Showcase: Wildcat

Batter

by Martin Maenza

In a small suburban community in upstate New York about an hour and a half north of the city, the exterior of an A-frame home with a stone face on the lower portion and large windows in the upper white painted portion hid dark secrets. None of the neighbors, for example, suspected the true nature about the couple who had resided there for a couple years now. Nor did they know much about the frailty of said marriage.

Inside, on the second floor in the master bedroom that looked a shambles, a man in his mid-thirties with short red hair and chiseled facial features sat on the end of the bed. On the floor were a number of scattered, empty liquor bottles. One remained, nearly emptied, in his left hand.

The man stared at the dresser where a photograph sat in a glass frame. It was a picture of himself and a beautiful dark haired woman. The couple in the photograph was smiling, happy. It was taken a number of years back in Niagara Falls, when the two were first embarking out on their grand adventure called marriage.

The man brought the bottle to his lips, threw back his head and took a deep swig. In four gulps, he emptied the remaining contents. He glared at the photograph again. What a fool! he thought.

Anger welled up inside of him. Despite the effect of the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream, he threw the bottle with precise aim; it smashed the photograph’s frame as well as the mirror behind it with a loud crash-crash! He didn’t care about the mirror or the possible bad luck that would come from breaking it. How could things get any worse?

The glass shards crunched under his feet as he stood up and bent over to fish the picture from them. His fingers and hands got scratched by the sharp and pointed edges. He paid it no mind as the blood started to form from the pricks. Instead, he picked up the photo, now torn, and stared at it with bloodshot eyes.

“Love, honor and obey,” he grumbled. “Right!” He crushed the photograph in his hand and tossed it towards the small ornate trash can in the corner. The balled up picture bounced off the rim and fell to the side.

“Stupid bitch!” he yelled, rushing up to the can and swinging his foot. He sent the container and its contents flying into the wall. Paper spilled out. The can bounced. “How dare you do this to me? How? How?” One of the items that fell to the floor was a crumpled note. The note!

The man grabbed the note, smoothed out all the wrinkles and read it again. As if doing that would change the words he practically knew by heart.

Crusher,

I’m sorry things had to come to this.

We’ve had our share of fights in the past, but I cannot take it any more. I refuse to let you abuse me, especially given my condition. I feel unwelcome in our home and that you no longer care about me or the child I am carrying. Perhaps I’ll find another, someone who will love us for who we are and not try to change us to meet his image. Or maybe we’ll go it alone. Right now, I don’t know. All I know is that we have to get away, away from you.

To be fair, I only took money from the banking account. I’ve left you everything else: the house, the car, etc. No matter what happened over the years, we always split things fifty-fifty, so why should that change now? We’ll do just fine as I’m not without my resources.

Please don’t try to find us. I think it’s better this way.

Paula

Crusher Crock crumpled the note again! “Damn it!” he swore. “Damn it! Damn it!”

A month or so back, he had been out drinking with the guys, drowning themselves in a local bar and complaining about the effects the damn alien invasion was having on their lives: the economy, jobs, sports, etc. When he finally stumbled home, he found the house empty. Paula Brooks, then six months pregnant, was gone along with some of her things. All she had left was the note.

Since then, with no sports to watch and no crimes to plan, Crusher had been in a constant drunken state. Now that the Invasion was over, he wasn’t sure what he would do. His whole world was in a disarray, but, as always, he would continue to blame outside factors. He wasn’t the type of man who could see his own faults or see the reason that his wife of fifteen years had finally left him.

“I need a drink,” he grumbled to himself. He stumbled down the stairs to the large family room area. The television was blaring, the way he left it on the night before.

As he stood behind the bar, trying to figure out what he had left in the cabinet to consume, a story came on the air. It was the cable sports channel, and what he heard got his attention. Crusher stood up and stared at the screen, listening. His depressed expression started to fade when he listened to the story. Ideas were coming to him.
***

 

Late Sunday morning, in a small church in Gotham City, a dark haired man in his late twenties stood before the cedar wood altar. His black collar was visible at the opening of a long white robe with purple trim. “The mass has ended,” said Father Francis Barone. “Let us go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”

“Thanks be to God,” responded the standing congregation in unison.

From the nearby organ, a woman in her late forties with short brown hair spoke into the microphone. “Our recessional hymn can be found in the Worship II hymnal. Number 596, ‘Sing A New Song’. Number 596.” She placed her fingers on the keys, paused a moment to give the people a chance to locate the correct page, and then began to play the opening bars of the tune.

The parishioners joined in and began to sing three verses. “Sing a new song unto the Lord…” The combined voices echoed in off the high ceiling beams.

After the first verse completed, the young priest turned to the altar and the crucifix hanging on the wall behind it. He genuflected before them, made the sign of the cross and rose once more. He then proceeded down the center aisle with the two alter boys following behind him. After the third verse started, some of the congregation began to file out.

A dark haired young man, in his mid-twenties, near the back of the church smiled as the priest passed. He knew his Aunt Josephine must be very proud of Francis. Leo Barone waited for the song to finish before he put the book down on the bench. He then knelt at the end of the pew and made the sign of the cross before starting to leave.

At the doorway of the vestibule, Father Francis was greeting people and bestowing blessings. “Have a good week,” he said, shaking an old man’s hand. “Bye now,” he said to the next man.

“I’ll see you on Saturday, Father,” the next woman in line said to him. “I hope you can make it to Robert and Carol’s reception afterwards as well.”

“I believe I can,” said the priest, “after Saturday evening mass, of course.” The woman nodded and smiled. Francis continued his duties until the last of the Mass attendees had exited the church.

Leo stood by the door, waiting patiently. “So, can we get going?” he asked his cousin after checking his watch. “We should still have plenty of time to make it if traffic’s not too bad.”

Francis nodded. “Just let me go hang my robe, and we’re off.”
***

 

“Good afternoon to all our listeners in Gotham City and the surrounding area,” the one man with brown hair, recently starting to recede some, said in his deep radio voice, “and welcome to the first game since the end of the Invasion. I’m Jimmy A., and I’ll be calling the play by play to today’s Gotham Giants game. Its a gorgeous August Sunday, despite the heat.”

“I have to agree,” the other man, a blonde and slightly older, chimed in. “I think we’re all glad that baseball is back, and not just those of us who earn our pay from it.”

The first man smiled. “You got that right. America has missed her favorite past time. Listeners, let me introduce someone to you. He’s an old friend of mine, and we’ve worked together on and off for the last decade. Curt S. is here from our sister station in Metropolis. He’s come all this way today to watch his Metros lose I’m afraid.”

The second man pouted slightly. “You still using that old refrain, Jimmy? The Metros have used the unexpected break in the season to heal some injuries. Kappen and Schultz are both back on the bench and ready to go. And speaking of recouping, I want to send a shout out to Superman who has been recovering from the recent battles in space. Thank you, Superman, for all your efforts in putting an end to the alien attacks.”

“Here, here,” Jimmy replied. “Though I have heard that Gotham’s own guardians played a hand in some of the efforts too.”

“No one would ever discount the work of Batman and company,” Curt answered. “I think we owe a big thanks to all the heroes across the globe.”

“And on that note, let’s go down to the field,” Jimmy said. “Any minute now we should be ready to go with our opening pitch.”
***

 

“I was really surprised that you wanted to come to the game, Leo,” Father Francis said, now dressed his a black shirt with his collar and dark pants. “I figured for your last weekend in town that you might have better things to do then spend the time with your old cousin.”

“Are you kidding me?” replied Leo Barone as he took a bite of a foot long hot dog covered with ketchup, mustard and relish. “You’ve been a rock of support for me over the last few months, my friend and confidant.”

“Comes with the job,” Francis said with a smile. “You know, the ear for listening and the words of guidance.” The priest took a bite of a nacho chip covered with a gooey yellow cheese topping.

“I know,” Leo said. “And I appreciate that. I figured that it would be fun to treat you to a game. Plus, I don’t know how long I’ll be away so this might be the last Giants game I catch for awhile.”

“These are really good seats,” Francis said. The two sat on the first base line, second row, right near the Gotham dugout. “However did you manage to get a hold of them?”

“A friend gave them to me,” Leo said. “Kind of a going-away present.”

“I was going to ask you about that, about how long you’ll be gone. Any clue when you’ll be back in town?”

“Not really. I even sublet my apartment to, you know, supplement the income a bit while I’m on the road. And you’ll never guess who I rented it to. I got all my stuff out on Thursday.”

“I’m glad I could offer some space in the rectory basement to store your things,” Francis said. “Though you hardly have a lot. One would think you’ve taken up the vow of poverty as well.”

“Just figured I’d live light, you know.”

“Travel light too, I’d imagine.”

“Definitely. Just whatever I can fit in a large duffel to strap onto the motorcycle.”

“Any idea where you’re heading?”

“No, not yet,” Leo admitted. “Just have to see where the road takes me. I’ve been kind of in a funk lately, you know, looking for a purpose.”

“I thought you had a purpose,” Francis said with a knowing look.

“Yeah, I do. But Gotham’s got enough folks looking out for her. I think I might be able to do better somewhere else.”

“Well, you better write and stay in touch. Family has to stick together.”

“You’re right about that,” Leo said. The fans around them started to cheer as the players began to take the field.
***

 

Jimmy A. continued to broadcast in the booth. “Top of the seventh coming up, folks, and we’ve got us a tie ball game at three to three. Next up to bat for Gotham will be their new pitcher, Ty Hunter.”

“I’ve heard a lot about this guy,” Curt S. chimed in. “Rumor has it that he’s got a lot going on, both on and off the field.” The Metropolis announcer gave his counterpart a knowing look.

Jimmy frowned. “Well, if you believe the gossip rags and such…”

On the field, a six foot two, brown haired young man checked over the bats, trying to decide which he should use. One on the end caught his eye, and he snatched it up. He took a few swings. It had an interesting weight to it. Then, Ty Hunter made his way to the batter’s box.

The catcher hurried up to take his place. “Sorry, ump,” he said to the home plate officiator with his head towards the ground. “Had to see a man about a horse.” The man in the Metros uniform crouched down behind the plate in his catching stance, awaiting the first pitch.

Ty Hunter took his stance and raised his bat.

The pitcher for the Metros took aim, cocked back his arm and then left fly a fast ball. Ty swung but failed to get a piece of it. The ball slammed into the catcher’s mitt. The catcher smiled. Show time.

Suddenly, the video screen on the giant scoreboard sprang to life with sight and sound. “What a shame, what a shame!” a shadowy figure on the video screen said loudly. “Who would have thought that the Gotham Giants’ new superstar was such a low-lying, cheating scum?”

All heads turned to the board, surprised and confused by this turn of events! There was murmuring in the crowd.

The shadowy figure continued. “I would! Ty Hunter is a dirty rotten, adulterous dog!”

The crowd gasped.

The man in question lowered his bat in shock. “What the hell?”

“And I ought to know! I know who he’s having an affair with!” the voice said, the speaker stepping out of the shadowy back drop to reveal a red haired man, dressed in a baseball uniform. His face was covered by a mask with a swatch of matching cloth covering his lower face. A few in the crowd recognized him.

“That’s the Sportsmaster!” exclaimed Curt S. to Jimmy A.

Stadium security immediately was dispatched to the scoreboard and the control room to find the source of the broadcast and possibly the broadcaster. The disruption halted the play of game.

The catcher stood up and moved over to Ty Hunter. “Can you believe that?” the batter said with a slight nervous tick near his eye. “Someone’s out to drag my name through the mud.”

“That,” the catcher said, “and more!” He grabbed the bat from Ty’s hand and held the rounded handle under the man’s nose. With a skict-skict sound, a colorless noxious gas shot out from the hitting instrument and into Ty’s face.

“What the…?” the Gotham Giant exclaimed before succumbing to the sleep gas.

The catcher let the bat fall and caught Ty Hunter in his arms. “I think we better get you some place to lie down, Ty!” he said as he began to chuckle slightly.

While most of the crowd was still focused on the display, Leo Barone noticed the odd exchange near home plate. “What the…?” he said as he saw the catcher for the Metros moving Ty Hunter past.

Francis glanced down. “Looks like the batter fainted or something,” the priest said. “A public revelation of his sinful acts, assuming they are true, must have been too much for him. Isn’t he a married man?”

Leo shook his head. “Yeah, but something’s not right!” he said as he stood up and reached for the rail.

“What do you mean?” Francis asked.

“Rival players or not, why would the Metros player not take Ty to the Giants’ dugout? Its right there.” Leo said as he put his left foot on the rail. Francis shrugged his shoulders. “That’s because there’s more to this than meets the eye!” The young man dropped over the rail and sprinted onto the grassy field.

Father Francis didn’t have to guess what would happen next. Leo was about to find out what was going on despite the fact that he would have to do it without his Wildcat costume. Clothes do not make the hero, the priest thought as he said a silent prayer.

The Metros’ catcher had slung the batter over his left shoulders and was moving away from the other players. “I know all about your little mystery-woman on the side, Mr. Hunter,” he said to the sleeping captive. “Oh, you’ll pay for your indiscretions. You’ll pay big!”

“Hold it!” a voice called out.

The catcher whirled around. “Damn this mask!” he said, clawing at the black crisscrossed item on his head with his free hand. “I never liked these things!” The catcher tore off the head gear to reveal another mask underneath.

“The Sportsmaster!” Leo Barone exclaimed.

“Give the kid a kewpie doll!” the villain said as he hurled the mask like a weapon at his accuser with glaring accuracy.

Leo dodged and rolled, the mask barely missing his skull by a half inch. He rolled to his feet and started after the man again. “You gotta do better than that!”

Sportsmaster glared at him. “Look, kid, my beef isn’t with you! Its with this guy who’s messing with my wife!” His hand reached underneath his catcher’s protective gear and pulled out a baseball. “But if you think you’re up to playing in my league, let’s see if you can stand the heat!” The villain hurled the ball at Leo.

The young man was fast enough to move out of the way of the thrown sphere, but he didn’t get far enough. When the ball hit the ground, it exploded with a great force, sending turf and Leo flying. The dark haired man hit the ground hard with a thud. “Uggggggh,” he groaned to himself. “Should have been watching for that.”

Leo heard another loud sound. He looked up in time to see smoke bursting out from the villain’s backside. The Sportsmaster and his captive lifted high and fast into the air. “A jet pack?” Leo said. “I don’t believe it.” But in a moment, the villain was up and out of the stadium before anyone could stop him.

Leo lifted himself off the ground in disgust. Some of the Giants rushed over to him to see if he was OK and to thank him for at least trying to save their teammate. But the young hero didn’t hear any of it. His head was racing from the whole situation.

It wasn’t until his cousin Francis came over to him that he snapped back into focus. “Leo, are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” Leo replied. “Only thing hurt is my pride.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, but I think we better go. I’ll explain on the way.” They headed out of the arena. The crowd, still in shock over the incident, was slowly filtering out too.

When the Barones arrived at the priest’s blue 1978 Chevy sedan and got inside, Francis turned to Leo. “You’ve got that look, cousin,” he said.

“Remember when I told you I sublet my place,” Leo said. The priest nodded as he started the car. “You’ll never guess who rented it.”

“Who?”

“Ty Hunter.”

“Ty Hunter?” Francis said in surprise. “What does a big time ball player want with your little place? No offense meant.”

“None taken,” Leo replied. “I wondered that myself when he showed up in answer to my ad, but now it all makes sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“Something I overheard the Sportsmaster say as he was carting Ty off.”
***

 

In a small apartment on the third floor of an old brownstone on Gotham’s south side, a young brunette haired woman turned off the television in disgust. “This is crazy! Crazy!” Her voice was edgy and, despite her great beauty, she looked as if every nerve was frazzled. Every evening news broadcast was covering the incident from earlier in the day with the speculations running wild.

She was so freaked out that she had to get away. She didn’t know what made her come to the apartment, their little rendezvous spot. She just needed some solitude while she sorted it all out. Something she couldn’t do at home, not with her husband there.

She fetched the whiskey bottle from the cupboard and poured herself three fingers into an old jelly-jar glass. Not even enough time to get anything settled up nice, she thought. She raised the glass to her quivering lips.

A slight rap at the window made her jump three feet, the drink spilling on her white tank top and the rug on the floor.

She whirled around suddenly, only to see a figure near the open window, moving back the curtain. “Who the hell are you?” she shouted. “I’ll call the police!” She reached for the counter, only to realize she had no idea where the phone was.

“Easy, Ms. Chambers,” said the dark garbed man, his gloved hands extended palm out to show he was not carrying a weapon. He stepped into the apartment, and she could see his althletic form was covered with a tight fitting body suit. Around his face, he wore a cowled mask with short pointy ears. Beneath the white eye slits were gray puffy like cheeks with whiskers. The man’s mouth and chin were the only things uncovered by the costume. “I’m here ta help.”

“You?” Michelle Chambers asked. “You look like someone who stepped off that Broadway show.”

The hero winced slightly at the comment. Perhaps he should reconsider this costume at some point. “Look, my name’s Wildcat, and I’m an ally of Batman’s. I’m here ta help ya with this whole situation with your boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” the woman was taken aback. “What boyfriend? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice was cracking slightly.

“Look, lady, let’s not play ‘cat and mouse’, OK? I figure’d out that you and Ty Hunter are an item. And I realize that’s not somethin’ ya all want made public knowledge. Especially given you’re both married ta other folks.”

“Now look…” Michelle started to protest.

Wildcat held up his hand. “Look, as far as I’m concerned, what’cha do is your own business. I’m just here ta help and try savin’ a life or two.”

Michelle Chambers was surprised by this. A costumed man she never heard of seemed to know all about her affair with the professional baseball player. Her head was swirling. “Look, I don’t need any help…”

“Miss, I think ya do!” Wildcat said firmly. “In case ya don’t realize it, a costumed sports nut has taken your boyfriend hostage. There’s no tellin’ what he might do with him, but my hunch tells me it won’t be long before…”

The phone suddenly rang. Both the woman and the hero paused to look in the direction of it, on the floor behind one of the chairs.

It rang a second time. “I think ya better answer it,” advised Wildcat.

The woman nodded and started to move for it.

“But,” Wildcat added, “if it turns out to be the Sportsmaster, and I’m bettin’ it is ’cause very few know you’re here, right?” She nodded. “If it’s him, just listen ta what he has to say. Don’t say nothin’ about me being here, got it? Our only way of seeing that Ty gets through this in one piece is ta play it cool.”

Michelle nodded again, bent over and then picked up the phone on the fourth ring. “Hello….?”

“Listen up, you tramp!” the wicked voice of the Sportsmaster said on the other end. “I’m going to lay out the terms of the exchange! You listen and you do it, or else!”

The woman continued to listen without another word but watched Wildcat as well. He could tell by the look on her face that she was terrified. The hero just hoped he could pull this off without any casualties.
***

 

It was after two in the morning when she entered the back entrance of the darkened building. Michelle Chambers felt a chill down her spine, and it wasn’t just from the cold air inside the abandoned ice-plex. She was truly scared about this whole situation: the possibility of her affair being exposed, the possibility of the man she loved being in danger, and the possibility that the angry criminal she spoke to on the phone earlier might not keep his word. She clutched the handle of a small satchel that bulged at the seams tightly.

But what could she do? The one called the Sportsmaster warned her not to go to the police, or Ty was as good as dead! And the one called Wildcat spent a good hour assuring her that his plan would work. All she needed to do was buy him enough time.

In the darkened hallway, she saw a feint light coming from a doorway propped open. That was where she had been instructed to go. She gathered up her nerve and started towards it.

Just beyond, in a large open area down past the benches and such was the main floor. Even in the darkness, she could tell the surface was covered in ice; it sparkled in its slightly white glow.

And there, in the center of the rink, under a single spotlight from above, was Ty. The brown haired man was tied up, spread eagle, to the posts of a large hockey goal. His mouth was gagged and his face bruised heavily. From the shadowy sidelines, Michelle let out a loud gasp.

“Come on down, dear, and join the party!” a voice called from the speaker system. “Join your lover in the spotlight so I can get a good look at you two together!”

Michelle hesitated.

“Do it! Or I come out on the ice and start taking slap shots on the pretty boy again!”

Michelle moved down the steps and approached the ice. She held the bag before her face. “I…I…have the money,” she stammered. Her own voice echoed off the walls, distorting it.

“This ain’t about the money, honey,” the villain said over the system. “But just the same, why don’t you slide it across the way? After all, it is mine anyway!”

Michelle bent down, placed the bag on the slick surface and gave it a good push. It slide across the ice and hit the far darkened wall.

“Good. Now join him!”

Michelle moved out on the ice carefully, taking small baby steps until she approached the lit area. Ty groggily glanced up, noticed her and tried to shout something; the gag muffled his every word. She stepped into the light, and it bounced off her wavy curls. “It’ll be OK, Ty,” she said.

“What’s this?” roared the Sportsmaster’s voice. “Who the hell are you?”

Michelle blinked, confused. “I’m the one you spoke to,” she said, “on the phone. I’m Ty’s…” She couldn’t bear to say the word ‘mistress’ even though that is what she was.

“Where the hell is my wife?” yelled the Sportsmaster as he appeared at the edge of the ice. Within an instant, he glided to her and grabbed the woman firmly about the shoulders in order to get a good look at her. He was dressed in a hockey jersey with matching pants and gloves. He had his usual mask and lower face covering. “You’re not Paula!”

Michelle winced as the villain squeezed her. “You’re…hurting me,” she groaned.

“Where the hell is Paula?” the villain continued to rant, shaking her. “If this some kind of trick of her’s…”

“Who is…Paula?” Michelle asked. “I don’t…know any…”

“Shut up, bitch!” the Sportsmaster exclaimed as he brought the back of his hand across her face. The slap made a loud sound, knocking the brunette to the ice. He looked about the darkened arena. “Paula! Paula! You better come out now! You know better than to play games with me, you hear!”

Ty struggled against his bonds and growled something.

“You shut up too!” Sportsmaster warned, grabbing a hockey stick from near the net. It was similar to those used by the pros, except this one had a specially reinforced blade and handle. The villain raised the piece of equipment, ready to strike. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Hunter, but giving me another woman’s number and passing her off as your lover was a stupid move!” He started to swing. Ty, helpless to defend himself, flinched, but the hit never came. The Sportsmaster laughed.

“Don’t!” Michelle cried out. “I am his lover!”

“Bull!” the villain spat. “My wife left me, but I know her, see. She didn’t head far, just down here to Gotham. Hooked up with another jock. That’s her type. I should know. I’ve been a jock all my life!” He had convinced himself of this scenario so much that he couldn’t see the truth before his own eyes.

Sportsmaster continued to rant. “And of course, she couldn’t resist this one, what with the name Hunter and all! Hunter and Huntress, what a combo!” Sportsmaster turned back to the bound man. “I think I’m just going to have to beat the confession out of him, and this time I’ll be a lot harder on him too!”

“You know what?” a firm, masculine voice called from the shadows. “You’re pathetic!”

Sportsmaster turned to see the shadowy outline with the cowled mask and ears. “Batman?!?”

Wildcat stepped into the light. “Guess again, buddy! You’ve got ten seconds ta surrender.”

Sportsmaster paused for a moment, getting a good look at the costume, and laughed. “Oh, this is rich! You think you’re that guy from the funny books? Wildcat?” He grasped his stick firmly. “I’ve always wanted to kick the stuffing out of someone in a costume like that! Talk about irony.”

“You’re welcome ta try!” Wildcat put up his dukes.

Sportsmaster charged him, raised his stick and cross-checked the hero. Wildcat took a tumble, his footing not solid on the icy surface. Meanwhile, Sportsmaster laughed as he skated around and back. “I thought cats always landed on their feet!” the villain mocked. “I guess not!” He started for his fallen opponent, stick raised.

The villain was on him in a second. Wildcat barely had time to roll left as the razor sharp stick blade chopped at the ice where his skull had been. Ice chips flew everywhere. Sportsmaster was moving around again for another shot.

Wildcat put his gloved hands to the ice. “You wanna see some footwork,” he said softly as the villain approached to attack once more. “How’s this?” Claws sprang out from his fingertips and dug into the frozen surface. Using them for an anchored support, he flipped himself up to a handstand. Doing so, his feet swept out and up, catching the handle of the villain’s hockey stick.

With his strong legs, Wildcat slammed Sportsmaster in the face with one foot while he knocked free the stick with his other. The stick clattered to the ice and slid away.

“Ooooowww!” the villain exclaimed, grabbing at his masked mouth. “I thnk you knocked loose a tooth!”

Wildcat used the opening to get to his feet again, this time more conscious of his footing. “Ya seem ta like ta knock folks about,” the hero said. “So, let’s see if ya can take as good as ya give!”

Michelle was over at the net, working on Ty’s bonds while the costumed two men tussled with fists. The bound baseball player jerked his head. “Oh, sorry, baby,” she said, and she pulled the gag out of his mouth.

“Shelly, you never should’ve come,” he said. “Get out of here! Run!”

“Hush,” she replied. “We’ll sort it all out later, after we get out of this.” She continued to work at the knots which were expertly tied. “Good thing I spent summers out on the sail boat.”

Wildcat dodged a right jab from the Sportsmaster. “Hold still!” the villain commanded.

“What’sa matter?” the hero said, dodging again. “Can’t hit a movin’ target?” Wildcat swung around and elbowed him in the right side of his ribs.

Sportsmaster faltered but remained on his skates. “I won’t be beaten by the likes of you,” he vowed. It was like his past was all coming around full circle again. This man in the costume that was here, disrupting his revenge, reminded him of Timmy Thomas. It was because of Timmy that his life was turned around, leading to him becoming Crusher Creel. Ever since then, everything was different. Everything!

Something in his head snapped. He threw the padded gloves down on the ice. “Aaaagh! I’ll kill you!” He lunged at Wildcat’s throat with his bare hands.

Wildcat gasped for air and was surprised by the man’s strength. His grip was firm, unrelenting. He seemed like a man possessed. When he found he couldn’t force him to release his grip by squeezing his wrists, the hero tried to break the grip by forcing his arms between the Sportsmaster’s and shoving them outward. It was of little use. He started to feel his lungs growing tighter as they strained for air.

“Back off!” a voice yelled. Ty Hunter was free and had retrieved the hockey stick. He brought it crashing down hard the villain’s back.

The Sportsmaster yelped in pain, his grip loosening.

Wildcat took the opening, broke out of the grip and wound back his fist. He connected to the villain’s skull with a solid right punch which sent the Sportsmaster across the ice. Wildcat bent over for a second to catch his breath, all the while keeping an eye on the downed villain.

“You OK?” Michelle Chambers asked him.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” the hero said. He turned to the ball player. “You’re pretty handy with that stick. Ever think of takin’ that up.”

Ty shook his head. “I’ll stick to ball.”

Wildcat nodded. “Well, thanks. I owe ya for that.”

“You risked your life to help me and Michelle,” Ty replied. “It’s the least I could do.”

“Then I guess we’re even,” the hero replied. “Let me go get this clown all trussed up for the cops. I got a feelin’ he’s gonna need a bit of therapy too.”

“Why?” said Ty. “He’s just some crazed costume lunatic.”

Wildcat frowned. “Maybe,” he said, “or maybe he’s someone who didn’t realize he had somethin’ good until it was gone.” He started to walk towards the downed man then turned back to the couple. “Somethin’ to think about, huh?”