoning their positions. Taking the hint, he trotted off with them.
But no sooner was he in the dugout than Terwilliger grabbed him by his shirtfront. The man was half a head shorter than Data, with a rounded physique that one did not associate with physical presence. But there was something about Terwilliger’s eyes that the android found compelling.
“Listen,” he said, “you cocky son of a bitch, I don’t know where you think you are, but I want that empty, echoing head of yours in the game!”
“In the game?” the android repeated, groping for comprehension. Here, as elsewhere, much of the vernacular still eluded him.
“That’s right, you worthless heap of Triple A garbage! Here you are, a rookie, privileged to play in a game like this one, and you’re staring at the sky, the stands—everywhere but where you should be staring! Those guys know you’re a green apple. You think they’re not going to test you? Maybe lay down a little ol’ bunt and see how badly you trip over your feet trying to come up with it?”
It took Data a moment to glean some sense out of Terwilliger’s tirade. “Are you suggesting,” he asked, “that my attention should have been more focused? Actually I would welcome any recommendations in that regard.”
The man’s face seemed to change colors then. Yes, decided the android. It was noticeably redder, noticeably darker.
“Is that back talk?” he asked, in a hushed voice.
Data shrugged. “I do not know what back talk is. I was merely attempting to improve my understanding of baseball.”
Terwilliger’s eyes narrowed. He seemed to hesitate—as confused, in a way, as Data himself. When he spoke—not to the android, but to one of his coaches—his voice was still hushed, but it had a cutting edge to it.
“Is this guy for real?” he asked.
“They say he is,” came the response. “And, Willie, we need a guy with some punch in the lineup.”
Terwilliger spat. He turned to Data again. “Tell you what, Bogdonovich. I got a game to manage here. But we’ll discuss this later—you can be sure of that.”
“Thank you,” said the android. Naturally he understood that the man was preoccupied with the situation at hand. His questions could wait. He was grateful that Terwilliger was offering to answer them at all.
As Data watched the manager stalk off, he reflected that he was already profiting from this holodeck experience. Terwilliger’s management style was different from Captain Picard’s—vastly different. His approach seemed to hinge more on emotion and physical confrontation than on confidence and clear thinking. It was most intriguing.
Suddenly there was a hand on Data’s shoulder. He turned and traced it to its owner—Denyabe, the second baseman.
“Pay no attention,” said the black man, grinning. “You just play your game.”
Recognizing it for the encouragement it was, the android smiled back and watched Denyabe stride out onto the field, bat in hand.
Removing his glove, Data chose a spot on the bench and sat down. As the Icebreaker second baseman approached the plate, the crowd responded with a huge roar. It could be felt in the vibration of the stadium structure as well as heard.
Cordoban, the left fielder, had explained to Data