Bailey Attoehow had never even been on a plane.A black man with a Dutch name from England, who'd spent the last four years playing an American sport in Spain: you really couldn't imagine a more cosmopolitan background. And yet, and yet, Bailey Attoehow had never even been on a plane. Often frustrating his team, Bailey had insisted on slower, steadier ground transportation to and from his away games -- often not even traveling on road trips where he wasn't scheduled to start. Was he afraid of flying?, the Spanish media had often asked him. Bailey wasn't sure, seeing as he'd never done it. He just didn't care for the idea of it. Even forty-thousand feet of sky was further from Europe than he was really comfortable with. And now he was supposed to move to the American desert.
When Bailey had signed a long-term contract with Belfast he'd felt relieved. Back in the British Isles, where he came from. It wasn't Tiverton, of course; his hometown had a population of 19,000, and no baseball team to speak of. But Belfast was at least in the United Kingdom, and he could make the trip home in his Ford Anglia. His family could come to see him play professional baseball! What more could a young man dream of?
Now, though... Bailey's dream had been stolen from him, by some American lawyers with fancy words he didn't fully understand. Bailey threw baseballs. He threw them hard, accurate and with enough sneaky movement that he'd become a star in Madrid. But he didn't know how to deal with all of this contract stuff; Adam Dee, the Canadian running the Northstars organization, had promised him he'd be able to throw baseballs in Belfast and let other people worry about the contracts and the paycheques. He'd be able to pay off his parents mortgage buy them tickets to Belfast twice a month. He'd still be able to pay off their mortgage, he supposed, but how would his parents be able to get to Tucson? Bailey didn't know. They'd see him on TV, he imagined.
Not that they'd see him pitch all that much -- he was a starting pitcher, by experience and preference. He'd thrown 240 innings in 31 starts for Madrid, and Belfast had planned to put him at the top of their rotation. His agent, however, informed him that Tucson had no interest in a two-pitch starter: he'd be relegated to bullpen duty. For the first time in his career, Bailey wouldn't be a part of the starting rotation; some reward for going 17-6, he figured.
These Americans didn't even seem to care about what he wanted. He'd seen the GM on television, looking drunk as an Irish mule. "That vulgar man", as his mother had called him over the phone last night, had said that Bailey would play where they told him to play. He said he hoped Bailey liked the desert. Bailey had a sneaking suspicion that he would not, in fact, like the desert. Madrid had been more than hot enough for the boy from Tiverton; he'd been looking forward to the temperate summers of North Ireland.
Tucson's head office had called him yesterday, and told him that no matter what Adam Dee said or did, the law was the law and he was required to either report to Tucson for Spring Training or retire from professional baseball. The man on the phone had told him, not unkindly, that he'd be sent a plane ticket shortly. First class, all the way. There'd be a driver at the airport to take him to his team-arranged flat, much nicer than what he'd been able to afford on an EBA salary. He'd love Tucson, the man said. The heat makes you feel young, the man said. Bailey was already young, he thought. Maybe he should retire from professional baseball.
He couldn't, of course. Bailey hadn't even graduated from high school. Unlike American players, who can compete throughout college and get a degree for free, Bailey had dropped out of his local comprehensive high school to join Madrid's academy system, and had been playing AAA baseball by the time he was 18. What could he possibly do, other than play baseball? His dad could probably get him a job loading trucks, like he had for his brothers, but Bailey supposed that might be even worse than living in Tucson. Maybe. Maybe not?
Adam Dee had promised that the Northstars would fight Tucson on this, but Bailey's agent had warned him that the small-time and small-budget European Baseball Alliance had very few muscles to flex in a case like this, and it was awfully unlikely that he'd be able to stay in Britain. The Americans had money and the law on their side, and all Belfast had was a mouthy GM who was itching for a fight with the league that had cast him off. That was something, though, wasn't it? Bailey really didn't know.
All he knew was that he wanted to play baseball, he didn't want to go to Tucson, and he'd never even been on a plane.
