Jim Baen's Universe

Featured Article

Fantasy Stories

Twinkletoes

Written by J. A. Howe

I'm here walking up Broadside on a nice spring day, decided not to take the bus it was so nice and anyway I'm in a good mood. Prospects look good this year. Heller's hitting .309 already, we just acquired an amazing arm from Detroit. Oh, if they only knew what they had—but we have it now. Gonna be a good year for betting. Gonna make a lot of dough, I'm thinking.

So here I am, whistling "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" under my breath, and I hear footsteps behind. A kid in a cap I don't recognize but I figure it's baseball. What other sport is there, really?

"Hey, mister."

Cute kid, can't tell the age. I got my own memory of youth when I hit that long homer and they all cheered. Got a dime, I figured, but that's not the question. Can I have your autograph doesn't make it either.

"You work for the team around here, right?"

"That's right. Team broadcaster, kid." I give my signature imitation of an ump: "Out at first!" Straighten. "Loopy Lou, named for the guy who broke the Chicago curse." Kid looked at me blankly, unimpressed. Well, I'm past the time for him (her?) to remember . . .

"Terry Hammer, son of Thor, at your service," kid finally says, holding out a tiny, delicate hand.

If he hadn't said "son," I wouldn't have been able to tell. Too cute to be a guy, too butch to really be female. Then again . . .

". . . Owner of the Wooden Stakes."

Never heard of 'em, except with regards to vampires.

As confusion crosses my face, kid says, "you know, the baseball team."

"Oh. Yeah." Great . . . here's some kid with a fantasy club to beat all fantasy clubs. Bet he roleplays too.

"We beat the Dragons last moon," he goes on. "They so wanted to eat us, too."

"Right . . . Well, nice talking to you."

"Wait! Phil said you'd be the one to get through to first, since you're the Voice." Mentions the last word in hushed, awed tones.

Good to know the kid at least has respect for broadcasters. I feel my chest swelling a bit unintentionally with pride.

"You could speak for me."

Then again . . .

"To whom?"

Kid looks impatient. "To the GM, of course."

"You want to meet our General Manager?"

"No, your Games Master."

"Umm . . ."

Kid whacks his forehead.

Definitely a guy.

"Oh, hold a minute. I'd forgotten I was not speaking with one of our world. Yes, your—Gen-er-al Man-a-ger." Says the last part slowly, as if trying to make it sink into his mind in the proper manner. "This is who is in charge of the game, right?"

Maybe it's a friend of some baseball fan, or a kid who's just been introduced to the game this spring. . . .

"Well, there's some dispute: General Manager picks out the team with the Manager's help, you see. But a good game's called by the catcher. He knows best what's going on and what should be done."

Kid looks confused again.

"The wrinkled tree at home plate?"

"Umm, yes . . . anyway . . ."

When he sees me trying to edge away, he moves. Fast. Like Itchy used to do in the outfield. I jump when I find him right by my side, clutching an arm from behind.

"Please, mister . . ."

One of these days these fans are gonna give me a heart attack. "Okay, okay, you can meet the GM—tomorrow."

"But I must see him soon!"

"Well, Lacy's not around right now. Isn't as if I could conjure her up in an instant." Don't mention that she was my wife.

Kid looks disappointed but nods.

"Yes, yes, of course you can't. Not here, at least." Kid sighs. "Then I will see you tomorrow. My thanks."

And then he vanishes.

You know, I've seen a lot of things in my thirty-two years with the Sox. Players with odd habits, religions, some of the most amazing rituals and superstitions. Used to know one hitter who refused to have sex during the season. And then there was the guy who stocked his locker with a specific type of gum—Choco mint by Bubbles, and god help the clubhouse guy if he couldn't find it. And oh yeah, I have seen a few pagan ball players and some very colorful fans. But nothing like that.

****

Sure enough, bright and early—bright being the applicable word here—Hammer appears right in front of the park as Lacy and I are heading in to work. Last night, she gathered I'd met some crazed fan or other. But the look on her face when she talks to him now—it's a study.

Worse, he has this huge guy Thor with him. Says, ". . . since you seem to need convincing."

Thor is fingering this mallet he carries.

"Um, step into my office, Mister Hammer, and we'll discuss terms," Lacy says.

I have to hand it to her, she was always professional, even with the crazies.

"Mister Thor, you stay here please—with my husband."

Great.

So I'm here with this six-foot four linebacker type, and I have stuff to do at the booth so I say, "Okay, come with me, sir. You play what position?"

"Hitter." He makes a smashing movement.

Suddenly I'm very glad I took wrestling in college and still have good reflexes. That wall came very close to needing serious repairs.

"So I see . . . and in the field?"

"Thor is DH. Designated Hwacker."

"Right . . ."

I'm thinking I'll keep him far away from the reporters.

I have to spend the next three hours trying to keep Thor's hammer from anything sensitive . . .

. . . and dealing with an intern who keeps hitting on him—"I bet you've got a real nice hammer . . ."

Then I have to keep Thor from grabbing her by the hair and dragging her off—"You ever done it with a real thunder god?"

Finally, Lacy comes by the booth, without Terry, I'm very glad to see.

Then I have close to a seizure.

"We're going to play the Stakes on Thursday." She looks at Thor and grins.

"You've got to be kidding. Lacy . . ."

"Press loves it. A fairy-human game? It's unheard of. And we're the first!" She kisses me on the cheek, winks at Thor.

What is it with this guy?

"Got to go, Hammer's talking to them now and I have to be on the Show at three." And she's gone.

Thor looks at me. "Mmm, good," he says, flexing those huge muscles. "Must go practice." And he disappears in an instant.

This is what I get for marrying a Wiccan.

Press bills it as the greatest game ever to be played—a landmark. Hey, in this town, what with Ruth's ghost still about and some of the strangest games ever to be played under full moons, not to mention Salem up north, I guess it makes sense. Besides everyone loves Lacy (except New York who headline next day with "Has there Finally Been a Rip in the Lace?"—what do you expect from those people?). Guys around the clubhouse and dugout aren't sure what to say or think, except our catcher who just pores over his books like it would be any other game. Our manager, Bill, just grins and says "ah, well, I figured the Otherworld would come around to play us sometime. Best team in baseball—who else would they ask? Can't wait."

****

So Monday comes, and you should hear the people on (and off) the Lemon Line. Someone does a great version of "Puff the Magic Dragon" and later calls in with "Do You Believe in Magic?" They play "Witchy Woman" bits all day. Fans come out in droves with that slogan, on t-shirts and posters and caps. The band who wrote it think of suing, then get talked out of it by our canny lawyer who offers them the glory of singing at the start. Aerosmith gets the seventh inning. They're all psyched, I hear.

Am I the only person in Boston who sees a problem with this?

Then they appear Wednesday night and I have to believe it.

"Sir! Sir! They're here!" Max, my stats whiz, comes running into my office. "You have to see this!"

"Bill down there?"

As if I couldn't have figured on that. For all I know, Bill sees fairies on a regular basis . . .

"He's there, all the reporters are there, Lacy's there, all our guys are there, it's amazing! There's this woman who keeps insisting no one touch her giant horse . . . c'mon, Sir, you can get a good view from the booth!"

We head up there, and sure enough, it's a sight to see.

****

The paper I'm handed next day by Pansy—who'd had a lot of fun with Thor night before, rumor has it—is even more interesting. "There are a couple tweaks," she says.

I take a very deep breath.

They really do have a tree for a catcher.

Eagles—the band, thankfully they didn't bring too many birds—gets a rousing cheer. A tall guy named Watermark gets thrown out for flying to first. Through the air. He turns into a puddle and gooes his