Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [9]
“No,” said the android. “That will not be necessary.” For the time being he knew all he needed to know. “Resume program.”
The man came to life again. He had asked a question; he was expecting an answer.
“Yes,” said Data. “I am Bogdonovich. But you may call me Bobo.”
The man pointed past the android to one of the lockers along the wall. “There ya go, Bogdonovich. Nice fresh uniform—Tonelli’s old number. Hope it’s as lucky for you as it was for him.” He glanced up beyond a flight of stairs at a rectangle of pale blue sky framed in a doorway. “We’re gonna need all the luck we can get.”
Data walked over to the indicated locker. The uniform hanging inside it was red and blue; the word “Icebreakers” was emblazoned on the shirt in flowing letters.
The android gathered that he was supposed to exchange his own clothes for these. Of course. One often wore specialized attire when participating in sports.
“You’d better get a move on,” said the man in front of the video monitor. “They’re already halfway through batting practice, and Terwilliger doesn’t take kindly to rookies who waltz in late. Even if they did just get off the red-eye.”
Data frowned. Rookie? Red-eye? He was unfamiliar with the terminology. But he sensed that it was not essential for him to understand these terms—not yet, at any rate.
On the other hand, he had a feeling that he should learn more about Terwilliger, who seemed to be in a position of some authority here. As he pulled off his Starfleet garb, Data decided that it might be more challenging to glean the information from his companion than to query the computer again.
The android tried to effect a casual manner. “Is this Terwilliger the kind of man they say he is?”
The videoscreen watcher grunted loudly. “You bet he is. Tough as nails. Mean as they come.” He shrugged. “‘Course, I’m no player. I’m just the clubhouse man. I never get chewed out by Terwilliger. But I’ve seen plenty of those who have been.”
Data didn’t understand all the colloquialisms, but he got the gist of it. Apparently Terwilliger’s management style was a bit different from that of Captain Picard.
“It’s really too bad,” added the self-professed clubhouse man. “After all he’s been through, all those seasons of finishing in the cellar, he finally had a shot this year. Prob’ly his only shot. Put together a damned fine team—Sakahara, Kilkenney, Gilderbaum. Built up an eight-game lead. But he had too many veterans; I could see that from the start. Came August, they started to drop like flies—a hamstring here, a busted Wrist there. Before you know it, that lead starts to dwindle and …” He stopped himself, grinned a little sheepishly. “Hell, I don’t have to tell you. You know the rest.”
For a moment, Data thought he would have to ask another question to learn any more. But it turned out not to be necessary. The man resumed of his own accord.
“So now the whole season—all hundred sixty-two games—comes down to one measly playoff. And with the walking wounded Terwilliger’s got out there today, it’ll be a wonder if we even finish the thing—much less win it.”
The android had just slipped on the shirt with “Icebreakers” scrawled across the front of it. He reached into the locker for his shoes and socks, all the while piecing the scenario together.
“Then again, Bogdonovich, maybe you’ll make a difference. Maybe you’ll live up to those Triple A clippings of yours and put a jolt in this team—and give Terwilliger a championship before he retires.” The man made a dry, cackling sound. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“You do not seem hopeful,” observed Data.
His source of information turned to look at him. “You could say that.”
“But in any game, there is always an element of unpredictability. If there were not, there would be no point in playing it.”
A smile crept slowly over the clubhouse man’s face. “I didn’t know you were a philosopher, kid. I kind of like philosophers—all flakes, in fact. They liven things up a little.” Abruptly the smile vanished.