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“Here we go... this looks like a nice spot, right here.” Vogelbaum sits down on an uncomfortable wooden bench seat and pats the spot beside him.
John looks around, stares, probably wondering why most people are trying to sit closer to home plate while they’re all the way out in right field, where there are hardly any people, but he doesn’t ask anything. He’s been exceedingly well behaved the entire four hour car ride to get to Utica, nose pressed to the window, watching the upstate New York countryside drift by. They could have chosen a venue closer to the City, but decided to play it safe. Vought wanted the boy exposed to crowds before he was going to be the subject of their attention. But this was also his first exposure to people who weren’t Vought employees. The crowd here is manageable, in the hundreds. If anything happened, they could probably cover it up in a small town like Utica. If they had gone to a game in Long Island, that probably wouldn’t be as easy and the margin for error would be very slim.
He glances back at the two Vought bodyguards who have seated themselves directly behind them. Insurance in case anything happens. Not that it’s clear how they could prevent anything catastrophic from happening if John somehow got out of control, but it’s good to have some backup. Vogelbaum thinks it’s ludicrous that they came in their usual black suits and sunglasses to sit in this tiny baseball stadium in an audience full of families with young children. They are far more conspicuous and out of place than John. In any case, Vogelbaum is the most important line of defense here to make sure the boy manages his first excursion into a public event.
“John, what rules did we agree on when you’re out here?”
The boy turns away from the field where the players are warming up to look at Vogelbaum earnestly. “Don’t move fast, don’t fly, don’t power up my eyes, don’t talk loudly,” he rattles off.
“That’s right. Just enjoy the game.”
“What if...” John hesitates. “In the movies sometimes a ball flies out of the field and then people can catch it. Can I move fast to do that, at least?”
“Absolutely not,” Vogelbaum cuts him off. “Don’t move out of your seat under any circumstances.”
John nods and folds his hands in his lap.
“Are these the best baseball players in the world?” he asks.
Vogelbaum can’t help but scoff. “No, John. This is A ball. These players are trying to get into the Big Leagues. Come on, you know the Blue Sox aren’t part of the American or National Leagues.”
John screws up his eyebrows, deep in thought. “Oh yeah. But they’re still pretty good right?”
“They’re okay I suppose. They still have double A and triple A ahead of them. Most of them will never make it to the Majors.”
John watches them warm up playing catch, and Vogelbaum can tell he’s scanning through the walls to look at the pitcher warming up in the bullpen.
“Which team are you a fan of?” John asks.
Vogelbaum grimaces. “I haven’t been to a game in ages. My father used to take me to Yankees games in the Bronx. They were an amazing team when I was a child. Not so much these days.”
“Do you take your children?” John asks and Vogelbaum’s body freezes. He’s tried to never mention his children anywhere near the lab building, but he supposes the other researchers might have blabbed something about him going home to his family. Or maybe it was because his wife sometimes insisted on calling him to ask when he’d be home in a passive aggressive tone. He’d never mention his children, but her voice through the receiver might have. And this boy can hear everything inside that building. Vogelbaum finds the idea of John knowing anything about his children intensely disconcerting. He breathes deeply to make sure his heart rate slows down.
“I do not. My daughters aren’t so interested.”
John beams. “Well, you can take me any time! Baseball is my favorite sport.”
Vogelbaum nods. “I’m well aware.” He always found Vought’s idea of what the boy’s hobbies should be gratingly on the nose.
“Do you think...” John pauses, as if sensing that he might get reprimanded for the question before even asking it. “Do you think I could become a baseball player when I’m old enough?”
“John. Come on now. You know baseball is an exclusion sport. They’re all about tradition. They haven’t let supes in yet, and seeing what happened to hockey, I don’t think they ever will.”
“But...” The boy looks upset for the first time that day. “You’re saying I wouldn’t be allowed to play even if I don’t use my powers?”
“Yes, even if you don’t use your powers. That’s a silly idea anyway. Would you hit the ball with one hundredth of the strength you actually have? Would you run the bases slowly? Besides, John, this game is beneath you. Everyone at Vought has such high hopes for you. You could do such interesting things with your life. This?” He gestures to the field. “It’s just a childish pastime.”
“But... isn’t it America’s favorite sport?”
“It certainly bills itself as that. But it’s just nostalgia. People longing for classic American sports before the first supes appeared in the 40s. It’s just sentimental.”
John looks back at him, still looking sad and perplexed. “You don’t like it?”
Vogelbaum realizes it’s strange to deride a sport they’re about to sit through seven innings of. “I like it just fine, but I don’t want you moping about not being allowed to play it. Let’s just enjoy watching.”
John seems mollified by that explanation and turns back to watch as the loudspeaker announces the beginning of the game. He seems to follow the game with interest. They’re sitting far enough away and to the side that the action isn’t very visible, but this child can see perfectly well at this distance.
“I can see catcher’s signs!” John announces, a little too proudly, and a little too loudly, so that a man sitting several empty rows in front of them with his two sons turns and looks at him. John seems oblivious, so Vogelbaum shushes him. John speaks in a more hushed tone. “He’s showing one finger for the pitcher to throw a fastball, and then the other ones are slower.”
“That’s right. I think the standard signs are two for a curve, three for a slider, and four for a changeup.”
“Oh yeah,” John says, staring intently. Vogelbaum finds his eagerness to look through people’s bodies a little bit disconcerting, but he has resigned himself to the fact that John can look at anything he wants and there’s no good way to stop him from doing that.
“Now watch closely—if they get a runner on second, they’ll change the signs to a secret system they came up with beforehand.”
“Why?” John asks.
“Because with the runner on second, he can see the catcher’s hands, and he could whistle to the man up to bat.” Vogelbaum suddenly gets self-conscious. “I don’t know, it’s all pretty silly details.”
John doesn’t seem to think so and keeps watching the game raptly before he starts announcing the speed of the pitches. Vogelbaum hasn’t noticed too many superhuman mental powers show themselves in this child, except for these seemingly interrelated abilities to count quickly and estimate speeds and frequencies with surprising accuracy.
“76 miles an hour. That was a changeup. 90 miles an hour. That’s a fastball.”
“You see how slowly they’re throwing? That’s as fast as they can throw. You can throw, what, five times as fast as that? When you’re not even fully grown up. And you wanted to play with them?”
John shrugs, seemingly uncomfortable with the comparison and its implications and goes right back to announcing the pitches.
“84 miles an hour. Slider.”
The man in front of them turns around again. “Ha! Your kid almost sounds like he knows what he’s talking about and sees it all the way from over here.”
Vogelbaum nods woodenly. “Yes, he’s aspiring to be an announcer.” Then turning to John, he says much more quietly “Remember we agreed you’d keep your voice down? People here shouldn’t hear you.”
John nods and starts mumbling the pitches out very quietly. Vogelbaum is admittedly pleased that he makes himself busy with figuring out particulars, of course, but sometimes he worries this boy is growing up to be strange. He hopes it’s a phase where he just happens to get fixated on certain things easily.
The food vendors have been hovering where the majority of the sparse crowd is sitting but one finally makes his way over to their corner of the seats.
“Hot dogs! Get your hot dogs!” resonates across the many empty seats. The man in front of them motions the vendor over and starts buying some.
John is intensely interested. “Dr. Vogelbaum? May I please try one of those?”
Vogelbaum wearily motions the vendor over.
“Alright little man. How old are you?”
“N-nine.” John mumbles. Maybe he’s intimidated by the vendor using that brash theatrical voice.
“An excellent age! You want relish with this?”
John stares wide-eyed. “Wh- what’s... wh-”
“He doesn’t need relish,” Vogelbaum interrupts him. John has a strange verbal tic when he gets nervous. Vogelbaum won’t go so far as to call it an outright stutter because it comes and goes, but it’s probably time to hire a speech therapist to nip this problem in the bud. Before the higher-ups become aware of it.
“Anything for you sir?” the vendor offers and Vogelbaum shakes his head, trying to keep disdain off his face. “You want some Crackerjack for dessert, little slugger?”
John looks questioningly, then sees the box the man pulls out and before Vogelbaum can protest answers with an emphatic “Yes!”
Vogelbaum relents and pays for both items to avoid a scene, and scoffs when the bodyguards seated behind them also get hot dogs.
“This is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted in my life!” John declares loudly, only muffled because his mouth still full of hot dog and bun. One of the men behind them snickers.
“We don’t talk with our mouth full,” Vogelbaum says. Then adds “I’m glad you like it.”
John finishes the hot dog but Vogelbaum tells him to wait before he starts on the Crackerjack. Instead of focusing on home plate, John seems to be watching the people sitting in front of them. The two boys have gotten bored and are shoving each other.
“May I talk to those kids?” John asks.
“Absolutely not. We’re here just to visit and to see if you can behave yourself.”
John saddens again. “I won’t do anything wrong. I won’t show that I’m a super.”
“Believe me, you don’t want to talk to them,” Vogelbaum grumbles, eager to cut off any more arguments.
John suddenly gets even more discreet and whispers in his ear. “Why are they shoving each other?”
“They’re siblings. Brothers will roughhouse like that.”
John stares at them. “Will I ever have a brother?”
Vogelbaum sighs and tries not to visibly roll his eyes. “No, John. You’re one of a kind. And not everyone has a brother. I was an only child growing up as well.”
John looks up at him and nods.
“Now why don’t you pay attention to the game instead.”
“I am. It’s bottom of the fourth, two outs, man on first.” The batter grounds out and the fielders start jogging toward the dugout. “And now it’s top of the fifth.” Now it’s John who’s rolling his eyes.
“Alright, I stand corrected. You were paying attention. But don’t roll your eyes at me.”
“Sorry,” John says, and he’s still a little morose, so Vogelbaum relents and hands over the box of Crackerjack.
“Hey there’s something in there!” John says, peering at the box, shaking it.
“Why don’t you open it instead of looking through it. I think those come with a little prize or something,” Vogelbaum says wearily. Thank god the Minors only play seven innings. He’s getting tired. It’s sad to admit but he never really finds a common language with children. John is, by most counts, a singularly interesting child and precocious in many ways, but Vogelbaum still finds it hard to be patient when he gets excited over small, inconsequential things.
“It’s a whistle!” John says.
“Don’t blow it loudly,” Vogelbaum warns.
John puts the whistle in his mouth and blows into it very quietly even as he’s watching the game. The batter suddenly hits a homerun and John springs up, excited. Vogelbaum is already worried that he’ll do something stupid and take off into the air and reveal himself, but instead John slumps back down into the seat, spitting out the whistle that he crushed to pieces with his teeth.
“I broke it,” he says despondently.
“It’s alright,” Vogelbaum says in the most reassuring tone he can muster. “You get excited and you forget your strength. At least it was just a toy.”
John’s staring at the pieces of cheap plastic in his hands.
“Just throw it on the floor,” Vogelbaum says.
John looks at him questioningly.
“It’s a stadium. People throw peanut shells on the floor. They’ll come by to clean it up.”
John tilts his hands and lets the broken pieces fall on the floor, apparently still in disbelief that he’s allowed to litter. Vogelbaum realizes that he should clarify.
“You’re right. In most places you shouldn’t throw trash on the ground. This is an exception.”
John seems satisfied by that explanation and starts on the Crackerjack, giving a shudder and grimace when he first tastes it. “Wow, it’s very sweet!”
Vogelbaum dreads the sugar rush the boy might have on the drive back to Long Island. Eight hours on the road in total, all just to prepare this child for being among people in a safe venue.
“Dr. Vogelbaum?”
“Yes, what is it.”
“This is the best day I’ve ever had. Thank you so much for taking me outside to see this game!”
Vogelbaum can tell John wants to hug him, but they haven’t done so in years, and Vogelbaum’s body language remains closed off to dissuade him. But he does smile. “I’m glad, John. I’m glad to see you’re having fun.”
“Maybe we could go again?” he asks, but looks back down at the Crackerjack box when he receives no response.