Chapter 1 (1 of 2)
Of course he had heard all the tales and the rumors and he had even seen some official accounts of the pain and the misery that came from having the sponsor grafts removed. The disfigurement too. But those weren’t the dire consequences that troubled him these rare moments when he thought about the possibility that he too might be stripped. It was only a remote possibility anyway. After all, he was Gab Darby, the highest rated, best paid, most storied slugger ever to play the game. His sponsors would want to keep him well covered. They would want to keep him well covered even after he retired. He was sure of it. So what if his performance had dropped off this last year or so. He still had the name. He still had the fame. Now it was just a matter of getting out with his reputation still at its crest.
And that, of course, was what brought to his mind the possibility that he still could be stripped: the question: should he end it this year? Or should he play on another with his faltering legs and with the ache that sometimes spread insidiously across the broad, powerful muscles spanning his back, the muscles he used to accelerate his bat to such dazzling speeds? He wanted to stay. He loved it so much. And even if he dropped off some more, how poorly could he possibly play before a sponsor, any sponsor, even those not already emblazoned on him, would not want to attach its name to the famous Gab Darby? Strip him? It was unthinkable. Yet still, the possibility crept into his head. Because, after all, anyone still active could always be stripped. The contracts said so. And if it should happen to him, he knew, he wouldn’t mind the pain and the scaring. Instead he dreaded only the identity he would lose when he wondered how he might feel to be stripped.
Why worry, he said to himself at last. After all, here he was in the final game once again. He had led the team here. He had rallied the players twice already in the two back-and-forth, sea-saw battles that had placed them in this winner-take-all, season finale. Win or lose tonight, he could still retire in high honor. Or if he stayed on a year longer the fans would still come out to cheer him. After tonight’s finish he would retain his luster for at least one more season.
Do right, he said to himself out loud in his closed and private dressing room. He stirred with a flourish, reaching over his back to claw up his jersey and tug it off over his head, exposing his bare torso, which was his game uniform: the hard and capable muscles of his chest, neck, back and arms, pricked through with the dyes that advertised the bright names of his sponsors — Colonel Chicken, Pepsi Coke, Corolla and K-Wall Stores.
“Tommy come soon,” Darby mused aloud, putting on his play-day demeanor as he settled his rump and then leaned back deeply into the power-stim seat. His weight energized the contact field. The chair shot tingling, twitching jolts deep into his being, quickening his heart and calling out the blood surge that engorged his rippling, tensed muscles till they stood out in high relief and stark definition. Standing, he looked in the mirror: Pepsi Coke in bright red and blue all across his hardened pectorals.
