“I will pin his ears back,” he said feebly, more to reassure himself than because he believed it.
The little intercom on his shoulder cried in a tiny voice: “You will not, Boleslaw! Your orders are to take the first pitch!”
“But, listen”
“Take it! You hear me, Boleslaw?”
There was a time when Boley would have swung just -._to prove who was boss; but the time was not then. He stood there while the big gray pitcher looked him over with those sparkling eyes. He stood there through the windup. And then the arm came down, and he didn’t stand there. That ball wasn’t invisible, not coming right at him; it looked as big and as fast as the Wabash Cannonball and Boley couldn’t help it, for the first time in his life he jumped a yard away, screeching.
“Hit batter! Hit batter!” cried the intercom. “Take your base, Boleslaw.”
Boley blinked. Six of the umpires were beckoning him on, so the intercom was right. But still and all Boley had his pride. He said to the little button on his collar, “I am sorry, but I wasn’t hit. He missed me a mile, easy.
I got scared is all.”
“Take your base, you silly fool!” roared the intercom.
“He scared you, didn’t he? That’s just as bad as hitting you, according to the rules. Why, there is no telling what incalculable damage has been done to your nervous system by this fright. So kindly get the bejeepers over to first base, Boleslaw, as provided in the rules of the game!”
He got, but he didn’t stay there long, because there was a pinch runner waiting for him. He barely noticed that it was another of the gray-skinned giants before he headed for the locker room and the showers. He didn’t even remember getting out of his uniform; he only remembered that he, Boley, had just been through the worst experience of his life.
He was sitting on a bench, with his head on his hands, when the owner’s uncle came in, looking queerly out of place in his neat pin-striped suit. The owner’s Uncle had to speak to him twice before his eyes focused.
“They didn’t let me pitch,” Boley said wonderingly.
“They didn’t, want Boley to pitch.”
The owner’s uncle patted his shoulder. “You were a guest star, Boley. One of the all-time greats of the game.
Next game they’re going to have Christy Mathewson.
Doesn’t that make you feel proud?”
“They didn’t let me pitch,” said Boley.
The owner’s uncle sat down beside him. “Don’t you see? You’d be out of place in this kind of a game. You got on base for them, didn’t you? I heard the announcer say it myself; he said you filled the bases in the all-important fourth inning. Two hundred million people were watching this game on television! And they saw you got on base!”
“They didn’t let me hit either,” Boley said.
There was a commotion at the door and the team came trotting in screaming victory. “We win it, we win it!” cried Manager Magitt. “Eighty-seven to eighty-three! What a squeaker!”
Boley lifted his head to croak, “That’s fine.” But no-body was listening. The manager jumped on a table and yelled, over the noise in the locker room: “Boys, we pulled a close one out, and you know what that means. We’re leading in the Series, eleven games to nine! Now let’s just wrap those other two up, and”
He was interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream from Boley. Boley was standing up, pointing with an expression of horror. The athletes had scattered and the trainers were working them over; only some of the trainers were using pliers and screwdrivers instead of towels and liniment.
Next to Boley, the big gray-skinned pinch runner was flat on his back, and the trainer was lifting one leg away from the body
“Murder!” bellowed Boley. “That fellow is murdering that fellow!”
The manager jumped down next to him. “Murder?
There isn’t any murder, Boleslaw! What are you talking about?”
Boley pointed mutely. The trainer stood gaping at him, with the leg hanging limp in his grip. It was completely removed from the torso it belonged to, but the torso seemed to be making no objections; the curious eyes were open but no longer sparkling; the gray skin, at closer hand, seemed metallic and cold.
The manager said fretfully, “I swear, Boleslaw, you’re a nuisance. They’re just getting cleaned and oiled, batteries recharged, that sort of thing. So they’ll be in shape tomorrow, you understand.”
“Cleaned,” whispered Boley. “Oiled.” He stared around e the room. All of the gray-skinned ones were being some-how disassembled; bits of metal and glass were sticking out of them. “Are you trying to tell me,” he croaked, “that those fellows aren’t fellows?”
“They’re ballplayers,” said Manager Magill impatiently.
“Robots. Haven’t you ever seen a robot before? We’re allowed to field six robots on a nine-man team, it’s perfectly legal. Why, next year I’m hoping the Commissioner‘11 let us play a whole robot team. Then you’ll see some baseball!”
With bulging eyes Boley saw it was true. Except for a handful of flesh-and-blood players like himself the team was made up of man-shaped machines, steel for bones, electricity for blood, steel and plastic and copper cogs for muscle. “Machines,” said Boley, and turned up his eyes.
The owner’s uncle tapped him on the shoulder worriedly. “It’s time to go back,” he said.
So Boley went back.
He didn’t remember much about it, except that the owner’s uncle had made him promise never, never to tell anyone about it, because it was orders from the Defense Department, you never could tell how useful a time machine might be in a war. But he did get back, and he woke up the next morning with all the signs of a hangover and the sheets kicked to shreds around his feet.
He was still bleary when he staggered down to the coffee shop for breakfast. Magill the pitching coach, who had no idea that he was going to be granddaddy to Magill the series-winning manager, came solicitously over to him. “Bad night, Boley? You look like you have had a bad night.”
“Bad?” repeated Boley. “Bad? Magill, you have got no idea. The owner’s uncle said he would show me something that would learn me a little humility and, Magill, he came through. Yes, he did. Why, I saw a big bronze tablet with the names of the Series winners on it, and I saw”
And he closed his mouth right there, because he remembered right there what the owner’s uncle had said about closing his mouth. He shook his head and shuddered. “Bad,” he said, “you bet it was bad.”
Magill coughed. “Gosh, that’s too bad, Boley. I guess I mean, then maybe you wouldn’t feel like pitching another couple of innings well, anyway one inning today, because”
Boley held up his hand. “Say no more, please. You want me to pitch today, Magill?”
“That’s about the size of it,” the coach confessed.
“I will pitch today,” said Boley. “If that is what you want me to do, I will do it. I am now a reformed character. I will pitch tomorrow, too, if you want me to pitch tomorrow, and any other day you want me to pitch. And if you do not want me to pitch, I will sit on the sidelines.
Whatever you want is perfectly all right with me, Magill, because, Magill, Hey! Hey, Magill, what are you doing down there on the floor?”
So that is why Boley doesn’t give anybody any trouble any more, and if you tell him now that he reminds you of Dizzy Dean, why he’ll probably shake your hand and thank you for the compliment even if you’re a sports-writer, even. Oh, there still are a few special little things about him, of course not even counting the things like how many shut-outs he pitched last year (eleven) or how many home runs he hit (fourteen). But everybody finds him easy to get along with. They used to talk about the change that had come over him a lot and wonder what caused it. Some people said he got religion and others said he had an incurable disease and was trying to do good in his last few weeks on earth; but Boley never said, he only smiled; and the owner’s uncle was too busy in Washington to be with the team much after that. So now they talk about other things when Boley’s name comes up. For instance, there’s his little business about the pitching machine when he shows up for batting practice (which is every morning, these days), he insists on hitting against real live pitchers instead of the machine. It’s even in his contract. And then, every March he bets nickels against ‘anybody around the training camp that’ll bet with him that he can pick that year’s Series winner. He doesn’t bet more than that, because the Commissioner naturally doesn’t like big bets from ballplayers.