Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [47]
The Sunset player hit the ball about as sharply as Data imagined a baseball could be hit. However, his android reflexes stood him in good stead. Launching himself toward the third base line, his body horizontal to the ground, the android caught the ball as it went by him—and landed directly on third base, abdicated by the Sunsets’ lead runner only half a second earlier.
It was a double play. The Sunsets’ half of the inning was over.
The stadium vibrated with the thunderous applause and cheers that followed. The sound cascaded from the stands to the playing field in waves.
Getting to his feet, Data tossed the ball in the direction of the pitcher’s mound and made his way toward the dugout. Before he got there, a couple of his teammates had swatted him on the rump with their gloves.
It was a good feeling. A feeling of belonging, of being appreciated. Data savored it.
Down in the dugout, Terwilliger was standing with his arms folded. He seemed to be intent on something in the outfield, though Data couldn’t imagine what.
As the android took a seat on the bench, Denyabe plunked himself down next to him. The second baseman grinned as he regarded Data.
“You didn’t tell me you were that good,” he said.
Data shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”
“And you showed it at a good time, too,” added Denyabe. “I think Terwilliger was getting ready to yank you.”
Data looked at him. “To yank me? As in remove me from the game?”
The second baseman nodded. “Hey, don’t look so surprised. It’s not like you’re not giving him good reason.”
“I don’t understand,” the android confessed.
“Sure,” said Denyabe. “You’re not razzing him, right? You’re not pulling his chain?”
“Razzing? Pulling … his chain?” More unfamiliar terminology. One day, Data hoped, he would comprehend every colloquialism that was thrown in his path. But for each one he came to grasp, it seemed two more waited just around the corner.
Denyabe shook his head, smiling lazily. “I guess some guys just like to live on the edge.”
As Data pondered the remark, the Icebreakers’ half of the inning seemed to fly by. It seemed he’d only been in the dugout for a couple of minutes when it was time to take the field again.
In the top of the next inning, the Sunsets sent up only four batters. But the third hit a home run, tying the score at one all.
Then it was the Icebreakers’ turn again—and the chance Data had been waiting for. Denyabe was to lead off. If either he or Sakahara or Galanti reached base safely, the android—or rather, Bobo—would come up to bat again. And this time, Data resolved, Bobo would not stop at a single.
As if to pave the way, the Sunset pitcher suddenly became wild. Denyabe drew a walk, and so did Sakahara. Then Galanti hit a ball to deep shortstop that resulted in an infield hit.
The bases were loaded, and Data was the next scheduled batter. Apparently the historical Bobo had failed to drive in any of the three runners—but that would not happen here, the android vowed as he stepped up to the plate.
The spectators cheered and stamped their feet, no doubt remembering Data’s play at third base. For the moment he put them out of his mind.
Sixty feet away, the pitcher focused on his target, his eyes slitted with concentration. Slowly he brought his hands together, coiled his long arms and legs—and unleashed them. Somehow the ball shot out of that flurry of motion.
The android clocked it at one hundred miles an hour—even faster than the first time he came up. But it was too far out of the strike zone for Data even to consider swinging at it. In fact, the catcher had to scramble to keep the ball from getting past him.
Again the pitcher set his sights on home plate. Again he rocked back on one leg, gathered himself, and let fly.
Data had already started his stride when he noticed something different about this pitch. It was approaching more slowly than the one before it. This throw had fooled him, and he would have to make an adjustment in order to connect with it.
That hardly seemed like an insurmountable task. And even though he was a little off-balance,