Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [75]
Data was a little surprised by the manager’s concern. Until now, Terwilliger had not shown any great affinity for him.
Perhaps, he mused, his gruff manner was a charade. A mask he used to conceal his true affection for his players.
Then he realized that the manager wasn’t heading for him. He was heading for the umpire.
“Time out,” called the man in blue, turning to confront Terwilliger.
“What kind of bullhinkey is this?” growled the manager, coming up just short of a collision. “You’re gonna let them throw at my cleanup batter?”
“Give me a break,” said the umpire. “He was leading off, and Cordoban’s up next. They’d be crazy to throw at him. The ball just got away.”
Data could hear their words clearly and distinctly, despite the growing clamor in the stands. It was one of the benefits of being an android.
“They threw at him, I tell ya!” Terwilliger turned his cap around and put his nose in the other man’s face. “I want that pitcher tossed out on his behind!”
The umpire was obviously trying to remain composed. But he also wasn’t giving an inch. “I’m not throwing him out,” he said, “so forget it.”
By this time, the other Icebreakers had been drawn to the top step of the dugout, and it did not take the talents of a Deanna Troi to divine their hostility.
“Then I’m protesting the game,” yelled Terwilliger, his eyes bulging. “This is a mother-lovin’ outrage!” And he turned to the crowd along the first base line, raising his arms as if in appeal. The spectators responded with an ear-shattering roar. Next he turned to the other side of the field. Another roar, louder than the first.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” said the umpire.
“Oh, yeah?” said Terwilliger, rounding on him. “And what’s that?”
“You’re trying to get me to throw you out. So your team’ll get riled up and do some damage.”
“What’s wrong with that?” snarled Terwilliger, kicking dirt on the other man’s shoes with all the energy he could muster.
“Nothing—except I’m not going along with it.”
“Why not?” asked the manager, flinging his hat into the pile of dirt. “Don’tcha have any self-respect?”
“Because it isn’t fair,” maintained the umpire. “Besides, if toss you out, then McNab’s going to want to get ejected, too.” McNab, Data knew, was the manager of the Sunsets.
Terwilliger chomped and swore. “You mean I’ve got to bring family into this? Is that what you’re telling me?”
The umpire’s features hardened.
“I hate to do it,” snapped the manager. “I really, really do.”
“Then get back to your dugout,” instructed the man in blue.
“Not on your life,” said Terwilliger, planting his index finger in the umpire’s chest. And he proceeded to reel off a string of derogatory remarks the likes of which Data had never heard. The android believed that even a Klingon would have been shocked.
By the time Terwilliger had finished, he was the color of molten lava. And the umpire was heaving him from the game—only figuratively, of course, though he looked as though he’d have liked to do it literally.
“Come on,” said the Icebreakers’ trainer, taking Data by the arm. “By the way, you’re not hurt or anything, are you?”
The android shook his head. “No. Thank you.” And still mulling over what had transpired, he allowed the older man to escort him to first base.
“What an actor,” chuckled the trainer.
“An actor,” repeated Data. “You mean Terwilliger?”
“Sure do. He was just itching for an excuse to come out here. If you hadn’t given it to him, he’d have had to make one up.” He chuckled again. “It’s moments like these that make me put off retirement.”
Suddenly the crowd grew loud again. Data turned, expecting to see Terwilliger milking his ejection.
But that wasn’t the case at all. In fact, Terwilliger seemed to be as riveted as everyone else as a powerful figure strode out onto the field.
“Blazes,” said the trainer. “Who’s the guy in the Halloween costume?”
“That is not a guy,” explained the android. “That is Lieutenant Worf.”
Worf was halfway across the diamond when he noticed the uniformed