The sound of a collision at home plate is unmistakable. It doesn't matter if it's a person sliding into another person or a two-ton cyborg made from depleted uranium crashing into a Krog.
Cal winced from the mound. Dust settled at home plate, revealing the damage. The runner—a cybernetic linebacker from the Chromium Crushers—was safe. Borp, the tough turtle-tank, lay on his back. His chest protector was dented inward like a crushed soda can.
"Time!" the drone umpire buzzed, hovering low.
Manager Xylos rushed out of the dugout. His four legs moved quickly. Medical bots swarmed to the plate.
Cal ran in. "Borp! You okay, buddy?"
Borp groaned. A trickle of blue fluid leaked from the corner of his beak. He tried to sit up, but one leg collapsed. He chattered in Krog, a low sound of frustration, and slapped the ground with his mitt.
"Rib fractures," Nex said. His voice was grim in Cal's earpiece. "And a cracked shell casing. He's out for the series. Maybe the regular season."
Cal felt a pit in his stomach. Borp wasn't just a catcher; he was the only one on the team who could handle Cal's modified breaking balls without dislocating a wrist.
"We need a stretcher!" Xylos shouted. "And get that scrap-metal runner out of my sight before I recycle him!"
As the bots lifted Borp off the field, the crowd at the Crushers' home stadium—a jagged metal fortress on an asteroid—cheered at the injury.
Cal turned to Xylos. "Who's the backup?"
Xylos clicked nervously. He scanned the bench. The roster was thin. Injuries and trade deadlines had drained the reserves.
"We don't have a second catcher," Xylos admitted. "Borp never gets hurt. Krogs are indestructible."
"Well, he just got dented," Cal snapped. "Who catches?"
Xylos looked down the dugout. His multifaceted eyes landed on the far end of the bench.
"Gloob!" Xylos called.
A sound like a toilet plunger being pulled free echoed from the corner. Gloob, the gelatinous, semi-sentient amoeba from the Ooze Nebula, undulated. He was usually a utility infielder because ground balls got stuck in him, letting him ooze to first base for the out.
"Gloob?" Cal stared. "He doesn't have hands! He doesn't have knees!"
"He has mass," Xylos said, shoving a catcher's mask onto the blob. The mask sank into Gloob's jelly-like face, suspended in the green goo. "Gloob! Get behind the plate. Do not digest the umpire."
Gloob burbled—a happy sound—and oozed toward home plate.
"This is a disaster," Cal muttered as he returned to the mound.
The game was tied, 3-3. Bottom of the eighth. Runner on second. Two outs.
Gloob settled behind the plate. He didn't crouch; he simply formed a wide, green mound. He didn't give a target. He was the target.
"Play ball!" the drone buzzed.
Cal looked at the batter. It was the Crushers' captain, a creature with hydraulic pistons for biceps.
Cal looked at Gloob. There were no signals. Gloob couldn't put down fingers he didn't have.
"Just... stop the ball, Gloob!" Cal shouted.
He kept it simple. High heat.
Cal wound up and threw. The fastball hissed through the asteroid's thin atmosphere and crossed the plate at belt height.
THWUCK.
The ball hit Gloob dead center. There was no sound of leather hitting a mitt. Instead, it sounded like throwing a rock into a bowl of pudding. The ball disappeared into Gloob's body, rippling through the translucent green slime until it stopped, suspended near where a stomach might be.
"Strike one!" the umpire buzzed.
Gloob shivered. Then, with a sound like PTOOEY, he spat the ball back toward the mound. It was covered in a thick slime.
Cal caught it. The slime was sticky. Really sticky.
"Gross," Cal said as he wiped the ball on his pants. It didn't help. The ball was now coated in 'Gloob-Goop.'
He gripped the seams. The slime acted like a strong adhesive. His fingers felt glued to the leather.
Wait, Cal thought. This is tacky. Really tacky.
Pitchers on Earth used to use pine tar for a better grip and to increase spin rate. This was like pine tar on steroids.
Cal looked at the runner on second. He looked at the batter.
"Hey Gloob!" Cal yelled. "You doing okay?"
Gloob burbled and formed a thumbs-up shape from his shoulder area.
Cal grinned. He signaled for the curveball—not that Gloob understood.
He wound up. The sticky residue allowed him to put a lot of torque on the ball. He snapped his wrist, feeling the synthetic tendons strain.
The ball left his hand. It didn't curve; it veered like a flying saucer making a hard left turn.
The batter swung and missed by two feet.
THWUCK.
The ball disappeared into Gloob again.
"Strike two!"
The batter looked at the umpire. "Check the ball! He's tampering with it!"
"The substance is organic secretion from the catcher," the drone ruled. "Natural bodily fluids are legal under League Bylaw 74-B. Play on."
Cal caught the spit-back ball. It was even slimier this time.
"One more, Gloob," Cal whispered.
He threw the "Dead Fish." But with the slime, the friction felt off. The ball didn't just float; it wobbled, shimmering in the air like a soap bubble.
The batter's sensors couldn't track the erratic spin. He froze, watching the ball drift right down the middle.
THWUCK.
"Strike three! Side retired!"
Cal walked off the mound, trying to wipe the green slime off his hand. It wouldn't come off.
"Nice inning," Xylos clicked as he met Cal at the dugout. "But we may need to hose you down before the ninth."
"We can win this," Cal said, glancing at his goopy hand. "But someone needs to tell Gloob not to swallow the ball if there's a play at the plate. Digestion takes three hours."
The ninth inning was tense. The team managed to score a run thanks to Gorth smashing a ball through the shortstop (literally through him; he vaporized into digital pixels and had to respawn).
Top of the ninth. 4-3 lead. Cal was closing. Krix was unavailable due to "shedding season" (he was in a hyperbaric chamber itching uncontrollably).
Cal mowed them down. The Gloob-Goop added 500 RPM to his slider. The Chromium Crushers couldn't touch him.
Final out. A pop-up behind the plate.
"Gloob! It's yours!" Cal pointed up.
Gloob looked up. He didn't have a neck, so he tilted his entire mass. The ball dropped from the black sky.
Gloob extended upward, forming a giant green funnel.
The ball fell into Gloob. SHLOOP.
"You're out! Ballgame!"
The team rushed the field. Gorth picked up Cal. Then he tried to lift Gloob, but ended up with handfuls of jelly.
Back in the locker room, the celebration was muted. Borp's locker was empty.
Cal sat on his stool, finally scrubbed clean of slime. Nex approached, looking at his datapad.
"Borp is stable," Nex said. "But he's out for six weeks. That puts him back right around the Championship Series, if we make it."
"And if we don't?" Cal asked.
"Then he's back for the offseason banquet." Nex tapped the screen. "We have twelve games left. We're one game out of the Wild Card spot. And our starting catcher is a jello mold."
Cal glanced at Gloob, who was currently absorbing a post-game pizza. The pepperoni floated inside him like confetti.
"He calls a terrible game," Cal said. "And his throw to second is a slow lob. But..." Cal looked at his own fingertips, still slightly tacky. "He makes my spin rate insane."
Nex smiled thinly. "Flexibility, Cal. It's the hallmark of your species."
Cal stood up and grabbed his bag. "Twelve games. Let's get sticky."