Rating: G
Summary: Tinkerbells and crackerjacks... What could be more fun than a little game of interagency baseball, right?
Author's Notes: Ahh, finally, it is done! It only took me about a year. g Enjoy!
Operation Crackerjack
By Trekkieb
You have got to be kidding me.
Parker's words pretty much summed up his, Donovan's, and Ramsey's feelings at the moment.
The whole gang of Alpha Team stood clustered around one end of the conference room table in Briefing Room One. A cardboard box was the only thing on the polished surface; its flaps stuck out sideways, allowing full view of the box's contents.
Something suspiciously like a snort combined with a muffled giggle came from Olga's direction. Parker's gaze snapped over to her. Oh, it's not that bad, Mr. Parker, she said, the muscles around her mouth twitching as she fought a smile. In fact, it's rather cute. Never Never Land, get it?
Yes, I get it. Frank glared at her for a second longer, then he turned his attention to the amused face of Bradley Talmadge. He whipped out a shirt from the opened box and unfolded it so Talmadge could clearly see the embroidered script on the front. The Tinkerbells, Bradley? The Tinkerbells?
Ramsey piped up indignantly, an equally unhappy look on his face. When he'd agreed to this operation, he'd never imagined it would turn out to be so humiliating. If word of this got out in the Agency circles, he'd never live it down.
Frank, Nate, you both promised Talmadge reminded.
Parker groaned. He knew better than to make blind promises. Especially when they were to someone as manipulative as himself.
Donovan, who had been slowly edging his way towards the door and blessed freedom, jerked to a halt when Frank suddenly spotted him and said, Where do you think you're going?
Donovan waved his hand in the general direction of the door behind him. Just, you know, work.
Frank walked over and blocked the exit, watching Craig like a hawk. Uh huh. Right. You're stuck with this, too, you know.
No way, man. I ain't playing, Donovan sputtered. I never promised His voice trailed off as he realized that he had actually promised.
We're all a part of this, Talmadge said.
Come on, sir, this is ridiculous! Ramsey pleaded.
Yeah, what if I'm needed for a backstep? Frank asked, grasping at straws.
And I should stay in case something happens to Frank and I'm needed to backstep instead, Donovan eagerly added, grasping at an even thinner straw.
Frank paused, ready to add another excuse, but then he swiveled his head around to gaze narrowly at his old buddy. What do you mean, in case something happens to Frank?
Donovan shrugged. I was just saying, Frank. No need to get your shorts in a bunch.
Oh, would you two cut it out, Ramsey interjected heatedly. This is bad enough without all your bickering.
Stuff it, Ramsey.
Talmadge yelled above the noise. You're going to play, and that's an order.
And that was the final say.
A moody silence filled the room for a few seconds until Ballard spoke up. Operation Crackerjack. He grinned.
Mentnor repeated.
Yeah, like the crackerjacks you eat at a baseball game.
Someone groaned.
C'mon, it'll be fun, Ballard declared happily.
*** *** ***
After half an hour of bickering over who got to be the coach of their ragtag baseball team, it was decided that Ballard would be, because, well, baseball wasn't a wheelchair accessible sport. But Ballard wasn't upset; he was already having fun calculating the trajectory of a perfect pitch.
Olga was delighted to be a part of the game, even though she had never in her life played or even watched baseball. Predictably, upon trying out a few pitches, she threw like a girl.
Mentnor regaled everybody who'd listen with accounts of how he'd almost made it as a Minor League-er, but then his career as a world famous ball-player was interrupted by a little thing known as Roswell
Talmadge, well, he just thought the whole darn thing was incredibly funny. He didn't really mind being a Tinkerbell, plus it was good entertainment to watch Frank and Craig and Nate moan and groan so much about it.
Nate was opposed to the team name because he thought it made the NSA sound like sissies. Especially when the opposing CIA team of the Annual Interagency Sports Competition was the Roaring Tigers or something like that, and the coach was his long time arch-nemesis from college.
Donovan sighed resignedly and shook his head every time the subject was brought up.
Frank had never wished so hard for a nuclear disaster as when he tried on the shirt. Sure, it looked like a regular baseball shirt. The sleeves were blue, as was the piping along the collar and down the front. His number—twenty-one, his number from when he played football in school, coincidentally—was stitched in bright red across his back. The front, however, was what he despised. There it was, Tinkerbells, emblazoned across his chest. Worse was the fact that it was written in some kind of cutesy cursive.
The words seemed to mock him, and Frank shuddered.
If the genius who'd thought up the name for the NNL team was anybody but the chairman of the NSA panel, Parker was pretty sure he'd strap the guy to the wing of an aircraft, send it into an uncontrollable dive, smash the instrument consol, slip on a parachute, and jump to safety.
Unfortunately, that wasn't very practical. Planes were pretty expensive these days.
If he weren't being forced to play for a team that reminded him of the sugar-sweet fairy in the Peter Pan cartoon that Jimmy loved so much and had forced his dad to watch time and time again, this might have actually been a little fun. Frank had played a little baseball in his day, though his passion was football. He'd been a fair player, or at least he thought so. His tenth grade PE coach seemed to think differently.
Yeah, well, what does he know? he muttered, adjusting the hem of the shirt.
*** *** ***
All of them, plus three of Ramsey's security men who'd been recruited because nine players were needed for a full team, gathered in a square patch of dirt big enough to play on. They had exactly twelve days to get into winning shape, so they could fly over to Minnesota—the agreed upon location for the game—and kick some CIA rear ends.
Olga, Bradley, John, and Isaac wore their Tinkerbell shirts. Frank, Craig, and Nate did not. Neither did the security guys. Ramsey wouldn't let them until it was time for the actual game.
Ten minutes into their first practice session, Parker was convinced that it would be a very long twelve days.
Frank held the bat at the ready, while Mentnor stretched his arm and shoulder muscles on what served as the pitcher's mound. Finally, the elderly scientist was warmed up enough, and Frank flexed his grip on the light-weight metal bat in anticipation. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. And
Hey, ow!
Frank looked up in surprise to see Ramsey, who was standing just two yards to his right, scowl and rub his shoulder. The baseball that Mentnor had thrown rolled to a stop a few feet away from the security chief.
Mentnor called, Sorry. Sorry. Then, quieter, Just a little out of practice, is all.
Just a little out of practice, Ramsey mimicked under his breath. Try a lot out of practice, you old geezer.
Chill, Ramsey, Frank said. He hefted the bat to his shoulder once more, then called, Okay, Isaac. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. And
Frank sighed heavily. Oh, man, was it going to be a long twelve days.
*** *** ***
The following days were filled with hours and hours of ball practice. Some improvements were made, but mostly the team continued to stink to high heaven. It was discovered that Olga, despite throwing like a girl, was a better pitcher than Mentnor, much to his chagrin. Miller, one of the security guys, was good with a bat. Other than that
The big day. Game day. The day they'd all been either looking forward to or dreading.
The Tinkerbells were massacred by the CIA's Roaring Tigers, 20 to 3.
Donovan and Frank had to restrain Ramsey from launching himself at the leering, jeering face of the other team's coach. It was not a pretty sight.
Maybe, Parker conceded upon reflection, his high school PE coach had known what he was talking about.
Nah.
Back at NNL
Hey, we should celebrate, guys.
Celebrate, Frank? What have we got to celebrate? Donovan asked as he sank into one of Briefing Room One's chairs. Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't we just get creamed? Pitifully?
Mr. Parker's right. After all, it's not about who wins or loses. It's about the game. It's about team spirit. It's about --
Oh, save it for the after school special, Ramsey groused.
Olga stuck her tongue out at him, then looked shocked that she had done so. Frank grinned at her and winked. C'mon, Nate, he continued, clapping Ramsey on the back. The first round's on me.
Ramsey gazed at him suspiciously, but then finally said, Well, okay. But don't expect any celebrating from me. I plan to thoroughly drown the memory of this entire rotten day in a nice haze of alcohol.
I think I'll join you, said a depressed Mentnor. Poor guy, he'd really wanted to win, to prove that he was still the darned good ball-player he'd been in his youth.
Hey, it's a free country, Frank said.
The room emptied. Olga, Frank, and Talmadge were the last to exit.
Tell me, Frank, Talmadge began. He pulled a cigar from thin air, or so it seemed, and stuck it between his teeth. Why are you in such a good mood? I thought you'd be disappointed too.
Frank sniffed, looked around, winked at Olga again, and put an arm around Talmadge's shoulder. I'll let you in on a little secret, Bradley, he whispered conspiratorially. I put my money on the Roaring Tigers. He patted Bradley on the back and stepped away again.
Talmadge laughed. I should have known. Shaking his head, he left the room.
When he had gone, Olga turned to Frank. She held out one hand, palm up. My share, please, Mr. Parker. I feel like a nice steak dinner, and I don't want to be too far behind the others.
Frank extracted a number of green bills from his pocket. He peeled off half and handed them to Olga. There you are, Ms. Vukavitch. He shook his head slightly in disbelief. I never thought you'd actually bet against the Tinkerbells. What happened to team spirit and all that?
Olga smirked. I may be inexperienced with baseball, but I'm not naive. I know a lost cause when I see one.
Ah huh. Frank rubbed a thumb against his chin in thought. So, what about me then? Am I a lost cause?
Oh, I don't know. She smirked at him again and turned on her heel. He stood there, watching her. When she reached the door Olga turned back, eyebrows raised. Coming, Mr. Parker?
Frank grinned. You bet. And he followed her out the door.
The End
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