The House of Daniel by Harry Turtledove Read Free Book Online Page B

time it wasn’t. They were doing a phantom infield the likes of which you’d never seen the likes of. They’d catch and throw and pivot and all, as if they were working a rundown or turning a double play or whatever, and you’d follow the ball with your eyes, only there was no ball to follow. It was something to see—or not to see, I guess you could say.
    Over by the home dugout, the Greasemen were stretching or playing pepper or having a catch. They were supposed to be, anyways. Half of ’em, though, couldn’t keep their eyes off the shaggy men with the lion’s heads on their shirts.
    When it was Ponca City’s turn to take infield, they played it straight as a yardstick. If they’d got even a little bit cute, the crowd—and it was gonna be way bigger than Enid drew—would’ve seen they weren’t as good as the House of Daniel guys. This way, they just looked boring. Not a great choice, maybe, but a better one.
    Pitchers were warming up, too. Ponca City’s other main hurler besides Walt Edwards was a right-hander everybody called Close Shave Simpkins. Not because his face was so smooth—oh, no. He had almost enough gray stubble to make you reckon he belonged to the other side today. But he’d put one under your chin or spin your cap as soon as he’d look at you.
    Closer to me stood Frank Carlisle, who’d go for the House of Daniel. His beard hung down almost to the emblem on his shirtfront. His hair was even longer, and a couple of shades lighter. He was a lefty.
    â€œLet’s see what you got, Fidgety Frank!” yelled a loudmouth not too far from me. Carlisle didn’t even look his way. He just pegged it back and forth with the guy catching him. He threw somewhere between three-quarters and sidearm, so his curve broke wide but not down too much. Tell you the truth, he didn’t look all that tough.
    Both sides cleared the field. Some kids dragged it a last time to get it nice and smooth. One of the House of Daniel players bawled into a big old megaphone with a lion’s head painted on each side (they didn’t miss a trick, the House of Daniel boys).
    â€œLadies and gents, gents and ladies!” he roared. “Welcome to the latest celebration of America’s game by the Lord’s team, the House … of … Daniel!” He stopped there for cheers and boos. He got about a fifty-fifty split—what you’d expect, I suppose. “Today we’re mighty pleased to be in Ponca City to play against your Greasemen!”
    He waved toward the home dugout. Everybody whooped and raised Cain. I figured it was the first time an outsider ever said he was pleased to be in Ponca City. I also figured they’d whale the tar out of me if I said so, so I shut up.
    Out trotted the home team in their white flannels. The Chinamen at the laundry—it’s next door to the Ponca City chop-suey house—must’ve worked overtime getting ’em all nice and clean again so soon after the game against the Eagles. The crowd cheered some more.
    Out trotted the umps, too. The guy behind the plate was the same one who’d worked yesterday’s game. I didn’t recognize the fella who would work the bases. By the way he talked, he’d come down from Kansas or somewhere like that. Nobody cheered either one of them.
    â€œPlay ball!” yelled the plate umpire, and they did.
    The first two men for the House of Daniel made easy outs. Their third hitter … The fellow with the megaphone called, “Batting third and playing center field, number fourteen, Rabbit O’Leary!”
    He was a left-handed hitter. As soon as you saw him, you knew he meant business. About six-one, maybe 175. Yeah, he’d run like the wind. You need speed to play center. And he’d be trouble with the stick, or he wouldn’t have hit where he was. I could hope I was as good an outfielder as he was. One look told me I