The scouting report on the Cerebria Mind-Warpers was simple: "Don't think."
"That's helpful," Cal muttered, sitting in the dugout of the Psionic Spire. "How am I supposed to pitch if I don't think?"
"Instinct," Nex replied. He wore a tinfoil hat. He had made a crude helmet out of food wrappers from the concession stand. "The Cerebians are telepaths, Cal. They read the pre-motor cortex. They know you're throwing a fastball before your fingers even grip the seams."
Cal looked out at the field. The stadium floated in a purple nebula. The air was thin and buzzed with static electricity. The opposing team, the Cerebians, were tall, slender humanoids with translucent skin and large craniums that pulsed with faint blue light. They didn't speak. They just stared.
Krix, the Viperian, was on the mound. It was a bloodbath.
Krix wound up. His face showed reptilian fury. He was thinking, loudly and clearly, I am going to throw this ball through your skull.
The Cerebian batter, a creature that looked like a glow stick with legs, stepped back before Krix even released the ball. He swung the bat at the exact moment the 102 mph fastball crossed the plate.
CRACK.
The ball sailed over the center-field wall for a 500-foot home run. The Mind-Warpers were up 6-0 in the second inning.
"They love aggressive pitchers," Nex sighed, adjusting his foil hat. "Aggression is a loud thought. It screams. Krix is basically broadcasting his pitches on a PA system."
Manager Xylos hurried out of the dugout, signaling to the bullpen. Krix stomped off the mound, hissing, his hood flared in humiliation.
"Vance!" Xylos called. "You're up. Try not to think about the scoreboard. Or your failures. Or that time in third grade you peed your pants. They'll see that too."
"Great," Cal grumbled. "No pressure."
Cal jogged to the mound. The gravity felt normal, but the psychic weight was heavy. He sensed a low-level hum in the back of his skull, like a migraine waiting to strike.
Borp met him at the mound. The Krog catcher tapped his own helmet.
Empty, Borp signed. Make head empty.
"Easy for you to say," Cal replied. "You're a turtle."
Borp slapped his mitt against Cal's chest and squatted behind the plate.
The first batter stepped in. His head pulsed with a rhythmic blue light. He stared right into Cal's eyes.
Cal tried to clear his mind. Don't think fastball. Don't think fastball.
Naturally, all he could think about was a fastball.
He gripped the ball. Okay, curveball. Surprise him.
He threw the curve. The batter didn't even stride. He just waited, his bat hovering, and slapped the breaking ball into the gap for a double.
The batter stood on second base and tapped his temple, offering Cal a smug, telepathic smirk. Weak mind, human, the voice echoed in Cal's head. You telegraph your deception.
Cal felt a cold shiver. "Get out of my head," he muttered.
The next batter stepped in. Runner on second.
Cal stepped off the rubber. He needed a strategy. If he planned the pitch, they would see the plan. If he tried to trick them, they would see the trick. He needed to throw something he didn't know he was throwing.
Randomness? No, I can't throw blind.
Then he remembered an old drill from high school. His coach used to make him recite the Pledge of Allegiance backward while playing catch to disconnect his motor functions from his conscious focus.
Noise, Cal thought. I need white noise.
He looked at Borp. He decided he wouldn't look at the signs. Instead, he would just focus on the mitt's position.
He stepped back on the rubber. The batter's head pulsed.
Cal took a deep breath. And then, internally, he started screaming.
COUNTRY ROADS, TAKE ME HOME!
He mentally belted the chorus of the John Denver classic at full volume, drowning out every other thought in his brain.
TO THE PLACE! I BELONG!
While he mentally screamed about West Virginia, his body went into autopilot. His hand found a grip—he didn't check which one. His arm came around.
The Cerebian batter flinched. The blue light in his head flickered. He was hearing the song. He was confused. Why is the human screaming about mountain mamas?
Cal released the ball. It was a cutter. It broke inside at 91 mph.
The batter swung late. Whiff.
"Strike one!"
Cal caught the return throw. He didn't let up. He switched tracks. Now he was mentally reciting the menu of the Bullpen Bar & Grill.
Cheeseburger, ten dollars. Onion rings, six dollars. Whiskey, neat. Whiskey, rocks. Draft beer. Pitcher of beer.
The batter stepped out of the box, rubbing his temples. He looked at the umpire. The telepath couldn't find the pitch intent amid the flood of fried food prices.
He stepped back in. Cal wound up.
EIGHT SIX SEVEN FIVE THREE OH NINE! Cal's mind screamed the phone number.
He threw a change-up. The batter lunged, expecting heat, and topped the ball weakly down the first base line.
Cal sprinted over, fielded the grounder, and tagged the runner out.
"You're out!"
The runner looked at Cal with wide, pained eyes. Your mind... it is... chaotic. So much... noise.
"That's called Earth radio, pal," Cal panted.
He returned to the mound. Two outs. The runner on second was dancing, trying to distract him.
The batter was the Cerebian captain. His head pulsed with deep indigo light. He glared at Cal, pushing a wave of psychic pressure toward the mound. Cal felt a sudden urge to throw a high fastball. A suggestion was planted in his brain.
Throw it high. Challenge me.
Cal gritted his teeth. He dug deep into his memory. He needed something louder. Something simpler. Something unstoppable.
He started mentally reciting the infield fly rule, verbatim, subsection by subsection.
Rule 2.00: An infield fly is a fair fly ball (not including a line drive nor an attempted bunt) that can be caught by an infielder with ordinary effort...
The sheer boredom of the rulebook acted like a psychic firewall. The Cerebian captain squinted, trying to pierce through the legal jargon.
Borp flashed a target: Low and away.
Cal didn't think "slider." He just threw to the spot while contemplating the definition of "ordinary effort."
The ball broke sharply. The captain swung—a massive, confused hack that missed by six inches.
"Strike three!"
The inning was over. The Cerebian captain threw his bat down, holding his head.
Cal walked off the mound, his head throbbing, but a grin spread across his face. Nex was waiting at the dugout steps, still wearing the foil hat.
"What did you do?" Nex asked. "His readings went haywire. He couldn't find a signal."
"I just played the hits, Nex," Cal said, grabbing a water pouch. "Turns out, aliens really hate John Denver."
Gorth lumbered over, looking puzzled. "Who is John Denver? Is he a warrior?"
Cal tapped his temple. "The greatest warrior of them all, Gorth. The greatest warrior of them all."