like the rest of us, Pete thought.
He hunched his shoulders and wished he’d worn more than a lined windbreaker. The wind whipping the flags in center field was sharp and biting, and the sun had barely shown itself for the past week.
Pete glanced back at the stands. There were at most a couple . of thousand people scattered through the field-level boxes, far lower than the number at most of the games played during the past makeshift season. And most of the fans here today were evidently less optimistic than Pete had been about the weather—or more attentive. They wore winter coats and hats, and huddled together under blankets, drinking hot coffee and soup from thermos bottles. Looks more like a football crowd, Pete mused.
Like too many everyday happenings, major league baseball had been suspended when the aliens reinvaded. But there was still a need for diversions in areas that hadn’t fallen under Visitor tyranny. Oh, television and radio were still on the air. Hut with Southern California—and Hollywood—in a real war zone, no new entertainment shows were being produced for I V except for a few programs done in New York and Canada. For the most part, it was an endless sea of reruns.
The same was true of the choice in movie houses. Theater marquees announced Special Encore Showings and scheduled Robert Redford festivals or similar groupings of old movies by particular actors or directors. But no matter what the glitzy label, it still came to the same thing—reruns.
Live theater had fared somewhat better. In fact, both on and off Broadway, New York found itself the beneficiary of a stage renaissance of sorts. With the flood of refugees coursing into New York City, there were even more unemployed actors than normal in the area. Producers recognized that and, sensing the need for entertainment, mounted smaller-scale lower-cost productions of shows both old and new. Ticket prices were cut to the bone, too, enabling even the displaced and unemployed to see a play once in a while. The most indigent were allowed in for free at least once a month by order of Mayor Alison Stein.
Pete had never been much of a theater goer in the old days, but he’d been to a half-dozen shows himself in the last month.
And baseball had forged ahead as best it could. War did not discriminate. Even millionaire ballplayers had been forced to flee from the Sunbelt states overrun by the Visitors. When they’d arrived in northern cities, they’d been welcomed by their colleagues from the local teams, and the players found there was still a demand for the relaxing pace of America’s national pastime. Informal pick-up games in local parks had evolved into a sort of semipro league, playing in the big ball parks that otherwise stood dormant. Spectators were allowed in for fifty cents or a dollar. The gate proceeds were divided among those players in the game that day.
In New York there were enough players to form three full teams, and Pete had helped draw up a genuine schedule for his old mates, using a computer at New York Hospital, where he worked now. The city papers even followed these new teams, printing box scores and standings in a comforting semblance of seasons past.
Pete had never doubted that the games would prove popular, but he had been surprised with how popular. Once the local minileague had been bom, natives and emigres had readily settled into new rooting allegiances, usually based on how many of their former favorites were on each team. By midsummer, a real pennant race had developed, and it wasn’t uncommon to have thirty or forty thousand people filling Yankee Stadium or Shea Stadium out in Queens, where games were alternately played.
But the weather had suddenly gone from the pleasant warmth of early September to a damp chill more like late November.
“It’s goddamned cold,” said a flinty, New England-accented voice behind Pete.
He turned to see Dr. Hannah Donnenfeld, a Boston Red Sox cap pulled over her wispy white
He hunched his shoulders and wished he’d worn more than a lined windbreaker. The wind whipping the flags in center field was sharp and biting, and the sun had barely shown itself for the past week.
Pete glanced back at the stands. There were at most a couple . of thousand people scattered through the field-level boxes, far lower than the number at most of the games played during the past makeshift season. And most of the fans here today were evidently less optimistic than Pete had been about the weather—or more attentive. They wore winter coats and hats, and huddled together under blankets, drinking hot coffee and soup from thermos bottles. Looks more like a football crowd, Pete mused.
Like too many everyday happenings, major league baseball had been suspended when the aliens reinvaded. But there was still a need for diversions in areas that hadn’t fallen under Visitor tyranny. Oh, television and radio were still on the air. Hut with Southern California—and Hollywood—in a real war zone, no new entertainment shows were being produced for I V except for a few programs done in New York and Canada. For the most part, it was an endless sea of reruns.
The same was true of the choice in movie houses. Theater marquees announced Special Encore Showings and scheduled Robert Redford festivals or similar groupings of old movies by particular actors or directors. But no matter what the glitzy label, it still came to the same thing—reruns.
Live theater had fared somewhat better. In fact, both on and off Broadway, New York found itself the beneficiary of a stage renaissance of sorts. With the flood of refugees coursing into New York City, there were even more unemployed actors than normal in the area. Producers recognized that and, sensing the need for entertainment, mounted smaller-scale lower-cost productions of shows both old and new. Ticket prices were cut to the bone, too, enabling even the displaced and unemployed to see a play once in a while. The most indigent were allowed in for free at least once a month by order of Mayor Alison Stein.
Pete had never been much of a theater goer in the old days, but he’d been to a half-dozen shows himself in the last month.
And baseball had forged ahead as best it could. War did not discriminate. Even millionaire ballplayers had been forced to flee from the Sunbelt states overrun by the Visitors. When they’d arrived in northern cities, they’d been welcomed by their colleagues from the local teams, and the players found there was still a demand for the relaxing pace of America’s national pastime. Informal pick-up games in local parks had evolved into a sort of semipro league, playing in the big ball parks that otherwise stood dormant. Spectators were allowed in for fifty cents or a dollar. The gate proceeds were divided among those players in the game that day.
In New York there were enough players to form three full teams, and Pete had helped draw up a genuine schedule for his old mates, using a computer at New York Hospital, where he worked now. The city papers even followed these new teams, printing box scores and standings in a comforting semblance of seasons past.
Pete had never doubted that the games would prove popular, but he had been surprised with how popular. Once the local minileague had been bom, natives and emigres had readily settled into new rooting allegiances, usually based on how many of their former favorites were on each team. By midsummer, a real pennant race had developed, and it wasn’t uncommon to have thirty or forty thousand people filling Yankee Stadium or Shea Stadium out in Queens, where games were alternately played.
But the weather had suddenly gone from the pleasant warmth of early September to a damp chill more like late November.
“It’s goddamned cold,” said a flinty, New England-accented voice behind Pete.
He turned to see Dr. Hannah Donnenfeld, a Boston Red Sox cap pulled over her wispy white
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