Disclaimer: Star Trek, its history of
the future and all of its
characters are the property of Parmount/Viacom. No copyright
infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Buck Bokai, who played
for the London Kings, was first mentioned in TNG and introduced in DS9.
Many thanks to Seema for her beta.
Last Man Out
By Rocky
"Goddamned son of a--!"
The rest of Harmon "Buck" Bokai's words were drowned out by the sound
of his fist slamming down on the desk in front of him.
"Stop that!" Jon Tate got to his feet with an alacrity that belied his
78 years. "Buck, you're going to bust your hand again if you keep that
up. And what good will that do? You won't be able to swing a bat or
field any grounders with a broken hand."
"From what you're telling me, nobody's going to be playing baseball
much longer anyway," Buck said bitterly. He inspected the knuckles on
his right hand for damage, flexed them cautiously and winced. "The
sport is dead. Kaput. By decree of our beloved Commissioner."
"Don't go blaming Martinez," Tate said with a shake of his head. "I
know the two of you haven't always seen eye to eye, but it's not his
fault--it's not anyone's fault. Baseball has been dying for a long
time, victim of a society that simply doesn't have time for any such
diversions. That's what they'll put on its tombstone--'just didn't have
time for this.'" He sighed. "It's been going on for years already. Look
at the attendance, for one thing--"
"It's hard to come to games in person," Buck said. "What with the price
of tickets." Too restless to sit still, he began to pace the small
confines of the office. Outdoors, the sun was shining brightly. But
Buck felt as if a bank of clouds had appeared on the horizon.
"No one is watching anymore either." Tate tapped the printout next to
his desk monitor. "Used to be a major sporting event would draw at
least a few million viewers. Not that ratings mean what they used to,
back in the old days of television, when you had a handful of networks
instead of thousands of StreamNets. But the fact is, the numbers just
aren't there anymore. Eight billion people on the planet--but only a
few thousands tune in at a time. The average ChatStream logs more
traffic than that on a hourly basis." He sighed again. "Or maybe it's
not that people don't have time--maybe they simply don't care about
baseball anymore."
Buck swung around to face Tate. "What about you? Don't tell me you
agree with them!"
"Relax, Buck--you're preaching to the choir here. I'd never turn my
back on the game. Besides, soccer's too rowdy for me, and I never have
been able to understand this new-fangled Parises Squares." Tate was
silent for a long moment. "More than the first baseball game I ever
saw, what stands out most for me is the first game I took my son Billy
to."
Buck was quiet, though he'd heard the old man tell this story before.
William Tate had been one of the victims of the Bell Riots twenty years
ago; his father had left San Francisco immediately afterward, never to
return.
"Nineteen ninety seven," Tate continued, his voice warming with the
memory. "It was the Indians versus the Marlins. The Tribe was up, ninth
inning, two outs. Just one more batter and it would be over, they'd win
the Series. They put their ace closer in--talk about a sure thing...Of
course, it didn't work out that way. The Marlins came back to tie, and
then won it in extra innings. Funny how things don't always turn out
the way you expect." Tate's eyes misted slightly. "For me, you'll never
match that excitement. Anything other than baseball lacks that certain
something, that palpable feeling. But no one else feels that way
anymore, except a handful of folks like you and me, and that's simply
not enough."
"Sure it is. Baseball has survived more than a century, world wars
and--"
"You're not telling me anything I don't know. Though it looks like I
need to tell you a few
things." Tate pointed to an old-fashioned, but still serviceable,
headset on the desk. "I've been doing baseball play-by-play for over
forty years. And I have to tell you, it's not the same sport it was
when you came up with the Kings, back in '15. Heck, it isn't even the
same as it was the year you broke DiMaggio's record for hits in
consecutive games. Do you know how many folks followed Pete Rose's
earlier pursuit of that record? It was front-page news. Fifty and sixty
years ago, baseball mattered.
But now interest has dwindled to the point where it's just a curiosity."
"There's still an interest in the game," Buck said, his eyes meeting
the other's intently. "It still matters. Last year's Series, not to
mention the lead-up to the post-season, was the most thrilling in
years!"
"Not surprising when you consider how few teams there are--everybody's
still in the chase until the last few games," Tate said dryly.
Buck's mouth tightened. "The Commissioner's announcement will be a
self-fulfilling prophecy--killing baseball prematurely."
"More like a mercy killing, if you ask me, instead of letting it
malinger." Tate raised a hand to forestall protests. "Back in your
rookie year, how many teams were there?"
"Thirty-four."
"And now?"
"Twelve," Buck muttered. "But the sport's gone through expansion and
contraction before--teams like the old Expos were replaced with the
Nationals, to give just one example."
"And the London Kings were formed in '10," Tate agreed, "but they were
the last new team to take hold. None of the other European ones did,
nor any of the Asian. And then the old stalwarts, like the Red Sox, the
Dodgers, started to fold. Even the Cubs--it was like after they finally
won the Series in '08, they lost heart, lost their raison d'etre."
"I haven't lost my heart," Buck said stubbornly.
Tate smiled sadly. "I know you haven't. Which is why you're still
playing, 27 years later. Fellow your age shouldn't still be at the 'hot
corner.' You're playing not out of ego, or lack of sense of knowing
when to quit, but because you're needed--that if you weren't out there
you wouldn't be able to field a complete infield."
As if brought on by the power of suggestion, Buck's knee started
throbbing again. He rubbed it absently, thinking about Tate's words,
not wanting to admit they were true. Buck's one concession to his aging
body had been switching from shortstop to third base--still a demanding
role. Outfield would have been better, but there was a relatively large
pool of players to fill those two spots--in comparison to the other
positions. It had been ten years since the league had changed the rules
to specify only eight men on the field; the next logical
step--inevitable, really--was to reduce the number of infielders as
well.
Tate must have been thinking the same thing. "From what I hear, there
won't be any rookies this year. Which makes it, what, four out of the
last six years that's been the case?"
Buck was silent. He turned his gaze away from the windows, from the
beautiful spring day--perfect diamond weather--to the monitor where one
of the all-news NetStreams was playing out soundlessly. The scene was
of explosions, followed by shots of a bombed-out city. It could have
been one of hundreds of locations all over the globe. Regional
conflicts had been steadily escalating, with calls for retributions and
counterstrikes. The Eastern Coalition was becoming increasingly
adversarial, and war rumblings were ever-present. The most optimistic
outlook was that it would be another five years before the inevitable
major conflict--on a planetary scale--erupted. Closer to home, things
weren't much better. The Bell Riots had been the beginning of the end,
not that many had recognized it as such at the time. Even in affluent
countries, people were starving. The climate had become harsher, energy
more and more expensive to produce, and more and more people were doing
without what were once considered basic necessities. All the more
reason, in Buck's opinion, something like baseball was essential. Not
just a form of escapism, but a lesson in cooperation, of perseverance
and accomplishment.
He didn't know how to express those feelings out loud. And if he
couldn't even convince Tate, who he knew agreed with him on the most
basic level, what chance did he have of persuading an indifferent
public?
"So that's it?" Buck said despairingly. "This is the last season?"
Tate put his hand comfortingly on Buck's shoulder. "Commissioner
Martinez won't put it so bluntly. But I have it on good authority that
another three teams are going to be gone when this year is over. And
you know as well as I do that doesn't leave us with enough for decent
competition."
"Can't anything be done?"
"It'd take a miracle, son--a bigger one than the Sox coming back to win
the Series."
"Then we'd better make damn sure we pull one off," Buck said. "Thanks
for the heads up." He strode out of Tate's office without waiting for a
reply.
Eddie Newson was already sitting at the bar when Buck arrived, the
Yankees logo on his dark blue jacket standing out prominently in the
dimness.
"Don't you believe in an honest day's work?" Buck said as he slid onto
the unoccupied stool next to him.
"Spring training doesn't start till tomorrow," Eddie said with a shrug.
Buck caught the bartender's eye and placed his order. "What about the
pitchers and catchers?" he said, turning back to Eddie. "Didn't they
report early?"
"They know what it's all about without my hovering," Eddie said with a
grin, which then wavered just a bit. "Not like any of them are
youngsters, after all."
"But none of them have been around as long as you," Buck said. He
picked up his mug of beer. "Cheers."
"At least I know better than to keep playing like some folks I could
mention," Eddie said. "If you had any sense, you'd have hung up your
bat and glove a long time ago and just stuck to managing."
"You never miss playing?"
Eddie took a long pull on his beer. "Sometimes. Yeah, if I could still
play, I probably would, and Lord knows I could use another reliable bat
in my lineup." He abruptly changed the subject. "I tried calling you
this afternoon. You weren't at the Kings' training complex, and no one
knew where you could be found."
"I had some things to take care of, people to see," Buck said vaguely.
"What'd you want? Obviously it wasn't to cancel for this evening."
"I wouldn't dream of canceling. I just wanted to be sure you hadn't forgotten. We always
have a drink the night before the season starts. It's been what, twenty
years now?"
"Something like that," Buck said. It had begun back when they were just
ordinary players. Buck had been an up-and-coming infielder with the
Kings, Eddie his opposite number on the Yankees. The two of them had
dogged each other in the stats every year--home runs, RBIs, assists,
even walks. The rivalry continued when they both took on managerial
roles; in some ways it had even intensified.
Eddie looked around the room. Buck followed his glance, noting the
faded pennants and banners on the wall above the bar. "Lot of history
in this room," Eddie said.
"There certainly is," Buck said.
The bartender chose that moment to turn up the volume of the monitor
perched on the wall, tuned to one of the myriad NetStreams. Buck felt a
sinking sensation in his stomach when he recognized the features of
Commissioner Martinez.
The announcement was terse, and to the point. "Due to unfortunate
circumstances, I have no choice but to state that unless there is a
drastic improvement in interest and participation, this season may very
well be the last of professional Major League Baseball..."
Buck closed his eyes and willed himself not to listen.
"Well, I'll be damned," Eddie said, as a babble of excited voices rose
around them. "It's over. Just like that."
"They're giving us one more season," Buck said, staring down at his
empty glass.
"One year, two, does it really matter?" Eddie said angrily. He stopped
abruptly. "You knew, didn't you?"
Buck nodded slowly. "I had a meeting with Tate this afternoon."
"Talk about somebody for whom baseball's been his whole life," Eddie
said. "How's the Old Man taking it?"
"He's pretty stoic, no, resigned is more like it." Buck sighed. "Tate's
feeling is, maybe it's better this way."
To Buck's dismay, Eddie agreed. "Maybe it is." He ran his hand over his
face wearily. "Baseball has survived a hell of a lot since its earliest
days--all those scandals, gambling, steroids, genetic manipulations. To
think that in the end, it's going to die of apathy."
Buck loosened his collar and took a deep breath.
"I like the way Martinez phrased it, 'interest and participation.' Is
he talking about the fans, or the players?" Eddie shook his head. "If
you ask me, the lack of players is a bigger problem. I wasn't kidding
about needing more power in my lineup. The average age of my guys is
36, which used to be when players started slowing down and wondering if
they still have another season or two left in them."
"So you're just giving up?"
"When have you ever known me to give up?" Eddie asked. "And before you
answer that, let me remind you I've been kicking your ass repeatedly
over the years and this year's going to be no exception."
All at once, Buck felt a slight easing of the tension he'd been
carrying around with him all day. "And I'll remind you," he said, "that you haven't
won every one of our encounters. Remember the time I lined one off your
leg?"
Eddie groaned. "Believe me," he said ruefully, "I've never forgotten
it. You broke DiMaggio's record, and damn near broke my kneecap. Even
if it was a fluke, just a lucky shot."
"It was a clean shot, right up the middle!" Buck protested. "Even if
you had been in position, you
would never have caught that baby with a butterfly net."
"That's what you think,"
Eddie said, his eyes glinting.
They continued in that vein for a few more minutes, when Eddie suddenly
sobered. "You can be sure I'm going to do everything in my power to
make this one hell of a meaningful season--all the way to the Series."
"I never expected anything less from you," Buck said and clapped his
old friend and rival on the shoulder. "May the best man--and
team--win."
"And we all know who that will be," Eddie said confidently.
The season seemed to fly by, or maybe Buck was just more
conscious of the passing of time, knowing every inning, every game, was
one that could never be recaptured. As early as June it was becoming
clear who the dominant teams would be, who would end up playing long
after everyone else was knocked out. The Commissioner's announcement,
for all that it hadn't been meant as a death knell, did seem to have
had the effect of disheartening some of the teams. Others, like the
Kings and Yankees, took it as a challenge.
*
Dateline: May 16, 2042 Cardinals 6, Kings 5 At London's Royal Pitch, Kings left
fielder Yoshimato Burke missed Matt Hansen's line drive in the eighth
inning, allowing two runs to score as St. Louis rallied from an early 5
run deficit to win the first game of a doubleheader.
*
Dateline: June 21, 2042 Mariners 1, Yankees 0 Daoud Smythe pitched eight shutout
innings to lead the Mariners over the Yankees 1-0 in Seattle on
Wednesday. Pitching for the first time in more than a month, Yankees
ace Braxton Bashir slumped off the mound in the third inning with pain
in his left elbow and manager Eddie Newson said Bashir was done for the
year. Michael Garza (1-5) pitched well in emergency relief but he was
outdueled by Smythe (4-1) who struck out 7 and allowed three hits. Hugo
McCoy picked up his 8th save to help the Mariners break a four game
losing streak.
*
Dateline: July 31, 2042 Kings 9, Rockies 3 London's Freddy Guntz pitched perfect
ball until Paul Chekov singled with two outs in the eighth inning.
Guntz (14-4) retired the first 23 batters before Chekov cleanly lined
the 100th pitch to center field on a 3-2 count. Yoshimato Burke of the
Kings kept his scoring streak alive when he walked in the fourth
inning, followed by Reuben Scott's first home run of the season and
only the seventh of his career.
*
Dateline: August 14, 2042 Yankees 11, White Sox 3 Eric Kirk hit for the cycle as New
York routed host Chicago. The Yankees roughed up Justin Riker (16-8)
and sent the AL leading White Sox to their 10th loss in 15 games.
Chicago leads New York by just half a game, with Cleveland two games
back.
*
Dateline: September 18, 2042 Kings 14, Houston 13 The London Kings clinched their
fifteenth pennant today with a victory over rival Houston.
Player-Manager Buck Bokai walked with the bases loaded in the bottom of
the eighth to force in the winning run. Earlier, Bokai came perilously
close to being thrown out of the game by umpire Rene Picard over a
disputed call at the plate in the third inning. Freddy Guntz started
the game but departed after giving up five runs in three and a third
innings. Reliever Marcus DeVries picked up the win after pitching two
scoreless innings.
*
Dateline: September 30, 2042 Yankees 3, Indians 2 Cleveland starter Wayne Rozhenko
(15-9) pitched a complete game, yet gave up a two run homer in the
bottom of the ninth, ceding New York the American League title on the
final day of the season. DeShaun Thompson walked with two outs. Domingo
Santana, pinch-hitting for Eric Kirk, hit the first pitch over the
right field fence. New York will face London in the World Series,
beginning October 3.
"You're obsessed."
"Excuse me, dear?" Buck didn't look up from his lineup cards.
"I said," repeated Kristie Bokai, standing in the doorway of their
crowded study with her arms folded across her chest, "that you're
obsessed."
"I've got a job to do and I'm doing it, if that's what you mean."
"It's more than that. Do you realize that we've been married for 25
years and not once have you ever been available to take a vacation,
attend a family get-together, or anything that didn't involve baseball?"
"Not during the season, no." Buck took a sip of his tea and grimaced
when he realized it had long since gone cold. "Come on, Kristie, you
knew I was a player when you married me. You've got no cause to
complain now."
"That's not the point. Even when it's the off-season, you spend all
your time thinking about the game, talking about it, getting together
with all your baseball cronies."
"It's my job," Buck said, attempting to focus on the papers in front of
him once more.
"It's more than just a job to you." Kristie advanced into the room,
stopping squarely in front of him. "That's what I'm saying, baseball is
your entire life, and everyone and everything else is just hanging
around the periphery. Me, the kids--none of us mean as much to you as
this game."
Buck bit back a sigh of frustration as he gave up trying to
concentrate. "That's not true."
"It is," Kristie said, her eyes flashing. "For all your emphasis on
baseball as a way of unifying people, bringing them together from all
walks of life to root for a common goal, it's just the opposite. Look
at you--everything you've got, emotionally, physically, you gave it all
to the team, to the pursuit of your precious stats. I've seen you play
injured, with a fever, missing family events, all because there was a
game."
"You make it sound like I've been a neglectful husband and father."
"Oh, I don't think you did it intentionally. It's just that we've never
been a priority for you."
Buck stared at her in disbelief. "I've never neglected you or the kids."
"How often did you play with the boys?" Kristie asked, and then went on
without giving him a chance to respond. "A simple game of catch? Once
you realized you weren't raising a future Gold Glove holder or home run
champion, your interest waned."
"Neither Jamie nor Ben ever seemed to be that into baseball. I wasn't
going to force them."
"Well, since you were hardly around while they were growing up, it's
not surprising both of them developed other interests."
Buck took a deep breath. There were so many ways he could have
responded--he was angry, but sad, too, that she could think this of
him. And in a corner of his mind, there was a niggling doubt that
wondered if she was really right. But that quickly passed with her next
words.
"And look at you now. It's not like baseball is actually going to
continue--everyone knows this is the last season. But there you are,
acting like what you're doing is important, like it could actually make
a difference."
"It is important and it does make a difference," Buck said tightly.
"I'm not someone who does things halfway."
"No, you're not, but it kills me to see you wasting yourself on
something as trivial as this game."
Buck stood slowly. "I've devoted my whole life to baseball, and you're
calling it trivial?"
"Compared to real life, yes, it is." Kristie gestured at the window,
the heavy curtains drawn against the deepening gloom. "Do you ever pay
attention to anything going on in the outside world? Are you aware of
the unrest and uneasiness all over the planet? Don't you see that there
are more important things to worry about this fall instead of baseball
and the pursuit of an empty title?"
Buck grabbed his jacket and cap, shoved his papers into his bag and
headed toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Kristie said, following him.
"I've got to get the park."
"You didn't hear one thing I said, did you?"
"I heard you. But I've got a responsibility, and I intend to meet it."
"Buck..."
The door slammed behind him.
Jon Tate stretched as best he could in the cramped confines of the
broadcast booth, welcoming the respite of a commercial announcement. He
glanced at the 'telltales' on the bottom of his computer screen which
told him how many viewers were connected to his 'Stream. Less than a
thousand now; the numbers had been steadily dropping throughout the
game. His mouth tightened and he resumed his play-by-play.
"And welcome back, folks. You're watching Game 7 of an epic World
Series. To recap the action so far, the Series is even at three apiece
for the New York Yankees and the London Kings. Other than Game 4, which
the Yankees won by a score of 10-5, for the most part we've seen some
real pitcher's duels and outstanding defensive plays."
He paused to take a sip of water. "Tonight's game fits into a special
category of its own--there's been a lot of ups and downs in this five
hour marathon. The lead has changed hands no fewer than five times. The
Yankees got on the board first, scoring two runs before the Kings ever
got to the plate. That lead didn't last long, of course, as the Kings
promptly scored three runs of their own in the bottom of the first.
"Now we're all tied up, at eight runs apiece, going into the bottom of
the 13th inning. The heart of the Kings' order is due. We'll be
seeing Burke, Kennedy and Bokai. "
Tate looked around the nearly deserted stadium. Attendance had been
announced at 300, back in the fourth inning, but it didn't seem that
more than a handful of spectators were left.
"New pitcher for the Yankees, Floyd Hunter, who saw limited action
during the regular season. The bullpen for both teams has been
stretched pretty thin. Michael Garza pitched a total of three and a
third innings, gave up three walks, one hit, and struck out four.
"Burke steps up to the plate. Fastball down the middle. Back in the
seventh inning, he hit one just like that, which at the time gave
London the go-ahead run. Next pitch, just misses outside. Burke just
gets a piece of the next one, is in the hole now at 1-2. Swiiiiiiing
and a miss, struck him out!
"Hunter stares down at the catcher, waiting for the sign, as Kennedy
comes to bat. It's been a frustrating night for Kennedy, he's 0-4 with
two walks and a sacrifice. Hunter misses outside with his first
offering, looked like a slider. Next pitch, same spot. Now he's going
back to the fast ball. Kennedy is out in front on that one, hits an
easy grounder to the shortstop who throws him out."
The play-by-play could just be heard from the dugout as Buck took one
final swing in the on-deck circle, then stepped up to the plate. Two
outs, the bases empty; Buck didn't like to admit it, but he felt tired.
And for the first time, old. They had to make something happen; he
didn't know how much longer he or his team could keep going. His only
consolation was that the Yankees' players had to be just as spent.
Sooner or later, someone would make a mistake. He only hoped it would
be his opponent.
The first pitch was outside, or so Buck thought. "Strike!" called the
umpire.
Buck turned around. "What?"
"What's the matter, Buck? Hearing going as well as your eyesight?"
asked the catcher, with a grin.
"Yeah, right, O'Brien," Buck said, stepping back into the batter's box.
He fouled off the next pitch, putting himself into an 0-2 hole. Patience, he told himself. Lay off a bit. Hunter was a finesse
pitcher, preferring to nibble at the corners of the strike zone as
opposed to blowing smoke. Buck's strategy was rewarded when the next
two pitches missed. Hunter took the sign, began the windup, and fired.
Buck jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding being hit on the elbow.
More importantly, he kept his bat out of the way. Full count.
The next pitch was a fast ball, straight down the middle. Buck just
managed to get a piece of it and knock it foul.
Buck asked the umpire to call time, and stepped out of the batter's
box. He adjusted his gloves, touched the rim of his cap, the logo on
his sleeve, tapped the end of his bat against his spikes. The same
rituals he'd been doing at every at-bat, his entire career; he took a
deep breath and then was ready. Hunter, in the meantime, stepped off
the rubber, obviously deciding it was his turn to make the batter wait.
Buck stepped out again.
"You going to get back in there and hit, Buck?" Eddie hollered from the
Yankee dugout.
Buck didn't reply. He stepped back into the batter's box and waited for
the pitch. As he saw the ball coming toward him, he wasn't conscious of
swinging. All he knew was that in one fluid motion, the ball seemed to
change direction, flying back out toward the outfield. He stood
transfixed, watching, not moving a muscle.
"If it stays fair, it's going all the way!" Tate exclaimed. "Yessiree,
folks! It's gone! The Kings win the Series! The Kings win the Series!"
The ball crashed into the upper deck, which was completely and eerily
empty. No one ran over to try and pick up the ball. It just bounced in
and rolled under a row of seats.
Buck tossed his bat to the side, and did his turn around the bases,
feeling like he was moving underwater. He was dimly aware of stepping
on home plate, being patted on the back, and then of Newson charging
out to be among the first to congratulate him.
"Damn, but that was some shot, you lucky dog!" Eddie pumped his hand
vigorously.
"As we said, may the best man win," Buck said, vaguely surprised at how
out of breath he sounded.
"I wouldn't go that far," Newson said, "but what a way to end it!" He
grinned, not looking as devastated as the manager of the losing team
might have looked, then stepped back as Buck was engulfed by his
players.
The Kings congratulated each other on the field, quite excited, but
afterward in the locker room the mood was very subdued, despite the
flowing champagne. Buck tried to smile as he shook hands with the
Commissioner, said something entirely conventional and forgettable as
he was presented with the trophy.
During the celebration, such as it was, two of his players asked to
speak to him privately. Buck thought he knew what it was about.
"So you see," said Freddy Guntz, "I don't think I can do this anymore.
It's not that I'm not glad we won, and I'd love to have a chance to try
and repeat, but you know--"
"You have to think about your future, about supporting your families,"
Buck said. It was a line he'd heard with increasing frequency over the
past few seasons.
Guntz looked uncomfortable. Aiden Kennedy, the first baseman,
swallowed. "I'm sorry, Buck, if there were any other way--"
"I understand," Buck said. "Honestly, I don't know if any of us will be
back next year." He forced a smile, somewhat more successfully than he
had with Commissioner Martinez. "Best of luck to you both. I mean it."
"Thanks, Buck."
After everyone had left, Buck went back on the field and into the
stands, climbing into the upper deck near the left field foul pole.
Bending down, he searched under the seats until he found it. He
pocketed the scuffed white sphere and began the long trek down to the
stadium exits.
"Great game tonight, Buck!" called one of the security crew as he
approached.
"Thanks," he responded.
"Anything we can do for you?" asked the guard.
"No, I'm on my way out," Buck said. "Have a good night."
"You, too, sir."
He stood for a long time on the ramp watching as the lights went out,
section by section, until the field was completely dark.
In the parking lot, he heard his name being called.
"Hey, Buck--that was some homer!" The speaker was a young boy, who
looked to be about ten or twelve years old. Standing next to him was an
older man, obviously his father.
"Thank you," Buck said.
"I just knew you were going to hit one--after all, you guaranteed the
Kings were gonna win!"
Buck recalled he'd made that boast in an interview before Game One.
"Yeah, me and Babe Ruth." At the boy's blank look, Buck added, "Ruth
also guaranteed a win once for his team. He was the home run king for a
good chunk of the last century, and many folks still think he was one
of the greatest players of all time."
"My dad always says you're one of the best players ever."
"Thanks," Buck said awkwardly. "What's your name, son?"
"Toby--" the boy pulled himself up to his full height. "Tobias Sisko."
"Well, pleased to meet you. Do you play baseball, Tobias?"
The boy shook his head. "I'm on the school team for Parises Squares.
None of my friends are really interested in baseball, but I like to
watch the old vids and that's why my dad and I came to the game
tonight."
"We came all the way from New Orleans," the father added. "Hang the
expense, who knows if we're ever going to get the chance to see
anything like this again?" He turned to his son. "Come on, Toby, it's
late and we've got to get going."
Buck took the ball out of his pocket, feeling the worn leather, the
stitching on the side, slightly torn from the impact of the hit. His
hand seemed to sag under the weight of all the memories of his years of
playing.
"Hey, kid!" he called, and tossed the ball to him.
Tobias looked up in surprise and delight as he caught it.
