Kenji Kokabu pulled himself through the water, stubbornly ignoring the discomfort. It was an early June day in Massachusetts, chilly enough that his heated pool couldn't compensate entirely. That was nothing.
The tightness in his right shoulder on every second stroke: that was another matter.
He kicked off the pool wall to complete his twentieth lap, then spied someone at the far end. An angular face was smiling, a hand waving from a muscular arm. Kenji put on speed. "Sam," he said a second after reaching the edge.
He reached a hand out, but Sammy Paul stepped back. "No way, K. You may have an old rookie grudge to take out on this brand-new suit." His attitude changed when Kenji started pulling himself out, exposing the scar on his back. "Oh, wait, I'm coming."
Sam's reward for his tardy assistance was a wet hand on his back and a quarter-strength push toward the water. "Your suit's innocent," Kenji said. "Take it off, and we'll talk."
Sam guffawed. "Good to see you, too."
They shook hands, but Sam's grip was weak. "You don't have to baby me," Kenji said. "The hand is fine."
"With the money you make, I'm not taking chances."
"Fair enough." Kenji grabbed a towel hanging on a deck chair, the socks on its logo faded to a heavy pink. It was a souvenir from his first big-league start, and victory, one Sam had celebrated as much as he had. God, I was literally a kid back then. He snapped himself out of his daydream. "Give me five minutes to put on some clothes."
Sam waited in the rec room, watching sports news on Kenji's new 3-V. He didn't know whether to smile or frown at the Dodgers' continuing winning streak. Kenji returned in a tee and shorts, carrying two tall glasses of orange juice.
"Too early for anything else, Sam ... except an explanation. You don't answer your mail for two weeks, then you drop into my lap. Is something wrong?"
"Look, Ken, I'm sorry about the mail. I was getting so much sympathy thrown at me that I dumped the mailbox after the first hour. I didn't see anything you sent me, and I'm sorry. Still, I have been busy."
"But not successful."
Sam froze, and puffed out a breath. "I've asked around with every team in the North American leagues. San Antonio wouldn't nibble, Toronto said call back in the stretch drive, and so on. Not even the third-year expansion clubs want me. Looks like they agree with the Brooklyn brass. Thirty-nine equals washed-up."
Kenji tried to sound confident. "Well, you cleared international waivers last week. Any bites overseas?"
Sam shrugged. "Can't go to the Japan-Korea league. Language. Same with the Caribbean League, and they like youngsters better anyway. Nothing from Europe after that one call from Birmingham. As for Australia ... what I said in thirty-three about women players is rebounding on me, huh?"
"You mean boomeranging."
Sam's mouth puckered. "You said it. I was restraining myself."
"Sure you were." Silence hung for five long seconds. "Have you thought about hanging it up?"
"I've done lots of thinking, Ken, none about quitting baseball. Listen, the press has been ignoring you for a while. How's rehab coming?"
Kenji patted the shoulder through his shirt. "It's getting stronger. I'm doing more laps each day, and I start weight exercises in a few weeks."
"Will you be back this season?"
Kenji shook his head. "The doctors are cautious. They're learning from experience with clone grafting, and I'm the experience."
"How are the Sox brass taking it?"
"They've gotten over expecting me back this year, but..."
"They won't make guarantees about your new contract?"
"I've asked. They haven't answered." Kenji rolled his shoulder, working out the stiffness. "Rotator tears are career-killers, and this surgery isn't proven yet. They'll want to see how I'm doing in the fall, I guess." He sighed. "Some are already saying this comes of letting a pitcher complete his starts. They may never let me pitch my way again. My record contracts could be behind me."
"Oh, you've got record contracts all around you," Sam said, sweeping his arm to encompass the massive house. "And this is peanuts. How much do you have in assets you aren't living in? Three hundred?"
"Three forty-five, last my accountant crunched the numbers." Kenji sensed a destination to his friend's maneuverings. "You haven't done shabby yourself, remember."
"Yes, but I didn't earn three forty-five in eighteen seasons, never mind what I've spent. I'm worth just under two hundred mill ... and for what I've started planning, that isn't enough."
Kenji sat up. "All right, Sam." Only friends used the more formal name. To fans, he was always Sammy. "You've been building up to something. Spill it."
Sam leaned forward. "You know how the GM of the Blue Sox wouldn't know talent if it hit a ball over his head. When I sent him a feeler, he shot me down by collect e-mail. Quote: 'You'll sooner play baseball on the Moon that sign a contract with this company.'"
His brown eyes were sparkling. "Ken, I want to start a new league."
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