THREE

elix left the airport on a Tuesday morning commuter flight. At a quarter till eleven, he stood in front of the main gate at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. 

“I’m supposed to be in the White House at eleven o’clock,” he explained to the uniformed guard.

“The public gate is to your right, sir,” said the guard, pointing in that direction.

Felix followed his instructions and took his place at the end of a line of casually dressed people.

“Is this your first visit to the White House?” asked a pleasant-sounding woman standing in front of him.

“Why, yes it is,” Felix replied with a smile.

She continued, “I understand that we might be getting a glimpse of the First Lady, today.”

“Oh?” he said. “Is the President bringing Nancy to the meeting, too?”

The woman gave Felix a funny look but they were both inter­rupted by the voice of a White House attendant. It was exactly eleven o’clock.

“Would you all follow me in, please,” said the young lady, “and feel free to ask any questions whenever you like.”

“Right on time,” Felix quipped, looking at his digital watch.

The group filed in past the heavy doors and was entertained by their guide with the interesting history of the White House. For about thirty minutes, she led them through the State Dining Room, the Red Room, and the Blue Room. When they arrived at the Green Room, Felix became impatient and spoke up.

“Uh, ’scuze me, Miss. I don’t want to be impolite, or anything. I mean, it’s nice that the President arranged to show us around his house and all, but could you please tell me when we’re going to meet with him?”

Several people in the tour group chuckled.

“Well, sir,” she said, smiling, “I’m afraid we won’t be meeting with the President on this tour.”

Felix rambled on as though he didn’t hear her answer. “Now I re­alize all these people were in line ahead of me, but if we’re all going to meet with the President individually, shouldn’t we be getting started al­ready? Or does he want to see us as a group?”

“Sir,” she said, annoyed now, “I just told you we won’t be seeing the President.”

“But we’ve got to!” Felix insisted. “Why else would he have asked me here?”

The other people in the tour group now cast a few dirty looks upon the “trouble maker” as Felix started to panic. He grabbed the young tour guide by both wrists as he continued to plead his case.

“He called me at the Dairy Queen! That voice—it was him! I know it was! Don’t you believe me?”

 “No!” the young lady shouted, pushing him back. “Security!” she called to a White House guard. “This one’s a loony. Get him out of here.”

The guard grabbed Felix under the armpit, handling him roughly as he escorted the “loony” to the nearest exit. No explanation by Felix seemed to matter as the guard closed and locked the gate behind the visitor. Then he began walking away.

Not usually one to make threats, a desperate Felix Farley sum­moned up his courage and yelled, “If my story is true and you dump me on the street without checking it, you’ll be fired by this afternoon!”

For several more seconds, the guard continued to walk away. Then he stopped in his tracks.  A few seconds later, he turned around—and five minutes later, Felix stood before the entrance to the Oval Office.

The President’s personal secretary looked sternly at the visitor. “It’s not very prudent to keep the President of the United States waiting,” she scolded.

Felix was a quite embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said, blushing as he signed the guest book.

With her signal to go in, he stepped toward the doorway and paused to straighten his tie. He could feel his knees beginning to shake and his heartbeat speeding up. He entered and stood among a dozen sol­emn-looking officials and several men in military uniforms. It was uncomfortable having so many pairs of eyes examining him. He clapped his perspiring hands once and murmured, “So, have you guys seen the Green Room?” in a weak attempt to break the ice. “It’s uh … it’s green,” he added.

President Ronald Reagan approached from the right. “Good morning, Mr. Farley,” greeted the familiar voice.

Felix swung around and saw a much larger figure than he was used to seeing on his portable TV. The man had wavy black hair and eyebrows, and presented a kind of rugged, mountaineer face, handsome by any standard.  It was an exciting moment for Felix and he vigorously shook the President’s hand.

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir!” he bubbled. “You’re my favorite living president. Of course there was always Abe Lincoln, but you’re just about right up there! Is it OK if I take one picture?”

Without waiting for an answer, Felix popped the flash on his pocket camera just a few inches from the President’s eyes and momen­tarily staggered the chief executive.

“Thanks, Mr. President. You see, my wife didn’t believe you wanted to see me.”

The President tried to rub the spots out of his eyes. “I can’t see you too well right now, Mr. Farley. Would you please take a seat?”

Felix sat down behind the large oak desk and was immediately approached by Secretary of State George Schultz who whispered into his ear.

“Oh, sorry,” Felix whispered back as he got up quickly from the Presi­dent’s chair and took a seat on the side.

As the President regained his leather-covered chair, he opened a large round jar on his desk and invited his guest to share in one of the time-honored traditions of his administration. “Have some jellybeans, Mr. Farley.”

Felix was happy to oblige and took a small handful from the jar.

“Mr. Farley,” the President began, “we have a few problems that we’d like to discuss with you this morning.”

“Problems, sir?” Felix inquired. “Mr. President, if it’s about my tax return—well, if you’ll only look the other way just this one time, I can promise you …”

“Mr. Farley,” the President interrupted, “I’ve always felt that you could tell a lot about a man by the way he eats his jellybeans. You nibble on yours like a squirrel. Are you always this nervous?”

Felix quickly popped the remaining candy into his mouth and swallowed it all in one gulp. “Uh … no, sir?” he answered with a ques­tion.

“If you’ll turn around, please, the Admiral will explain to you the purpose of our meeting.”

Admiral William Crowe moved to the side of the room and pulled down a wall map.  Suddenly, a series of high-pitched electronic pulses pierced through the room.

Zeeep-zeep-zeep!—followed by a second wave which was even louder—ZEEP-ZEEP-ZEEP!!

“Is it a bomb? Everybody DOWN!” the Admiral shouted.

Felix dropped to his knees and covered his head just as the flying Admi­ral threw himself across the President’s body, knocking him to the floor. Some of the other men managed to escape through the door.

Felix then reached over to his left wrist and shut off his very loud and extremely annoying digital watch.  Hesitantly, he peered around the end-corner of the desk and saw the President staring back. “Sorry, Mr. President,” he said, smiling weakly. “I usually go to lunch at this time of the day.”

The President groaned, “Bill, will you please hurry so we can send this gentleman on his way as soon as possible.”

When the room was settled again, Admiral Crowe returned to the wall map and, with a stick pointer, began identifying various Middle Eastern locations.

“This is the Persian Gulf. Last week, when the Soviet naval fleet was replacing a squadron of ships, an obscure young captain from the Oman navy decided to try to impress his uncle, the Sultan of Oman. Now, their navy is nothing more than a few PT boats. First, he made an announcement to the world press that the Soviets were blockading the gulf, which wasn’t true. Then he went out and torpedoed a Russian de­stroyer. And if you’ve been following the news, then I think you know the rest. The Soviets announced that in retaliation for the attack, they would blockade the gulf.”

The Admiral paused and stepped away from the map.

“It’s a sticky situation, Mr. Farley,” he said. “As far as the United States is concerned, our national policy is committed to keeping the gulf open and the oil flowing. It’s part of our vital interest and we’re prepared to defend it at almost any cost. What most people don’t know, however, is that as I speak to you now, three million men on four continents stand poised, waiting to go to war.” Admiral Crowe stepped forward and thrust his map stick at Felix’s nose. “And that’s why you’re here, Mr. Farley!” he announced boldly.

Felix stared cross-eyed at the rubber point of the long stick. “Mr. Admiral, sir,” he mumbled, “I can assure you I had nothing to do with it. I don’t even know the Sultan of Oman.”

President Reagan cleared his throat and took over the discussion. “Mr. Farley, in spite of what you may have been hearing on the news, neither I, nor the Soviet leaders would like to wake up one morning to find our two nations fighting World War Three. The Russians may have gotten their noses bloodied pretty good in Afghanistan, but they’re not about to lose face by backing down to the United States. It appears that a clash may be unavoidable unless drastic steps are taken quickly.”

“Couldn’t we just call up the Czar and straighten things out?” Felix inquired.

The President rolled his eyes. “This is 1984, Mr. Farley. Russia has no czars. They have premiers. Unfortunately, Premier Chernenko is lying in a hospital bed with pneumonia and can’t even speak. We’re left to deal with a rogue general named Kostlitzo Zolotov. His first name in Russian means “BoneFace.” We believe he’s the man who gave the or­der to shoot down a Korean jetliner last year. He’s one nasty customer.”

“His mom named him BoneFace?” 

The President continued. “Earlier in the week, our talks with the Soviets were fruitless. We failed to agree on anything, and by the end of the third session, just about everyone’s nerves were frazzled. But that’s when Secretary of State Schultz jokingly made the suggestion that we fight a surrogate war.”

“A what?” asked Felix.

“You may have come across the term in movies about the Middle Ages—where two countries are battling over the same prize or land. In­stead of whole armies fighting, each king would select a champion to do battle in a single contest, winner take all.”

“Sir, I—”

“Be quiet, Mr. Farley, and let me finish. Now General Zolotov didn’t take the idea too seriously at first, but commented that we might carry it out in a sporting event. The session was breaking off for the day and Mr. Schultz last remarked that if we played sports, it would have to be baseball, on an American field. Well, Mr. Farley, I don’t think I can describe to you the shock waves that were felt through the State Depart­ment the following morning, when General Zolotov called Mr. Schultz and agreed to his proposal.”

Felix was confused. “But, sir,” he commented, “Russians don’t play baseball.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Farley, the General claims that Russia in­vented the game.”

Felix scoffed, “This General’s been drinking too much vodka.”

“Not so,” the President countered. “It turns out that the Russians have been playing a bat and ball game called ‘Lapta’ since the fourteenth century. According to Zolotov, when immigrants from Odessa began playing the game in America, other Americans joined in and renamed it ‘Baseball.’ I was then forced to endure his fifteen minute tirade on how we ‘stole’ the game from the Russians. And that’s why he agreed to play—he wants revenge.”

 Felix tried to speak. “Sir—”

“Hold on,” the President ordered. “Zolotov insisted on three con­ditions for the game. First, the players had to be twelve years of age or younger, which is understandable. They don’t have any major league baseball players to compete with ours. Secondly, the American team could only place nine players on its roster. We let that go through as long as the team could play with less than nine if it had to. And thirdly, the Soviets insisted that they be allowed to select a national all-star team, while the Americans had to be represented by a local team from a single U.S. town. Now, we argued quite a bit about that last condition, but fi­nally decided that if we could get the right people, then surely we could beat the Russians at our own game—or ‘American Lapta’ as the General calls it.”

“And that finally brings us to you, Mr. Farley,” the President said, his voice rising. “It will be up to you to put together and manage a team of United States all-stars to champion the American nation on the field of battle. Mr. Farley? … Mr. Farley?”

The President looked around. “Will someone please bring this man a glass of water? He’s looking awfully pale.”

Felix stared blankly at the President, but tried to recover from his sudden state of shock. He sipped a little water and then mumbled, “Why would you want to pick me?”

The President leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk. “Let me explain something to you, Mr. Farley. Admiral Crowe and I did not attain our positions of leadership by practicing false modesty, and fortunately, our computers didn’t take that into consideration either. Your reputation among baseball circles is unequaled. Besides, this will now give you an excellent opportunity to serve your country—uh hum—since you managed to avoid the draft the first time around.”

“But you didn’t want me, sir,” Felix explained. “The draft board said I was physically challenged.”

“In what manner?” the President demanded to know.

Felix lowered his head. “They said I was a dunder-klutz, sir, which is much worse than a regular ordinary everyday klutz.”

“Regardless, the game will take place in exactly eighteen days. That’s two weeks from this coming Saturday. It should give you enough time to prepare, and of course you’ll have the advantage of playing on your home field.”

The President got up from his desk, walked over to the large picture window, and gazed out upon the White House lawn. He took a deep breath.

“Only the Secretary General of the United Nations will be in­formed of our plans, Mr. Farley. So we’ll expect you to keep it a secret. Any problems you may encounter should be handled through my special envoy, the man you met with the car phone.”

Felix nodded.

“And let me caution you once more, Mr. Farley, that when the game begins, two great nations will be in a state of war. The outcome will affect not only the United States, but the rest of the free world as well. If you win, the Soviets will leave the gulf, the oil shipments will resume, and the worldwide prestige of the United States will be greatly enhanced.”

“But if you lose—well, if you lose, there’s no telling what the Russians might do. They might capture the oilfields to weaken our econ­omy, or they might invade Oman, or they might even get trigger-happy and launch a nuclear attack.”

“But why would they want to do that?” Felix asked.

“Because of this,” the President answered. He returned to his chair and reached forward to press the “play” button on a small cassette tape player. All in the room fell silent as they listened to the President’s recorded voice.

“My fellow Americans, I’m pleased to tell you today that I’ve signed legislation that will outlaw Russia forever. We begin bombing in five minutes.”

Felix’s eyes grew wide with disbelief. “Did you really say that?”

President Reagan exhaled deeply. “I didn’t know then that the microphones were still on. It was meant just as a joke. Unfortunately, General Zolotov has a poor sense of humor.”

Felix’s expression suddenly brightened. “Wouldn’t it help if we told him a Russian joke? I’ve got a good one—There’s this guy who walks into the KGB secret police and says, ‘My talking parrot is miss­ing.’ So the KGB man says, ‘What do you want us to do about it?’ And the guy says, ‘Don’t do anything, but in case you find him, I swear I dis­agree with everything that parrot says.’”

“Mr. Farley …” the President tried to interrupt.

Felix raised his hands. “Wait, I’ve got another one—this guy is driving his car in Moscow and he pulls up and parks it right in front of the Kremlin gate. A policeman comes running over, shouting, ‘Are you crazy? This is where the government works.’ And the guy says, ‘Oh, that’s OK. My car has very good locks.’”

“Mr. Farley …” the President tried to interrupt again.

“Wait, there’s one more …”

“STOP IT!!” the President bellowed, slamming both hands on the desk.

Felix jerked back in his seat, realizing that he may have rambled on, one joke too many. “Uh, sorry, sir,” he mumbled. 

The creases in the President’s face stiffened. He lined up his eyes with those of his guest and spoke bluntly. “Of the four wars that took place in my lifetime, none came about because the United States was too strong. Our strength now lies with you, Mr. Farley. Some people wonder all their lives if they’ve made a difference. In a few weeks, you’ll be wondering no more.”

The President then raised his voice again. “At the game’s end, there must be no question nor any doubt about the outcome, Mr. Farley. I am not prepared to accept the idea of terms being dictated from Moscow. You must prevail.”

Felix cringed as he tried to come to grips with the weight of re­sponsibility being thrust upon him. He opened his hands and pleaded for an answer. “You expect me to save the entire free world all by myself?”

The President rose slowly and leaned toward Felix. “Indeed, I do,” he replied with conviction.

Felix’s eyes sank. He swallowed hard, and his voice barely man­aged to whisper, “I’ve never done that before.”