Chapter IX:
The Tournament

ONE OF THE reasons I hight Morgan the Wise is by cause of a modest level of foreknowledge that I possess. I dare not call myself a prophet, for such a title imparts far more danger to the bearer than that of enchantress, sorceress, or witch. Were it ever to befall me to be seized for to be burned at the stake, I could always summon a thunderstorm to quench the flames and strike dead with lightning those who dared put me there. Prophets are crucified, stoned, dismembered, disemboweled, beheaded, behanded, befooted, and bejeweled in ways too terrible to behold; and even the Most High Sovereign God does not permit them to be delivered of such a fate. I with my poor magic cannot hope to prevail against divine prohibition.

However, I venture to suggest that I do know the outcome of some things with a surety that surpasses everyone else’s knowledge and expectations, and one of the things I knew beyond all possible doubting was that Malory would be re-elected President. I did not noise aloud this knowledge, for such noisings often produce the opposite effect and render one’s foreknowledge useless—tempting fate is the customary term. In reality, it is a type of contramagic that dashes all to pieces the plans and designs of the unwary and unprepared. Being wary myself and prepared, I avoid exercising contramagic like the proverbial plague.

Prayer is a form of magic, too, as much misunderstood as it is misused; but I caution you, faithful reader, against stating that fact in public, especially among a congregation of foaming Fundamentalists.

Thus, secure in my privy knowledge regarding President Malory’s favorable electoral fortunes, I deemed it meet to rest from my travail and indulge in the viewing of the games of the 2080 World Tournament of Baseball.

In the enjoyment of spectacles featuring feats of physical prowess, the twenty-first-century denizen differs not one whit from those who inhabited the sixth, even in preferences of gore and mayhem, which can be found aplenty while viewing ice hockey and lacrosse, wherein opponents beat each other with sticks not unlike the melees of my acquaintance, but with blunted weapons, no shields, and scarcely any armor. Ice hockey adds the amusement of the frozen playing field, which engenders more fights among the players and quite often the spectators, too, increasing the mayhem and titillation factors for all involved. A goodly amount of mayhem occurs in games of basketball since (Dirk informed me) the old rule regarding the commission of personal fouls is now ignored except in cases most egregious, such as throwing a punch at an opposing player or slam-dunking his head onto the court’s floor. Basketball games are tedious to watch, however. The constant back-and-forth action makes me feel as if my head will shake itself to death; and by the game’s end, my neck is so grievously sore that I wish my head had popped off and saved me the trouble. Football, the sport Americans to this day insist on calling “soccer” in spite of the fact that no player ever gets socked—only spectators do—is commendable by cause of said melees, which break out among said spectators during the most important tournaments. Watching American football is like watching a miniature war with half-armored knights fighting without shields and weapons, edged or otherwise. If ever I do conceive a wish to watch a war, I shall start a real one with all the proper trappings and accoutrements.

Baseball may seem tame in comparison, but it possesses the twofold virtues of being passing familiar to me and having a stately quality that hints of ancient nobility even though, as I have recorded heretofore, no one of recent noble blood deigns ever to play this game. Its stateliness is of especial value when viewing the game with the assistance of a most remarkable type of twenty-first-century magic, “virtual-reality television,” which its familiars call VRTV. With VRTV one can place oneself in the middle of the playing field with no harm either to oneself or to the execution of the game. ’Tis frighteningly disconcerting to watch an approaching stampede of players during tournaments of ice hockey and lacrosse, yelling at each other and waving their sticks, only to have them pass through you unawares like ghosts. I tried once to enter the center of a rugby scrum, for to see what really transpires within, for all that huddling and muddling about looks intriguing enough from the outside, but the VRTV device would not obey my command; a disappointing limitation to the magic. VRTV is best suited for sports such as baseball, where one may choose to look over an umpire’s shoulder and judge balls and strikes and outs for oneself, take the batter’s view without risk of being hit by the pitch, wind through the pitcher’s motions from the mound, or even see as your favorite fielding champion sees the game played out before his own eyes, keeping pace with his actions without expending the energy. Powerful and heady magic, indeed.

In this manner I watched Game One of the World Tournament on Wednesday, the 23rd day of October in the year of Our Lord 2080. The London Knights, winners of the European League and Asian League playoff banner, were hosting the Americas banner winner, the Silver Springs, at New Wembley Ballpark of London.

London! I had trouble believing the evidence presented by my own eyes! Although I suppose I should not have been so surprised, given the wonders of Washington; still, the absence of rickety huts and muddy streets teeming with unwashed and sickly humanity, and the air bereft of choking smoke and fog, came as no small shock. I resolved to visit London rather than watch the second game on VRTV, for I discovered yet another limitation: VRTV’s magic interfered with my incantation to enhance the Knights’ performances, and they lost Game One by a score of two to one.

Ambrose Hinton, being a serious fan of baseball in general and the Springs in particular, arranged for me to attend the remaining games as his guest—doubtless hoping to curry favor with me, since I had risen so highly in his wife’s estimation. The quaintly barbaric twenty-first-century term is “suckup,” which implies, well, never mind what it implies; doubtless you, my intelligent reader, know it already.

For Game Two, Ambrose and I journeyed to London inside a privately commissioned car of the Transatlantic Bullet Train. If flying through the air inside the belly of a steel dragon produced a thrilling rush, speeding along the ocean’s floor inside a great worm was a peerless marvel that inflicted far less stress upon my entrails. Conversations, however, had by necessity to be left for the very beginning and end of the journey; throughout the vast middle duration, the train was traveling faster than Ambrose’s words could reach my ears, and no enchantment I assayed could untangle the sounds. A lot of what Ambrose says is a muddle most of the time, anyway; I did not miss anything of tremendous import.

The evening of the 24th day of October, Ambrose and I attended the game as honored guests of Britain’s reigning monarch, the courteous and comely—and essentially powerless—King William VI. Had I not been absorbed in assisting President Malory, I might have turned my efforts toward the task of throwing the arrogant, exasperating, idiotic, and otherwise useless pretenders out of Parliament and restoring full power to the Crown where it belongs, but a king can attend to the restoration of his powers if he wishes it; if he chooses not to exercise his divine right, then all the enchantments on earth cannot change the inevitable and unenviable outcome, and his subjects deserve what they receive as a result.

Being the king’s guest distracted me from helping the Knights with my magic, and they lost again, this time by a score of eight to six when the Springs’ center fielder hit a three-run homer to go ahead in the top of the ninth. The Knights could not find an answer to the Springs’ ultra-fast-ball relief pitcher, and they fell in three straight strikeouts.

Game Three, on Saturday the 26th in the host team’s namesake city of Silver Spring, Maryland, was such a massacre that its description is not worthy of being recorded in this chronicle. Magic cannot overcome the sheer stupidity of decisions such as poor base-running, badly hit bunts, and the misjudging of fly balls. It led me to the painful conclusion that the Knights had slipped into the World Tournament due to a woeful lack of stiff competition on their side of the Atlantic. For the sake of completeness, I shall report the score: Knights 3, Springs 12.

The Knights made a much more valiant effort in Game Four, again in Silver Spring, on October 27th. They were down by two runs, the score at five to three, by the top of the ninth inning, and managed (mayhap with a bit of my help) to get one of those runs back. The tying run was on third; the go-ahead run on first; two outs. A wide, wild pitch tempted both runners to steal. Magically I nudged the first-base runner, trying to ensure the win, but the third-base runner was thrown out at home to end the tournament in four disgraceful games. I had much yet to learn about the game.

Since Ambrose was such an avid Springs fan, he and I were attending as guests of the Springs’ owner, Ira Desmorel. Although I knew it was impolitic to be cheering for the opposing team in Desmorel’s presence, I must have allowed some of my frustrations to show, for in the midst of the spraying champagne bottles and accompanying huzzahs, Desmorel turned toward me, displayed a grin, and said:

“Word is the Knights are for sale. Their owners, the BBC, are developing a VRTV mega-series ‘Doctor Who’ extravaganza wherein viewers can be TARDIS passengers in the privacy of their own homes. The BBC is looking to raise some fast cash for the project by dumping its baseball business. I will be happy to see you in three or four years’ time, Morganna Hanks. If you care to put your money where your mouth is, I shall make arrangements for the Springs and Knights to meet for a rematch.”

This queen never backs down from a challenge! And that was as fair a gauntlet throw as any I have ever seen.

However, one thing puzzled me, given what I knew of the vagaries of the game regarding players’ injuries and slumps and attitudes and “juicing” and arrest records and so forth. I said, “Are you a prophet, then, sir, that you can predict with certainty that such a thing shall come to pass?”

Desmorel laughed. “Not a prophet, dear lady, but a man of profit. And no man of profit ever amassed a fortune the size of mine by allowing critical details to be subjected to the whims of fate.”

As both sorceress and queen, I understood him implicitly. Using the parlance of the age, which I am pleased to report I was mastering nicely by this time, I said:

“Then you are on! I shall buy the Knights from the BBC and see you with my best team in four years.”

We, in the customary fashion of the time, shook on it. ’Twas a more exhilarating rush than a flying dragon ride and swimming worm ride combined. More satisfying still was how non-plussed Ambrose looked, as if I had outmaneuvered him to gain checkmate. Perhaps that was the truth of it—Ambrose, knowing the extent of my powers, was afraid that I would defeat his precious Springs the next time they met the Knights in the World Tournament. I invited him to enter into a wager with me on the outcome, the exact amount to be determined when the time came. To his credit, he did not refuse.

To ensure the Knights’ victory, I intended to bring all of my magical arts to bear.