In this next chapter we learn of Ozzie's arrival at his brother's house in Katy, Texas ... after twenty four years they are to be reunited. But not until we learn a little about his twin brother Praxido's amazing past, not to mention a little surprise he has in store for his space-pioneer sibling.
In this next chapter we learn of Ozzie's arrival at his brother's house in Katy, Texas ... after twenty four years they are to be reunited. But not until we learn a little about his twin brother Praxido's amazing past, not to mention a little surprise he has in store for his space-pioneer sibling.
Hello and welcome back to Season Two of Twin Paradox. I'm King Everett Medlin and what you're listening to is a SciFi trilogy I wrote four years ago under the pen name Purple Hazel. Twin Paradox follows my first podcast series entitled Deathwalker Colony, which is now a full length novel available for purchase on Amazon, along with the first two books in the Rijel 12 Series, the Rise of New Australia and Return of Anarchy. Go online and check 'em out!
Tonight we continue with Part 6 of the Twin Paradox trilogy, Legends and Impostors. In this next chapter we learn of Ozzie's arrival at his brother's house in Katy, Texas ... after twenty four years they are to be reunited. But not until we learn a little about his twin brother Praxido's amazing past, not to mention a little surprise he has in store for his space-pioneer sibling.
Twin Paradox is a SciFi series encompassing three full length novels, all of which can be found on Amazon.com. You can go online and purchase them, or, if you prefer, listen to me read them to you. So let's continue. Ladies and Gentlemen, Part 6: Legends and Impostors. Chapter 29: Recompense.
About the time Ozzie had departed Roissy Air Terminal in Paris for Houston, Práxedis Guerrero (aka Ranger, and always referred to as Práxido by his twin brother when they were growing up) had begun his arduous daily routine of pain and discomfort.
“Aaaaargh. Another day in the life of an aging sports legend,” groaned the man; followed by a deep sigh.
It had been much like every morning for the 35-year-old. It wasn’t just the knees of course – those had worn out by his fifth season in the pro’s from all the cutting/slashing/swerving running he used to do in his rookie year and the three or four seasons following. It had really caught up to him. But it was his sore, aching back that plagued him most of all.
So many years playing that violent sport, counting back twenty seasons to high school. So much pounding. Tackling and getting tackled was what did it to him more than anything else. All the vicious hits. The times he’d been knocked down – knocked out even. The bodies crashing into him at full speed. Hundreds of collisions over the years, the velocity of which would rival most any auto accident (thirty or forty times in a single match).
He could throw the ball fifty meters quite easily those first five years in the professional league. But his back was inevitably exposed as well as his ribs - and he took plenty of devastating hits during his career. More than his share. Even with the special protection Megaballers wore, it did little to protect his more vulnerable lower spine and hips. What a beating they’d taken; and now as he aged it was catching up to him.
“Okay…” he'd grunted. “Easy does it.” Getting up and getting going was often a two to three-hour process for Ranger Guerrero.
It started with struggling to sit up in bed and went downhill from there. In the night his back was so bothersome that any attempt at moving to get a more comfortable sleeping position would awaken him with stabbing pains. In the morning it was usually so stiff that even rolling over was a nightmare. He refused to take drugs for it of course. Had seen his buddies in the league get addicted to painkillers and live miserable lives in retirement. That was something he truly wanted to avoid.
After clawing and groaning to sit up and turn to face the side of the bed, Ranger would usually press a call button on his nightstand which would summon a small robotic hover carrier from the corner of his massive bedroom. This was like a floating “wheelchair” except that it utilized no actual wheels. Gliding across the floor on a force-field created underneath (the device using electromagnetics) it was capable of bearing and transporting up to 136 kilograms. Using this vehicle which was originally designed for disabled people, Ranger would then be transported to his bathroom where he’d rely on his big strong arms to lift himself into a “basket” which would crane him over to the toilet to urinate; then into a bathtub which was filled up while he waited - and heated to around 40 ◦C. He’d sit in that steaming tub for as long as he could stand it, just to loosen things up so that he could try walking. Some days were worse than others. Every morning was like an emotional odyssey just to get going and start his day. After his hot bath on that spectacular Texas morning (while Ozzie was flying across the Atlantic) Ranger had used the basket to remove himself from the tub and gingerly stood on his feet.
“Well that was refreshing,” he’d joked sarcastically with himself. “Now for a jolt o’ coffee and let’s get this mother fucker goin’ goddammit.”
This was also part of his routine by the way: to motivate himself and perform his own personal pep talks (in the absence of some fiery head coach pushing him to better himself - like during his playing days). He clapped his hands when he said it too; as if he was leading his team out of the tunnel in some imaginary sports stadium.
It was like that day after day for the banged up, not-so-old former warrior. Most days it went about this well. Some days it was nine kinds of hell. Without painkillers or even muscle relaxers it was indeed quite the ordeal … but he was bound and determined to stay off drugs come what may. Those would shorten his life and he knew better.
“Twenty minutes ‘til my video conference call with the ‘ole stockbroker. Let’s get to it,” he’d said to himself. No one else was around to hear him say it though. The house was totally empty. Had always been really. Ranger had never married. Oh, he had his share of wild times that was for sure! But that had all petered out by year three of his professional career. By then he had a brand new matter to concern himself with; and that had dramatically altered the course of his life outside of sports.
The morning video conference call with his long-time investment advisor was only the third biggest highlight of his daily regimen - besides of course, his often troublesome first bowel movement. That was a solid second. Constipation was an additional malady that plagued him from time to time and made him feel sluggish. But above everything else, his morning visit with his mother - who lived in a tiny cottage outback - was the very, very best part of his day. Not always pleasant. Sometimes worrisome! Yet he loved every moment he spent with her.
A “Granny Pod” (as the manufacturer called them) had been installed on his property out by his big dog kennel where he kept a couple of adorable (though quite territorial) pit bull terriers. His mom lived in her little cottage - actually a self-contained private nursing facility - right next door. Had its own stand-alone solar panel for backup power just in case.
Yes, he’d tracked her down finally. Had to hire a private investigator to help him do it but he managed to pull it off. She had been ‘living’ on the streets of Houston, moving around constantly, often homeless. Shacking up with sketchy “boyfriends” who only occasionally held down real jobs. Living with people who could help her score drugs like heroin and methamphetamine. When he’d found her she was in dire straits and had to be sent to Rehab for nearly half a year just to get herself clean. After finding her, he had the Granny Pod installed and moved her right in. It was essentially a 24/7 nursing home, complete with padded floors in case she fell, and video monitoring to alert her caregivers of any incidents. A nurse visited daily after her mid-morning breakfast with her son. It was definitely the highlight of her day as well.
“Gotta get them stocks picked and shoot the shit with ‘ole Bocephus … then high-tail it out to see Ma-ma’,” he’d said to himself, shuffle-stepping through his home on tender knees. He’d had the original tile floors ripped out and replaced with hardwood so that he could slide across the floors in his favorite red slippers. This made getting around so much easier. Much safer than carpet too. That would only feel like artificial turf from back in his playing days and that was the last thing he wanted to be reminded of anymore.
No, there was no wife around. He’d never dated anyone for more than a year. Just that one country music singer from Oklahoma whom he’d kept up with as best he could in the offseason. Fans loved the relationship. Thought they were a perfect match! But it was doomed to failure once the gal’s career took off. One or two “world tours” promoting her latest release and the pair finally split up. Ozzie had little use for a girlfriend anyway. All he cared about now was healing his body and taking care of his mom in her golden years.
Lupé Guerrero, his biological mother, was by this time only sixty-four. Years of drug and alcohol abuse had withered her into a visibly older woman with bouts of dementia and memory loss. However Ranger had learned to utilize this to his advantage. Her not remembering things from twenty or even ten years ago made for an excellent opportunity to plant memories in her mind. Happy memories. Memories of things that never really happened; but events that he’d prefer she remembered ... even though she wasn’t there to witness them in person. Basically over the past several years he'd taught her to believe she’d always been a loving, attentive mother and had been right there with him all his life. Under the circumstances, he felt this was the most humane way to help the woman live out what was left of her time on Earth. If she passed away in the night and one day he went out to find her not responding, he knew at least she’d have crossed over still believing such things had truly happened.
“Good morning Ma-má,” hailed Ranger from the doorway as he’d entered her little home the morning before. It was a full-size bedroom and dining area with a bathroom attached and even had a hospital style bed that could be automatically adjusted so she could watch her favorite shows on Ultravision. He’d spared no expense. Bought the advanced “deluxe model” that had all the latest gadgetry and scientific enhancements.
All he’d gotten in response that morning though was a groaning, lethargic “Whuh … Práxido? That you?” He’d taught her to call him by the name Oswaldo had used growing up just to make things easier. It made more sense than calling him “Ranger”. That had been a nom de guerre given to him in high school. Frankly he couldn’t remember the first time he was ever called it. That was way, way back; and four knee surgeries ago after all.
“Yep, it’s me Ma-má. You up yet, sleepy head?” he’d asked sweetly. “C’mon now … we gotta get up 'n at ‘em,” he then added like some peppy high school gym teacher. “It’s gonna be a hot one today. You hungry? Can I rustle up somethin’ for us to eat?”
Mom stirred a bit, then rolled over on her side toward the wall. She wasn’t yet buying in, it would seem.
“Nnnnn. Can’t I sleep some more? I’m so tired Bebé. Really,” she moaned – like some recalcitrant teenager unwilling to get up and go to school on a Monday morning. “I’m so tired. Let me stay in bed, please?” But Ranger simply wouldn’t allow it. He’d learned from the doctors and nurses that she must have her daily therapy to help her retain memories. If she drifted further and further into dementia, the situation could deteriorate and she might very well become critical, perhaps catatonic.
“No, no. We gotta get up and goin’. Yer boy is hungry and ya’ know I ain’t eatin’ no breakfast without my Ma-má. C’mon let me help you up. I’ll give you some privacy to get dressed ‘n all, but you get movin’. Let ‘ole Práxido set up a table for us. Ya’ wanna eat outside on the patio … ‘fore it gets blazin’ hot?”
To this she’d replied with a sleepy smile, “Sure Mijo. I join you in a few minutes ... just let me go pee and put in my teeth first.” Ranger chuckled. Every day he could spend with her was, in his opinion, God’s gift. He cherished the opportunity and was terribly grateful to have her around for as long as she could be with him – especially with what he’d gone through trying to find her.
“Yep. That’s a good idea. And by the way, Bocephus says to say hi. Wife Darla and the kids back in Tulsa are doin’ just fine. You remember their daughter Skyler, don’t ya’?”
“Oh sure… little Skyler. She’s doing okay now, yes?” Lupé replied. This of course was a planted memory. No, she’d never met Beaux Brandt from up in Tulsa. He’d been Ranger’s best friend back in college at OU, and a fraternity brother at Sigma Phi Epsilon. Now he was Ranger's investment advisor. When Ranger had received a full scholarship to Oklahoma, Lupé was still on the streets of Houston roaming the town looking for her next fix. Ranger was in the news rather often throughout those years she was drugging and drinking, sure, but Lupé never followed his career. Lived like a vagabond for the most part and knew nothing of her famous son. Pretty much stayed high for nearly three decades.
Indeed, Ranger had lovingly taught her all those memories and then some. He’d learned how to do this quickly too. He’d learned that if he repeated something to her four, five, ten times it would lodge within her long-term memory until she truly believed she’d been there – believed she’d witnessed it in person. The visiting nurses who’d come to check in on her each afternoon knew he was doing this and encouraged it whole-heartedly. It was “very sweet” of him they said; and what’s more, good for her mental stability.
“Oh yeah. She’s doin’ fine,” he’d answered. “She’ll be back on the gymnastics team real soon, he thinks. Well … guess I’ll go get us breakfast. You feel like chicken fried steak and eggs … maybe some grits on the side?” To this she’d chuckled sarcastically.
“Bebé ... you know I can’t eat no steak. Not even with my dentures.” That was a valid point. Years of neglect had cost her most of her front teeth and even a few molars. When she smiled without her bridge inserted, she looked like a jack-o-lantern.
“Hahah. Alright. Then how ‘bout I whip up some Tex-Mex … how ‘bout Huevos Rancheros? I’ll put on some o’ that chile sauce that you used to make for me when I was little. How does that sound, huh?”
Again, another fake memory. He hadn’t seen her since age two before tracking her down on the streets of Houston years later. Nevertheless, she took the bait. This was an attempt at a new memory and it worked perfectly. Ranger wanted her to remember cooking for him as a child, even though in reality the authorities had taken him and Oswaldo from her shortly after their second birthday.
“Oh yes that sounds wonderful Mijo,” she’d said with delight. “My chile sauce, yes. My mother taught me how to make it back in Mexico I think. Did I tell you this? Oh, silly me. I forgot I taught you how to make it.” Ranger had been quick on the draw that morning despite the minor setback.
“Yep. Uh … I mean I watched you make it while I was sittin’ in the kitchen when I was little. That apartment we had back in Houston, remember?” His mother shrugged her shoulders embarrassedly. Then after a few moments she amazingly conceded recalling this - even though there was never such a thing as an apartment where they all lived together. That too never happened. The twin boys had been found sleeping with her in a drug house where she’d been nursing them. Authorities had no earthly idea how she’d somehow kept them alive. Neither baby had a clean diaper on. They basically crawled around in filth lying on an old mattress which had been blocked off with stacks of beer boxes to keep the two toddlers from wandering about. Mom would return from getting high, and pass out on a blanket curled up between them. What she’d fed them, how she’d managed to nurse them, social services had not a clue. They had survived though. Miraculously. And both had grown into fine young men.
“Oh yes … the uh, apartment,” she stammered. Sounded like it had worked.
Ranger never brought up the topic of his twin brother with her. Naturally he missed Ozzie terribly and it tormented him for years. Had never found out what had happened; figured he’d died somewhere, as orphans often did. Abusive employers. Cruel foster parents. It happened frequently, people would say. But no, his mother didn’t need to know about Oswaldo. She wouldn’t remember him anyway unless Ranger told her about him; so he simply didn’t. That’s just the way it had to be, and he understood there were going to be limitations to what all he could accomplish. Upsetting her with information like that was not an option.
“It was such a nice place, wasn’t it?” she added, imagining a home that never was.
They’d had a lovely breakfast together, that day while Ozzie was flying to Texas. With her bridge inserted, chewing up soft tortillas buried under fried eggs laid over a bed of refried beans, Monterrey Jack cheese, and topped with a mild chile sauce, was quite easy for her to accomplish. She'd finished half her plate it was so delicious. Ranger had it prepared for her in a matter of only a few minutes.
Of course cooking in kitchens had become a thing of the past by this day and age. Only fancy restaurants performed tasks such as these and few common people could afford eating out. No, modern kitchens were all automated now. Much like on Santa Maria there was simply a food replication system installed in the room where meals had once been prepared. Homeowners merely programmed in the dishes they desired, and the system rehydrated freeze-dried pellets to prepare the entrée just the way everyone liked it.
And what of supermarkets? Convenience stores? Snack shops? Fast food restaurants? Well, grocery stores were also quite different in their offerings and services since Ozzie, Shamiso, and Young-Min had been gone. People ordered their food on the macronet … and indicated their desired quantities, based on menu selections. Visiting stores in their local communities, they picked up their orders and sped away to their homes where they had only to load the packets into their home’s food replicator. Wealthier people by way of comparison usually had them delivered. The computer and the mechanism itself then handled the rest. Within minutes upon typing in a request the system produced piping hot plates of food that tasted much like the real thing! It very nearly was of course. It’s just that the process had changed. Same thing with cheap eateries. Drive up, type in or press a menu selection, then within minutes computers filled the order. No cooking, no deep frying, no grilling, no baking. For the most part these had become a thing of the past.
Few missed having to clean kitchens … “so what did it matter?” Meanwhile most households had dual incomes, or even adult children working full time to support the family and help make ends meet. Kids rarely moved out to start lives of their own. They married and moved back in with their parents. This had gone on for decades, ever since The Great Collapse of 2028. Thus automated kitchens merely served to complement this modern format. Practically no one had time to cook after all. Few even knew how. Besides, why would anyone want to? Replicators did all the work for them.
Naturally, Ranger had no idea how to make chile sauce. Never would have occurred to him. He’d merely been planting yet another fake memory in Lupé’s mind. Besides, he could never have endured standing in a kitchen in front of a stove or chopping up onions, garlic, and guajillo chiles! He’d simply dialed up his food request and a state of the art hovercraft delivered the hot plates of food to their table while they’d sat out on the patio and enjoyed the breezy, sunny morning. He’d watched her eat while he simultaneously wolfed down his breakfast. Then he’d waited for his food to settle so he could get on with his morning regimen.
“Hopefully,” he’d thought to himself, “that coffee ‘ll finely kick in and I can go take a nice long shit.”
But a nice bowel movement wasn’t all Ranger Guerrero had planned for that day. Sure, on some afternoons he could go play fetch with his dogs in the big yard out back. Let them out of their air-conditioned kennel and allow them to run their legs off while he heaved muddy tennis balls for them to go bounding after until their mouths were foaming with saliva - or his arm got sore. Or if he preferred he could go for a ride on his solar-powered ATV - if his daily back therapy loosened him up enough to handle the jostling motion of the vehicle. That was always fun too. Especially when he took the dogs with him. Chasing jack rabbits out in the field behind his house was as big a thrill for the dogs as it was for him.
Not on Fridays though! Not during Megaball season. Fridays were often home games for the Katy High School “Tigers”, his old alma mater. He’d been a star athlete there, and they had a bronze bust of him out front of their home stadium. He’d attended most every game this season. His old little league coach Dusty Kenefick (now elderly and fully retired with a big pension he’d somehow earned from the government years before) would stop by later that evening and drive him to the stadium to watch them play. This meant the balance of his day was spent enduring painful stretching exercises to loosen up his back enough to endure those long flights of stairs and stadium ramps up to his seat.
Not surprisingly, everyone knew who he was when he showed up. Kids came up and took pictures with him. Folks crowded around. Dusty would occasionally try and shoo them away, but Ranger never minded. He’d sit there and sign autographs or pose for photos with anyone who asked. It was just a part of being a sports superstar as far he was concerned.
In fact, it would not be until very late that a very exhausted and sore Ranger Guerrero had finally returned to his big log home outside Katy where he'd enjoyed a single bottle of beer: his weekly reward for struggling through all the pain and discomfort of sitting on stadium bleachers with his sore back. He’d then sipped his beer and scrolled through fifty or so electronic letters from fans, old teammates, former opponents, and sports writers “looking for an angle” for the story they were writing. He’d kicked back in his massive den - with its high vaulted ceilings - and replied to them one by one until he was finished.
That was also part of being a star, is the way he looked at it. The public had to be able to have access to him as much as he could stand it. “Part of the job – part of the life,” as he put it so many times to his old friend Dusty, and the old fellow always understood this. On most Friday nights during Megaball season, the old ball coach would hang around for a beer or two (or three), while the retired sports icon would painstakingly attempt to reply to each and every one of them. Some were obscene or absurd. Most were just loyal fans or sportswriters who’d invite his opinions and have him weigh in on topics concerning matters pertaining to the league … or comment on how his old college team was doing these days. Those were his favorites. He still loved his “Sooners”, and often saved those for last whenever fans or journalists wanted to talk about Oklahoma Megaball.
After that though, he’d usually call it a night. Sometimes Dusty would have one too many and have to sleep on the long leather couch in the den. But most nights the old fellow would pull himself together and make his way back to his nice home in town where he lived with his third wife Tara. Either way, Ranger had his strict routine he had to follow before going to bed if he was ever going to get a good night’s sleep.
He had to rub his knees with ointments made from cannabidiol so that he could sleep without them throbbing. He’d have to sit in a “cold bath” for ten to fifteen minutes then hoist himself out - shivering like a wet cat. Then he’d fight through the stiffness to put on pajamas or a cotton t-shirt with boxer shorts and gingerly crawl between the sheets of his lonely bed to drift off.
That was the usual routine on Friday Nights whenever the Tigers were playing at home. It was grueling, but he had to do it. Perhaps it was sort of like a penance – his recompense for what he used to be like in his youth.
Oh, he’d been a wild man once. Not for very long, no. But he’d certainly “tore it up” and “burned it down” back when he was a spry rookie and throughout those glory years playing Center Back for the Dallas Wranglers. A book had been written about it too – those heady times when Dallas reigned over the Professional Megaball Association. He’d read it as a matter of fact, and it was quite entertaining....
Titled “The Wild Bunch”, it had been touted as a “tell-all” book describing the heyday of the Wranglers; back when they used to have a special party house called the “Red Brick Ranch” up in Highland Park. This was the ritziest neighborhood in all of “Big D” (as the locals called Dallas) and when one of his teammates Charles “Choctaw” Enis purchased the place, the team quickly found they could go there and enjoy every level of debauchery and dissipation imaginable … away from the watchful eye of the sports media.
What happened there eventually became legendary, and of the many offenses and misdeeds purported to have occurred, Ranger himself was most certainly guilty of many: either a willing participant, or at the very least an eyewitness.
The Wild Bunch was a huge success when it first came out. Many players tried denying what it claimed. Some merely scoffed, “Yeah, so what? Yer damn right we did that shit.” Not Ranger. By then he’d distanced himself from most of it. But the damage was done to his reputation, no doubt about that. Ranger saw, participated in, and heard from first hand sources about everything that occurred. The book was surprisingly quite accurate, especially given the dubious sources of information used by the author. It was made up of second hand accounts and most were unreliable at best (but quite close enough to the truth just to be honest). That said, if anything, the book told only half the story.
Yes, Ranger Guerrero and his teammates had a lot to be embarrassed about. The parties were outrageous. The girls were both plentiful and willing. Nothing was out of bounds. Nothing was out of the question! It was like Pagan Rome. It was like the Sultan’s Royal Harem in Istanbul during the Ottoman Empire. It was as decadent and perverse as anyone could imagine – and some would say even more so.
Neighbors would complain. Police officers from the DPD would dutifully respond. But nothing ever happened. The Wranglers were quite clearly above the law and it didn’t matter to them nor to the police what anyone else thought. Unless someone died, they could both care less.
Free game tickets. Signed memorabilia. Souvenirs. Maybe a few phone numbers from some of the hot chicks in attendance? That would always suffice. Happy cops would drive away and the occupants would obediently shut off the loud music, tell the naked girls running around out back and lounging around the pool to get dressed, get inside, or get the hell out.
Choctaw, who owned the house, was thorough and meticulous too. Mapped it all out. Had a plan. Had a system. Wanted the parties to go on and on - every time the team had the next day off or during spring workouts when they’d finish conditioning drills. He hired bodyguards to patrol the place. A couple of them even lived there permanently. They kept the liquor flowing and the drugs plentiful. Kept the house filled with pretty young women willing to fulfill the players’ every desire. And there were always many, many fresh young prospects in their early twenties more than happy to do whatever it took to get invited back for the next party.
Ranger saw women subjecting themselves to things he’d never believed possible. Saw them participating in “gangbangs” with the team’s hulking linemen (or “Forwards” as they were called in Megaball). “The Ogres” was how they referred to themselves, and group encounters were their specialty. This was the dirty deed they looked forward to performing every Sunday or Monday night after home games in Dallas. They’d find a gal willing to take on two or three of them, then haul her off to one of the bedrooms … sometimes with additional players joining in later. This would often force the poor young lady to have to take on upwards of six or seven of them at once!
Ranger saw women pairing off with each other to dildo themselves to orgasm - or even sitting on the side of the massive hot tub with their legs spread wide open while other gals licked their swollen vulvas until they climaxed, moaning and cooing with delight. Players in attendance would sit and watch. Poor beer on them. Shove thick swollen penises in front of their faces for a quick blowjob. Whatever they wanted. The girls ate it up. Never protested. Never relented. The party went on and on and on without respite until dawn.
Of course, all good things had to come to an end; one way or another. Even sexual debauchery perpetrated in a fancy Dallas neighborhood. A neighborhood where folks living nearby could quite easily see women running around in panties (or nothing at all), boobs flopping, dancing, carousing, drinking, doing drugs, and having sex right there in the middle of the living room or on the back patio with famous Megaball stars they’d just seen on television the day before.
This was scandalous, to say the least, and when the city – as well as the sporting world in general – was rocked with the scintillating details of what their sports heroes were purportedly engaging in, the hammer fell hard and fast. Choctaw had to sell the home. It was placed on the market within a month; and remained unoccupied for over a year.
Even the Dallas Wrangler public relations machine could barely move fast enough to sweep the thing under the rug. Apparently someone somewhere – someone powerful enough and influential enough to call a stop to it - had thrown their weight around. It all came crashing to an end within a matter of weeks. The book The Wild Bunch, released the following year, only served to elaborate on the horrendous details of just how far it had gone. It revealed the stories that local news reporters couldn’t talk about during primetime.
It became a serious distraction the following season; and when the Wranglers failed to make it to the playoffs, the embattled coach (who had nothing to do with it by the way) was forced out. He was fired; and the team languished for three more heartbreaking seasons, losing players to retirement, losing players to major injuries, and trading away some of the ones who’d clearly gone downhill due to their flamboyant lifestyles.
Ranger broke a few more records, took a few more blows to his body, and had his fourth knee surgery to repair torn cartilage. But those years were definitely the worst he’d ever endured. It was only after the 2108 season that he finally had to admit he too was in decline. Statistics didn’t lie. He was slowing down; and no amount of offseason rehabbing of his knees (and his back) could stave off the inevitable. He lost his starting position before the start of the 2109 season, and by the end of yet another disappointing campaign that year, he decided to call it quits.
The mighty had fallen. Ranger Guerrero faded into sports history with all his fame and records for millions of sports fans to admire in decades to come. Sadly though, as a player he was finished....
That’s not to say he hadn’t made every effort to redeem himself. It’s just that he never sought to campaign in public in order to restore his tarnished image. Instead he chose to do good deeds. For example:
For years he’d made regular appearances at the old Katy Boys Farm visiting little league Megaball tournaments. This he pursued diligently and showed up as often as he could. It comforted him to see exuberant youths out there playing the sport he loved, at what was by now a complex of six sports fields including a modest sized stadium for visiting teams and their families to sit and watch their kids go up against the sports machine that Katy Boys Farm had become. Rarely did anyone come away with a victory against them. In fact, since Ranger had departed the orphanage years ago, three others had followed him and had stellar careers in professional sports. Not just Megaball either.
Several major sports now had top flight athletes who’d taken their licks and learned the ropes in that very same program which blossomed shortly after Oswaldo Guerrero had been whisked away back in 2086 never to be seen again. Somehow the money had materialized and the orphanage had the resources necessary to develop a sound sports program with facilities for weight training as well as conditioning. Thus Katy, Texas became the home of many famous star athletes over the years in several different sports.
To be sure, Ranger had looked forward to visiting the place the very next day in fact! It was going to be a Saturday tournament and he’d planned on getting up and getting himself together in order to make yet another appearance. What’s more that’s precisely why, after Dusty had dropped him off at his house the night before, that he’d sent his old ball coach straight home to his wife Tara for once, and spent the evening alone surfing through electronic mail to make a quick night of it and get himself off to bed. It would be a long hot day in that Texas sun and he’d be needing his rest.
He’d nuzzled into his favorite chair and brought up his electronic mail files on the Ultravision screen in his den to begin his Friday ritual. Had a beer brought to him by the food service cart while the program loaded. Sighed and sunk back into the leathery cushions to relax.
It was not long after that; however, when he’d seen a rather strange, rather “official” looking communiqué (as it was entitled). North Americans didn't use words like that - at least not fans and sportswriters. Had to be from somewhere else; he figured, and he was right.
It was from - of all places - SPACE PROGRAMME ….
This concludes tonight's podcast of Chapter 29, Recompense. I hope you enjoyed it. Watch for chapter 30 which I'll be posting very soon.
Also, and don't forget, my latest full length novel, Deathwalker Colony, is available for purchase right now on Amazon, along with the first two books in the Rijel 12 Series: The Rise of New Australia and Return of Anarchy. A link to these is included in the transcript for this episode. Go online and check 'em out!
I'm King Everett Medlin. Thanks for tuning in.
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