"I still don't understand why you need to put me under for a routine physical."
The last couple days had been a flurry of emotion for Mitch Dalrymple. Free agency was a new experience for him and his family, having never been without a team in his eight year big league career -- a career that already included two Landis rings, a Charles Puckett, three all-star appearances, and four Diamond Gloves. He was elated to be offered a contract by a perennial playoff team in California. Yet, now, here he was, strapped helplessly to a surgical bed in the bowels of South Pacific Field.
"Please, can you explain what the hell is going on?"
"I bet Dusty Rhodes didn't have to put up with ... ."
And, he was silent. The only sound from the small, sterilized room was the constant hum of machines, periodically interrupted by mechanical beeps and printouts. Satisfied, the green eyed woman stood up from her stool at the head of the bed and walked from the room. Several moments later, she returned with two men in tow, both fully gowned and wearing surgical masks and eye protection.
One of the men walked over to the head of the table and ran his fingers gently through Dalrymple's hair. "To think, men like this are the apex of evolutionary nature -- men who now use the trials of their ancestors to play a simple game," he said to the other man who was still standing near the doorway of the room. "They look so peaceful when asleep. Don't you think Victor?
He didn't wait for a reply, nor did he expect one.
"Come. Come closer. I know you don't understand why you're here, but you'll learn soon enough."
