"Could you run that last part by me again?" Mary Catherine said. She and Ogle had gotten into a smooth rhythm now, knocking hit after hit out to the little kids with their baseball gloves.
"The skydivers," he said. "We had three skydivers come in low over the podium and land on the grass. Now, why on earth did we do that?" Ogle sounded mystified.
"I don't know. Why did you?"
"Because everyone knows that sometimes skydivers break legs. They can't help watching. Same deal with those idiots who were setting off firecrackers."
"They worked for you?"
"Sure they did. Oh, those were just tiny little ladyfingers. You could set one off in the palm of your hand and you'd be fine. But it sure looked dangerous. So people watched. And that's why it was a great visual when your dad ran across the field."
Mary Catherine sighed. "I don't know how I feel about that."
Ogle shrugged. "Everyone's entitled to feelings."
"Speaking of that whole safety issue," she said, "when did the Secret Service start following Dad around? I didn't know he had a Secret Service detail."
"He doesn't," Ogle said. "Those were just actors."
She dropped the tip of the bat down on to home plate and stared at him. "What did you say?"
"They were actors dressed up like Secret Service."
"Hired by you."
"Of course."
She shook her head uncomprehendingly. "Why?"
"For the same reason we built extra bleachers, and put extra microphones on the lectern."
"And what reason is that?"
"Being a third-party candidate has big, big advantages," Ogle said. "But it has some disadvantages too. One of the disadvantages, as Perot found out, is that people may not take you seriously. That is the single most dangerous thing we have to worry about. So at every step along the way, we need to surround your father with the visible trappings of presidentiality. Chief among those is the Secret Service detail."
Mary Catherine just shook her head. "I can't believe you," she said.
"Sometimes I can hardly believe myself," he said, turning to face her. A soft, arcing throw was headed toward Ogle from a five-year-old stationed on the pitcher's mound. Ogle deliberately took it in the back of the head and went into a staggering pantomime of a silly man with a mild concussion, wobbling around home plate, rolling his eyes, bouncing drunkenly off the backstop. The kids went completely out of their gourds and a couple of them actually fell down on the grass, tossing their gloves up in the air, screaming with uncontrollable laughter. Mary Catherine shook her head, smiling in spite of herself. She looked at the kids who were still strong enough to remain on their feet and twirled her finger around her ear.
"When you've recovered," she said, "I have one or two more things."
"I think I feel a little better now," Ogle said. "Shoot."
"I feel like I'm being set up as some kind of a surrogate wife. It's creepy."
"Yes, it is," Ogle said.
"It borders on the perverse. I'm not going to do it anymore."
"You don't have to," Ogle said. "The only reason it happened today was that this is a formal event, kind of like a wedding. In a wedding, you know, the father is supposed to give away the bride. But if the father of the bride is dead, or if he hit the road twenty years ago with some white trash floozy and a fifth of Jack and never was heard from again, then that place must be filled by some other individual - it doesn't matter who - anyone with a Y chromosome. Could be a brother, an uncle, even the bride's high-school basketball coach. It just don't matter. Well, a campaign announcement is the same deal except that normally the wife is there in her silly hat and her sensible shoes. You performed that role today; it's just that you happened to look a hell of a lot better."
"Thanks," she snapped, rolling her eyes.
"Now that the ceremony is over, you can go back to being who you are. No more creepy stuff at least until he gets inaugurated."
"One more thing."
"What's that?"
"I'm the campaign physician."
Ogle was a bit startled. "We already hired-"
"I'm the campaign physician."
"We need you for other-"
"I'm the campaign physician," she said.
This time it sunk in. Ogle shrugged and nodded. "You're obviously the best person for the job."
The direct hit to Ogle's head had put the little kid on the pitcher's mound over the five-hundred-point mark. Mary Catherine thought about starting another game, but her attention had been drawn by a great deal of cheering and hilarity from one of the other playing fields. She headed in that direction.
A football game was in progress. Two teams of at least fifteen players each had taken the field. The ex-Bears were evenly divided between those two teams. Cozzano was, of course, the quarterback of one team. The opposing quarterback wore two Super Bowl rings. The ages of the teams ranged from ten years old up to the early seventies. Some of the players were farmers and some ran major corporations. Mary Catherine recognized Kevin Tice, the founder of Pacific Netware, serving as a wide receiver; in person, he was bigger and more athletic than his nerdy image would lead one to believe. Zeldo was in the trenches on the defensive line, being blocked by none other than Hugh MacIntyre, CEO of MacIntyre Engineering, who must have been in his early sixties but looked as strong and healthy as Dad.
The game was an extremely loose and goofy affair, with players of both teams constantly circulating on and off the field to get refreshments or visit the portable toilets. It was too hot to play hard. Still, each team had a hard core of adult men with highly competitive natures, and as the game wore on, all the little kids and the dilettantes dropped out and left behind half a dozen or so guys on each side, playing football that verged on serious. They didn't have a formal timekeeper, but they did have a deadline: a formal reception was taking place later at the Cozzano residence and they all had to quit playing at six o'clock.
At the end, the game actually got exciting. Cozzano's team was down by three points with time left for only one play. They came out in shotgun formation; the ball was expertly snapped by a Nobel laureate from the University of Chicago and Cozzano dropped back to pass, faking repeatedly in the direction of a very tall retired Celtic who was running toward the end zone, waving his arms frantically. The defense shouted in unison "ONE MISSISSIPPI TWO MISSISSIPPI THREE MISSISSIPPI!" giving Cozzano a little bit of time, and then they attacked. Zeldo defeated the blocking efforts of Hugh MacIntyre, despite the fact the MacIntyre illegally held on to his belt and began to chase Cozzano around the backfield. Cozzano scrambled expertly and wildly, evading tackle after tackle; he was older and slower than Zeldo, but he was wearing shoes with rubber soles. Finally, Zeldo managed to bring Cozzano down near the forty-yard line, just as Cozzano launched a desperation pass known as a Hail Mary. To no one's surprise, the ex-Celtic grabbed the bull out of the air high over the outstretched hands of the defenders and then fell into the end zone, winning the game.
Mary Catherine applauded and cheered along with the rest of the crowd, then looked back up the field at her father and Zeldo. They were lying on the grass next to each other, propped up on their elbows, watching the action, laughing the deep, booming laughter of men completely out of their mind on a potent cocktail of dirt, football, male bonding, and testosterone.