I wondered what the Spencers were up to, during their extended time away from the major league roster. An inside source with the team got me the real scoop. I can break the news here, for the first time:

“Tell the Secretary-General that I’m busy,” said Strider, the expression behind his mustache unreadable. A scalpel was in his hands. “World peace won’t mean a hell of a lot to little Cindy, if I can’t get this sutured.” He made a series of deft movements, and finally appeared satisfied. “There. What’s His Excellency need this time?”

Franco Garcia held out the cell phone. “He said he needed to tell you directly. He’s still on hold.”

***

It had been a difficult year. Neurosurgery ain’t as easy as it looks, Strider often mused to himself, though his patients – a prima ballerina, a concert pianist in a car crash, a trapeze artist mauled by a lion – knew nothing of his worries. His own surgery rehab had left him with little to do, so he idly opted for medical school and a surgery rotation while his healthy teammates competed for a pennant. 

The United Nations job was something else again. A radical Clemson graduate had declared a breakaway republic in Eastern Europe, and when you de-escalate one international conflict, they think you can de-escalate them all. “Dammit, Gutierres,” he barked into the phone, “what is it this time? I’m due at Driveline in 90 minutes and if I cancel again, I might not be ready for Opening Day. You want to tell Coach Weiss that?”

“Perhaps we can smooth things over with him, too,” responded the suave diplomat. Antonio Gutierres hadn’t spent a decade leading the United Nations without learning a thing or two. “This Canadian conflict could disrupt Opening Day altogether. Perhaps you and Spencer could both lend a hand, to tie up any loose ends more quickly?”

And there it was. The other Spencer. Strider had to admit a grudging—okay, not so grudging, it was wholly deserved—admiration for the man whose name he shared. After hurting his shoulder, Spencer Strider had gone to medical school. Spencer Schwellenbach had gone to the International Space Station, where he was conducting scientific experiments in Russian and Mandarin. You don’t need that many damn pitches, Strider thought to himself.

“Alright, Mr. Secretary, I’ll play ball,” Strider responded. “But we can leave that curly-haired cowboy out of it. I don’t know if he’s Earthside. Is he even in the ballpark?”

“Tsk, tsk,” Gutierres tutted. “Opening Day is the same date throughout the galaxy. He has to build up his arm strength the same as you. And he knows a war between Canada and the United States is bad for baseball. He just landed at Hartsfield, in my personal shuttle.”

***

It had started, as it always did, with the French. Quebecois separatists had finally prevailed upon their colingual cousins in Ontario and the Maritimes to advocate for a breakaway monolingual province. One thing had led to another, and quickly the tinder was ablaze.

“I don’t see what they need us for,” said Schwellenbach, looking over at Strider in the window seat of their Delta 747. “I don’t even speak Quebecois – just high French, and I suppose I’ve dabbled in Provençal. Nor do I see much call for laser surgery here, except perhaps of the metaphorical kind.”

“Get your head out of the clouds, Schwell,” said Strider. “We’re here because the Secretary-General needs us. He said he was sending his top guy to brief us, soon as we touch down in Ottawa. So sit back, watch a Ryan Reynolds movie, and don’t choke on a peanut.”

A short while later, the two deplaned at Macdonald–Cartier airport. As they set foot in the terminal, a familiar figure strode alongside them.

“Spencer and Spencer,” said Mike Soroka. “It’s been awhile, eh?”

TO BE CONTINUED…