Love & Knowledge
Being enlightened is always a good idea, falling in love even better. The chances of achieving either in Statesville are slim to slimmer. While most people can attain knowledge anywhere, I knew that finding romance would require me to be elsewhere. It wasn’t a recent epiphany that brought me to this conclusion.
Once I found out what a year at State cost, I needed a minor miracle or about a million more lawns to mow to get there. It was beyond my reach but that wasn’t going to stop me.
I’d run a mowing service out of my family’s garage since I was twelve. My labor kept me in the essentials my parents called luxuries. In my junior year of high school I started putting all my money away, forgoing the latest CD releases and newest video game. It would take all I made and more to pay for a place on campus. Getting my plan past my parents would be an even bigger obstacle than money.
My parents had offered to help with a better car, after I parked the one that was eating up much of my income between insurance and repairs. Commuting to State would succeed in wasting even more money in gas, while eating up an hour each way. This assured I’d have no time for a social life in a town without opportunities.
While there may have been other gay men in Statesville, they’d carefully avoided me over the years. A change of location seemed right to me. At State I might meet someone who felt the way I felt at the same time I was becoming educated.
Before I knew it my senior year was fading fast with no way apparent for me to afford my plan. At eighteen I needed to use the awkward talent I’d mysteriously discovered in the infield of the high school baseball team to reach my goal. Baseball was never a central piece in the plans for my future. The pastime I took up to pass time at fifteen would now surprise me by opening doors I hadn’t considered.
The miracle I prayed for came in the top of the seventh inning in our first home game of the season. It was a cool Thursday evening, with the final glow of daylight waning in the western sky. I sat on the bench waiting for the coach’s call. He was a predictable man.
I’d become a “steady” fielder, according to Coach Price. This had him inserting me late in games, when my bat wasn’t a factor. My glove might protect a lead however. The days of having a lineup you stuck with throughout each game were gone. Baseball had become a chess match with me being a pawn in the game. Barely hitting my weight the year before, this arrangement suited me fine.
It was just enough value to keep me on the team. I made good plays and rarely booted a ball within my considerable range. I took pride in wielding a “wicked” glove and being one of the quicker boys on the team.
These assets, along with fast reactions and good instincts for the ball, made fielding easy for me. I made my body do things other boys had difficulty doing. The challenge made baseball exciting, but waiting to get into a game was oh so boring, and it was no sure thing, unless the circumstances were right.
After sitting the starting shortstop down in our first home game, Coach Price called me over as the seventh inning was about to start. He couldn’t have missed my smile.
He casually hung his arm over my shoulder, looking out at the field as he spoke. “Okay, Dooley, cover shortstop. We’ve only got a one run lead, so don’t let anything get past you.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, happy to get into the game without needing to worry about coming to bat.
Acknowledging the other infielders, I took my position, anxious to defend my turf. For a minute I had no doubt we’d hold our lead. The first batter proceeded to hit the first pitch he saw for a homerun. I stood fast in the infield, watching the ball soar over my head and over the chain link fence in right centerfield.
The game was tied.
I immediately began calculating the batting order for fear I might come to bat but praying I didn’t. I paid enough attention to know who batted last in our half of the sixth. Not only was I going to bat, the shortstop led off once we came to bat. My stomach began to churn. There wasn’t any more joy to be found from being in the infield.
‘Maybe the coach would pinch hit for me?’ I calculated, immediately realizing he’d then need another shortstop if we didn’t win in our half of the inning.
He had a complicated job and I couldn’t figure out who the third shortstop might be. It’s what I like about baseball. You never know what might happen next. This time I hated what happened next, but it’s the game I played.
‘I should have gone out for track,’ I thought, pounding my fist in my glove to keep the pocket fresh.
There was the usual walk after the homer, which gave me something to do besides worry. I became vigilant with the man on first. We needed the double play. The next batter hit a half dozen foul balls far enough down the right field line to be home runs. Coach Price came off the bench and wandered out to the pitcher’s mound, appearing to be in no hurry. He relieved our starter, patting his back and talking to him while the relief pitcher finished a few warm up pitches before trotting in from the bullpen down the third base line.
More warm up pitches followed as I pondered my batting stance. Then, I entertained myself by watching the infielders fidget. The second baseman took to kicking second base over and over again. The first baseman talked to the runner, who stood in the middle of the bag, smiling confidently.
The first pitch finally came and the batter’s bat cracked, sending the ball to my right in the direction of third base. I broke on the sound and instinct sent me to the edge of the outfield grass, where I caught up with the ball on its first bounce, stretching as far as my body could go, I knocked it down so it didn’t get into the outfield. My momentum carried me over the ball. Picking it up, I whirled to make a play.
When I pivoted toward second, the runner who had been on first was standing on the bag. The batter was crossing first base by the time I looked there. I held onto the ball not wanting to risk an errant throw that would advance the runners with no outs.
I jogged the ball into the pitcher, putting it into his glove as we came face to face.
“Okay, easy double play,” I said, having heard it said by other boys in my previous seasons.
I didn’t know of anything else to say and it pretty much covered what we needed. The pitcher nodded and I moved back to my position, waiting for the next pitch. I played a couple of feet closer to third, remembering the last right handed hitter’s hit.
There were more foul balls, which unsettled me. With each pitch the runners were on the move like they were determined to advance. With two on and no one out they were keyed up. They wanted the lead after trailing us the entire game.
While they were expecting to advance, I expected to get them out. I stood directly in the path of the runner on second, considering him before moving another foot toward third. I waited, pounding my glove, yelling nervously, “Easy out. He can’t hit.”
This helped me to stay alert and in the game while discouraging the runners from getting any big ideas.
The next pitch was a dozy. I cringed when it left the pitcher’s hand. He’d obviously let go of it before he intended, and it came in slow and easy right in the batter’s power alley.
Maybe it would curve or dip before getting to the hitter. Maybe it wouldn’t. The runners started, hesitated, and started again. They knew a fat pitch when they saw one, but hesitating, because they wanting to make sure they were seeing it right. Any hit would score at least one of them.
The crack the bat made got the runners up to full speed. The same crack sent me hard to my right. I reached as far to the right as I could, after jumping as high as my legs would take me. The line drive was rising fast as I got to it.
It stung my hand as it collided with my glove at an awkward angle, rolling into the furthest reaches of its webbing before I got control over it. As I came back to earth, I used my free hand to keep the ball from getting away from me.
At first I couldn’t believe I caught it, and then, I couldn’t believe the base runner was running far wider than necessary, and he was coming right at me before he realized I had the ball. He desperately tried to put on the brakes to return to second base, but he slid toward me before he could reverse his momentum. I took two steps and tagged him on the shoulder, dodging his out of control body.
The double play I wanted was a done deal, but as I started to relax, I realized there was a runner unaccounted for and I searched the infield in an effort to find him to see if I could make a play on him.
When the second baseman moved from my line of vision, there he was safely standing on second base. Seeing is believing but I didn’t believe it. I knew there was something wrong. In the excitement of making a double-play, and with the adrenaline rush still pulsing through me, I wasn’t able to figure out what was wrong.
I heard a commotion and found the other team coming off their bench, looking like angry mob. I couldn’t understand what they were screaming, which brought my mind back to the play.
The runner on first had tagged up and made it to second in the two or three seconds it took me to focus on tagging out his teammate. I remembered the lead he took off first at the time the ball was hit. It didn’t add up. I could have been wrong, but that dude didn’t tag up. That’s what his team was yelling about.
I trotted over to my second baseman, bypassing him as the runner on second base was keenly aware of my approach. I stopped in front of him. Opening my glove, I showed him the ball. We both looked down at it. He looked up at my face and I looked up at his, pushing my glove firmly against his chest to tag him out if my theory was correct.
I could see the expression on his face changing before he tagged me on the chin with his fist, knocking me flat on my back. I never saw the punch coming, but I made sure I held onto the ball.
The infield umpire had moved into position, once he made certain I’d caught the ball on the fly and not on the bounce. He was the perfect witness to the strangest play I’d ever been involved in, but it was about to become even stranger.
Once I dusted myself off, I handed the ball to the umpire for safe keeping, trotting back to my shortstop position, feeling pretty proud I’d stayed with the play until the end, but I still managed to embarrass myself.
It turned out I was as oblivious as their runners about the play. All my teammates were happily heading for our bench. It took me that long to get around to counting the outs, ‘one, two, three. It was a triple-play. I was still stuck on the double-play, but that’s before I got punched in the face. I felt like a fool being the last player to figure out the inning was over.
The applause and cheers rang in my ears as people were standing all over the place and it wasn’t the seventh inning stretch. It caught me by surprise, until I figured out the salute was for me. They hadn’t seen me bat yet.
It wasn’t the usual applause for the team after a good inning. It was an appreciative applause for giving them something special. It was a good play.
Suddenly feeling quite full of myself, I couldn’t resist doffing my hat and taking an audacious bow. I wasn’t given to showing off and I had no desire to be the center of attention, but it was an impulse I couldn’t fend off.
It was recorded for posterity by a local photographer, who took my picture in mid-bow, but I didn’t know it, until I saw the picture.
There hadn’t been any triple plays I could remember my first two seasons. I did make a nice catch but lousy base running accounted for two of the outs. Knowing it had been a fluke, I still felt good about it. Fielding was the only reason I played baseball and moments like these were rare.
Coach had a name for it, when I pulled myself away from my newly acquired fans and went to the bench.
“Unassisted triple-play, I’ve never seen anything like it,” he bragged, hugging me before holding me out away from his body, like he was double checking to see who I was, before he hugged me again. I’d never seen him hug anyone else before. Other guys patted my back and shook my hand as I took a seat.
I hadn’t seen anything like it either but I never really saw it. It was all in a day’s work.
After the game, the guy that hit me came over to apologize at his coach’s behest. My teammates moved closer to assure I didn’t get hit in the head any more.
Looking around for an escape route, he said, “I thought you caught the ball on the hop. When you came over, I thought you were trying to get me to step off the bag. Pushing the glove against me the way you did made me certain of it. I got a serious temper on me and it just took off. Sorry I hit you.”
Shaking his hand, I thanked him for the apology.
He was wrong on both counts and he was out twice. The ump called him out at second before throwing him out of the game, which made it a quadruple-play, but whose counting?
While being an amazing thing to see, it didn’t seem that amazing to do, except after it was done and there was all the hoopla. Whatever it looked like, it was enough to make me starting shortstop for the rest of the season.
“Got to have that glove in my infield,” Coach Price told his team.
I didn’t mind but Andy Reid wasn’t too pleased about me taking his spot. The idea of coming to bat two or three times a game didn’t thrill me. The one thing I hated was something I was destined to do. It was a good thing too.
You can’t always see where you’re going from where you are, but once I got to where I was going, the batting I did my senior year in high school made all the difference in a future I’d never quite get control over. I was always on the verge of quitting baseball, but it never did quit me.
When I came to bat after the triple-play, the applause started anew. I felt odd standing out from the team. I resisted the urge to take one more bow. Luckily I walked on four pitches and my admirers didn’t find out I couldn’t hit until later on.
Our competition had been deflated just as their hopes were soaring. We won the game when the next batter hit a double directly over the second base and into centerfield. I’d taken a sizeable lead and was off and running at the crack of the bat, scoring with ease. It was my day in the sun and scoring the winning run merely added to my legend.
The triple play saved the game and after scoring the winning run, I became the talk of the school, which I liked.
An article describing my feat appeared in the Statesville Gazette the following day with the caption, “Dooley Does In Central.” This fueled my fame. Along with the article were two embarrassing pictures. One picture showed my bow to the crowd. The second picture showed me lying flat on my back behind second base with a goofy surprised look on my face. Everyone at school loved it, except me.
Coach Price couldn’t stop talking about my unassisted triple-play. He bragged to visiting coaches, who hadn’t heard about the deed, showing them the article and pictures to make them believers. He called me Wonder Boy and put me in charge of the infield. My teammates took it in stride.
How do you teach infielders to make an unassisted triple-play? Of course you don’t. It’s all reaction and luck, but Coach didn’t care. He believed.
I consulted all the hitters about hitting and manage a .248 batting average for the season. I didn’t enjoy batting but I took it in stride and took a lot of Tums. Doing it every game did make it easier.
Baseball wasn’t in my college plans until I got news about my baseball scholarship to State, including room and board. I liked baseball and who was I to argue with success when it gave me what I wanted.
All that was left for me to do was earn enough money over the summer to pay my incidental expenses. It worked for me. I was going to escape from Statesville after all.
I knew I’d made the big time when Ryan Weir stopped me in the hall to congratulate me on my most excellent play.
I never saw him coming, until we stood talking like we’d known each other all our lives. Life is funny that way, you know?
The Trouble with Ryan
“Great play, Do,” Ryan said.
He patted my back like we were old friends. I took notice of his demeanor. A comfortable warmth came over me, during the morning class change. My crotch tightened when my nostrils picked up his familiar smell. I almost always knew when Ryan was in the vicinity, but he managed to sneak up on me this time. I don’t know how to explain it, except his nearness permeated my senses in a way no one else’s ever had.
“Hey, you saw it?” I asked, thinking he’d probably seen the article in the Gazette and those awful pictures.
My eyes had a mind of their own, giving him a quick once over as I spoke, hesitating at his crotch, his face, and becoming locked in his deep brown gaze. The coy little smile he gave me meant he knew I was checking him out. Ryan knew me every bit as well as I knew him. I cursed my inability to resist my desire for him as well as the fact I couldn’t hide it from him. Ryan’s train had left the station when it came to me.
“Sure as hell did. Molly and I were sitting behind third base. You came right at me when you made that catch, Do. I thought, ‘no way he’s going to reach it,’ but damn if you didn’t. Nice play, dude. You always did have a nose for the ball.”
He patted my back again, letting his hand rest in the middle of my turquoise and black shirt between my shoulder blades. My crotch tightened even more.
“Molly? You aren’t with Bonnie any more?” I said surprised.
“Band practice,” Ryan explained and the coy smile was back.
A chill ruined my delight over our conversation. My attitude changed as the moment hardened around me. I spit out what I had to say.
“Your girlfriend has band practice, so you go to a ballgame with another girl? Does Bonnie know that?”
The good feelings generated by an unexpected meeting with an old friend deserted the hallway. I realized things didn’t change with Ryan. Why was he even talking to me, after so long?
“A guy’s got to make hay, Do? You know me? Bonnie doesn’t own me. We just go together.”
“Yeah, I do know you,” I said as my heart turned cold. “You ever get Timmy trained the way you like? I guess he turned out way more flexible than me, huh?”
I smiled at him once I took my best shot at his questionable hetro credentials. The look he gave me explained why we hadn’t spoken in over a year.
“You see, that’s why I hate you. I outgrew that kid stuff a long time ago. Unlike you, twinkle toes. I tried to be nice for old time sake, but I see how that goes,” Ryan said sarcastically as he turned to walk away.
“Guilty conscience there, Rye?” I spoke loud so he could hear me above the class change.
I rarely lost my temper or felt ill of other people, but Ryan could push my buttons just that fast. What might have been a polite reunion turned into an angry exchange. I suppose I knew more about Ryan than anyone. I also had a big mouth and couldn’t control it, once he’d hit the hot spot between us. My inability to roll over and play dead for him was the main reason we couldn’t be around each other.
If two boys could love each other as kids, Ryan and I did. We’d been inseparable from the time he moved into the neighborhood when I was six. Until three years before, Ryan was the reason why my desire for love was so strong. I’m sure I loved him before I was old enough to know what love was.
Ryan recognized I was gay before I did. We’d explored each other’s bodies as boys without guilt or anxiety. When Ryan was experiencing puberty before I did, he encouraged me to experience all his changes along with him. I dove headlong into finding new and more inventive ways to excite him. In those days there was never too much attention, when it came from me.
Once I began to mature, the dynamics between us changed. At first he seemed happy that we were on the same track again and he made an effort to give me the same kind of attention I gave him. Then, after I’d caught up, he was more and more reluctant to do the things I did for him.
I eased back on the amount of time I spent stimulating him, thinking that was the problem. I was startled when he complained. I assured him nothing had changed, before he told me where we stood.
“Do, don’t expect me to like it like you do. I’m not like you. I’m not gay. You’re lucky I let you do what you like doing to me.”
That hurt. Up until that day, Ryan and I were two parts of the same being. For the first time there was a difference between us and it was a whopper. The difference grew with Ryan becoming more demanding and less reciprocal, thinking I should be grateful to him. While objecting to the gay crack at thirteen, it became more and more apparent, as time passed, he was right about me.
I didn’t simply like touching him, I loved it, and I did it less and less, thinking we’d become close again if I pretended I wasn’t gay. Instead of making things better, it made things even worse. He got mad about me short changing him in an area where I’d given full service for so long.
A chasm had developed between us and it was still widening, but neither of us recognized it. Being with Ryan was no longer the joy it had been all my life. The harder I tried to find a balance between us the angrier he became with me.
I started taking vacations from him, failing to show up at his house the first thing each morning the summer we were fourteen. At first I’d relent and return to my usual routine, but the strain took its toll and had me taking more and more frequent time outs. It took awhile for me to stay away from him for a full week. It was progress, even though my heart ached. I knew we were no longer good for each other.
I had it in mind that he needed me a lot more then I needed him. I disliked the idea of letting him use me, but I hadn’t been able to stay away long enough for him to notice. Toward summer’s end, with lawns to mow, chores to do, and after deciding I needed an identity that wasn’t half Ryan’s, and this was when I lost track of how long it had been since I’d last seen him.
One day I came home after mowing and trimming all day and Ryan was waiting for me in my room. He jumped up and hugged me the way I always hugged him, when I hadn’t seen him in a few days, a few hours sometimes. It was then I first realized that I could life without him, although I didn’t want to.
“How you doing, Do?” he asked, sounding sincere.
“Fine, Rye. I’ve been working all day. I need a shower. How are you anyway?”
“Me? I’m Fine. I just wanted to see how you were. Give me another hug, buddy,” he said, hugging me tight. “I got the feeling you’re pissed off at me. Why don’t you get your shower? I’ll wait. I got something to give you.”
“What?” I asked, pulling off my sweaty shirt and tossing it at my hamper, feeling a familiar warm glow when I looked at him.
“I’m not telling you until you come back. That way you got to come back, huh?”
“Where am I going in a towel?” I asked, kicking off my underwear and wrapping the towel around my waist as I looked at him, looking at me.
“I thought you were pissed off at me,” I said, happy about a side of him that hadn’t surfaced in some time.
The shower cooled me down, especially after I turned off the hot water so the shock of cold would interrupt my persistent erection. I hurried back to Ryan thinking I knew why he came over. With him being so nice I was going to oblige him, not that I minded. Maybe our separation made him understand how much I meant to him.
I vigorously dried my hair as I got back to my room and Ryan promptly pushed me onto the bed. I giggled with anticipation as he came down on top of me. He laughed like he laughed when we were little. He put his head on my chest and grew quiet as he felt my fresh scrubbed skin.
Wrapping my arms around him, I couldn’t resist sharing the affection I felt for him. This was better. I knew in a minute or two he would jump up with an excuse to leave. The intimacy overwhelmed me in the meantime. For nearly a year Ryan had been stingy with moments like this. If there was affection to be shared, lately it was with me down between his naked thighs as he directed me to do what he wanted.
It was rare we came face to face, because this kind of intimacy quickly turned into his aggressive lust. Ryan knew what he liked and wasn’t bashful to tell me. In the beginning, when our exploration of one another’s bodies started, all things were equal. Once I caught up in the maturation process, he became tentative about providing me with the pleasure I gave him.
Ryan developed some desires I didn’t share in the ten months between his entry into puberty and mine. In that time I continue my efforts to satisfy him without realizing he’d crossed a precipice and we ended up on opposite sides without me being notified. This encounter was all the more exciting, because I thought we were back on the same side.
He felt my chest and stomach with a gentle touch that went uninterrupted as my heartbeat quickened. I was so excited I longed for a splash of cold water to slow my overheating. He kept his face turned away, one ear against my chest, as he watched his hand slip down over my now full compliment of pubic hair. He grasped the pulsing gristle that protruded there. I closed my eyes and swooned, praying for it to last a minute more.
Ryan was the only one who could bring me to complete ecstasy and this was no exception. I was taken out of myself. Nothing mattered but my lusty appetite as he worked on me down there. As he squeezed my red hot poker, I moaned, arching my back to thrust against his talented hand.
I could feel my juices rising far too fast, forcing me to bite my tongue in an effort to slow myself down, but I was unable to quiet my hips as they met his slippery fist with regularity. I was throbbing and so hard my dick hurt. I tried to do nothing that pushed me closer to the edge of the end of this magnificent moment, but nothing was going to turn back the force rising within me.
Ryan abruptly stopped. The room grew silent except for my heart pounding in my ears as I searched for enough air to breath. Oh no, this can’t be all.
I hung there on the edge of oblivion. He wasn’t going to leave me like this?
“You’re big as me,” Ryan observed, holding tight.
“Longer than yours,” I said, biting my lip because I knew he’d need to defend his size.
“Not nearly as thick,” Ryan added. I still got you there, Do.”
“Yes, you’re way thicker,” I said gulping air, thankful it didn’t start an argument.
“Long though,” he said, squeezing, while breathing hot air on it.
I shuddered as a hot flash ran through me. I felt his breath blowing over my shaft as his face moved in for a closer exam.
He took my breath away as all of my ability for intelligent thought deserted me. Even with scrapping teeth, a bite now and again, and some rather rough nut squeezes, Ryan took control of me body and soul. He took me somewhere he’d never taken me before.
I’d never totally gotten lost in pleasure the way I became lost to Ryan that day. I was dizzy, my body twitched, and I felt as if I’d just parachuted out of a high flying plane, which left me plunging toward my bed without any idea how to open my chute. The free fall exhilarated me.
I was a suspended apparition disconnected from mortal concerns. I’d never been so far removed from the world I kept a tight grip on. I’d never known Ryan to get lost in an uninhibited display of affection for me. It reinforced all the feelings I felt for him.
I warned him of impending explosions and the mess that might follow. Using his hand to accomplish the rest, my body twisted, churned, and expelled one happy stream after another, until I lie panting and exhausted.
“Damn, Do, you’re hell when you get going. You never did that before,” he laughed as he spoke about my big finish.
I watched to make sure it was him. Then I became fearful it was a dream and I might wake up alone. He lay on top of me and turned his face up toward mine.
“Well? Didn’t you like it?” he asked after a long silence. “I picked it out just for you.”
“Whew! What brought that on?” I asked, still unable to regain full control of my brain.
“I miss you. Couldn’t you tell? I know I’m a butthead sometimes, but I don’t mean to be. I don’t know why I act that way, Do. I don’t know what makes me say the things I say. I think I’m a bad seed.”
“Yeah, but you’ve never missed me enough to do that.”
“My bad. You know I care about you, Do. I wanted to let you know how much. How was it?” he quizzed with an evil smile.
“Whew! You took all the air out of me, Ryan. I’ve never felt like that before. I’ve never felt that… that….. I can’t even describe what I felt.”
“Cool, dude. You described it perfect. I hope that makes up for the way I act sometimes.”
“You don’t have anything to make up for,” I said.
“It’s not the way I expected it would be, Do. I don’t want it to be like this,” he said in a vague malaise of meaningless words that meant he didn’t want to suck cock, be an asshole, or some other obscure notion only he understood.
“Like what?” I asked, concerned about my inability to understand this Ryan.
“Your parents are going to be home in a minute. I better scoot.”
Yanking on my pants, I started to stand so I could walk him to the door, but he came down on top of me, pushing me back on the bed. We locked eyes before he pressed his lips against mine. I forgot what it was I intended to do. I held on tight.
We’d kissed before. It wasn’t a regular part of our activities, but we kissed every once in awhile, but he never let me kiss him the way he kissed me that day.
I was blown away. He was gone before I could get one more of those kisses off him. I was hard again and my belly was caked in a drying remnant of Ryan’s handiwork. I got up to head for the shower once I heard the backdoor close, hesitating at my window, watching him cut across the backyards to his house like he use to do once upon a time.
“I love you,” I said, realizing I couldn’t tell him, not that I understood the words or my feelings for him.
I was delightful at dinner and my parents were baffled, after I’d been moping around for days. I merely wanted to eat and get over to Ryan’s house, where I planned on returning the favor in any form or fashion he wanted.
I’d heard about breaking up and making up, but I’d never imagined what it was like, until Ryan came over to make up with me. It went to the top of my list of best things to ever happen to me. Ryan’s name filled the list of best moments ever in those days.
I was certain we were on our way to happily ever after, but like breaking up and making up, ever after wasn’t a lesson I was ready for yet. I had a lot to learn about being a teenager and more to learn about why other people do what they do. For the moment my life was most excellent and that’s all I cared about.
Ryan’s Back
Diving back into Ryan’s life was normal to me. All was forgotten and I accepted that we were once again the best of friends. Our together time improved beyond my expectation. During the time we’d spent going in different directions, I thought over what Ryan said about me being lucky he let me have my way with him. While accepting being gay wasn’t on my mind, finding a way to stay involved with Ryan was.
I didn’t know if I was lucky or not but I was happy to back in the only routine I knew. We gave ourselves less time to be alone in one of our bedrooms and this kept our minds off the touchy subject of sex, but even this idea got lost in our complete familiarity with one another and for awhile we forgot we’d ever been apart.
There were other timeouts over the next few months but none as long or as earthshaking as the first. It was easy to tell him I had to work or I had been working, but he rarely noticed I was staying away from him because it was too hard for me to stay away from him for more than a couple of days. Ryan’s life simply wasn’t structured to the concept of hours and days.
For a long time after that first breach it was never mentioned. We went back to playing softball, roaming the ancient hills around Statesville, and dodging the security guards at the mall as we annoyed people and made a nuisance of ourselves in ways that seemed fun at the time. We had a new appreciation for one another, or so it seemed, and so I wanted to believe.
First thing each morning, if there wasn’t a lawn to mow, I woke Ryan up the summer I turned fourteen. These were the best times, because he was horny when he first woke up and hadn’t had time to solve the problem. I could tell immediately if something was going to happen because of the frisky way he wrestled me into the bed with him, complaining all the time about being awaken from an absolutely orgy filled dream.
Stripping away his underpants for me to find his “hot rod,” told me what he wanted. Most mornings I knew to avoid making contact with it while he wrestled with the idea of rubbing it against me it ways and places that brought it to the hardest condition it attained, anticipation showing on the shinny head.
With his knees pinning my arms, his balls brushing my neck, I got an up close and personal look at his weapon of choice. If I turned my head to act like I didn’t want to give him what he was after, he’d struggle to get my lips to stay in place.
By this time the covering of skin would be retreating off the plump inflamed head as he was reaching his peak of excitement. His playful laugh and harmless wrestling changed as he decided he couldn’t wait any longer.
“Damn it, Do!” he’d cuss, letting me know the time was right and he was the one who wanted my attention.
Making me give him what I’d been thinking about since I got up wasn’t a certainty in his mind as he worked hard to get my mouth and his dick positioned properly to achieve maximum results. I’d resist for as long as I could but it never took all that much persuasion to get me down on him. By the time he was getting what he wanted, Ryan was ready to give it his best shot. It seemed as if things were only getting better as I learned how to handle the sex deal in a way that didn’t end in argument.
I liked to wrestle with him because it brought us close together and I was able to touch and feel his body as much as I liked under these circumstances. Ryan was growing faster than me and he was taller and heavier by a considerable amount by then. He was physically able of overpower me if he wanted to force the issue, but he never needed to go beyond insisting for me to surrender to his will.
The more we wrestled the more determined he became and the better it was for me. It wasn’t until I had him exactly where I wanted him that I gave in, taking his leaking “hot rod” between my lips. This often took the fight out of him. The pleasure it gave him canceled his aggressive nature.
At times he was rough and more forceful and in a few minutes he was pumping out the lusty load we’d wrestled up. He’d watch his hand pumping out the white liquid onto my chest, grinning, groaning, and grunting as he did so. There were other days he got real still, but never stopped kneeling over my face, letting me suck, lick, and offer the lip service that had him swelling with desire as his groans and gasps gave me some idea of how long I had before meltdown. I was able to forestall the impeding explosion if I used my teeth or squeezed his swinging balls enough to get his mind off of what he was about to do.
Mostly he’d remove his “hot rod” as it went off, but not always. He’d avoided doing things we’d argued about and I no longer insisted that we trade blow for blow and that he should give as good as he got. Knowing how he felt made his attention suspect as forced or unpleasant to him. There were times when he returned the favor without hesitating, which satisfied me in a way I didn’t expect.
When he’d jump up and take a shower, I knew we were done for the day, usually. By the time he dried and got back into his cutoffs, we were planning a stop to raid the kitchen of Cocoa Puffs or Trix if it wasn’t too close to shopping day, when we’d already finished off our favorites.
Armed with our sugar rush, we raced one another to our bicycles and charged into the street to race under the large shady oaks for whatever destination we had in mind. It was usually softball behind our old elementary school first.
We’d been playing there since we were seven and the bigger boys ruled and might include us in the hot games if they were generous that day. Now we were the big boys and we called the shots. As quick as we rode up, I pulled my glove off the handlebars and headed for the shortstop position. Ryan took over the catching chores.
There was no rancor or argument from the smaller kids. It’s simply the way it had always been and still was. The older boys got respect from the younger boys. When the big kids showed up, it was big boys rule.
On the days Bobby Henry came to play, I’d gladly give him his shortstop position, except he played centerfield in softball. He explained the bigger ball made fielding somewhat different and he didn’t want to take a chance it would throw him off his game. I didn’t understand but I was happy to keep playing.
This was my training center. By the time I was eight I was following Bobby Henry to watch what he did. Bobby was the oldest kid who played softball, but he was nice. When I asked him how he did what he did with his glove, he took time to show me. I think he coached me but I thought he was just telling me about what he did.
I was captivated by how Bobby’s long slender body moved after the baseball, keeping most balls hit to the left of second base from reaching the outfield grass in the high school games. I knew he knew what he was doing and I wanted to know more. I don’t know why I felt that way. Maybe because he was nice and took time to talk to me.
I’d known Bobby before he went on to play shortstop at Statesville High. Ryan and I went to watch the high school games sometimes. I went to most of the home games whether or not Ryan went with me. It was the first routine thing I did without Ryan when he didn’t want to go.
One day Bobby saw me in the stands alone and he waved at me. I really felt super by that. When the game was over, he came over to say hello, and then, he invited me down onto the field and introduced me to some of the team.
“This is John Dooley. He’s going to be Statesville shortstop once I’m done here,” he told one of the infielders.
I never forgot how it made me feel. I didn’t think I wanted to play on a team at the time but Bobby thought I was good enough to play. Of course he’d never coached me about hitting, and he was deadly with singles and doubles. He rarely struck out and often walked. I never asked him about batting, but I never missed a chance to watch him bat.
Hitting a softball is one thing and hitting a hardball is totally different. A softball is soft. A hardball is hard. That might sound simplistic, but stand up at the plate one time and let a baseball pitcher throw a fastball at your head. There’s a respect for a hardball you never have for a softball and the brain knows the difference.
A hardball comes at you faster and it might dance for you. A softball isn’t going to get all that fancy with its motion. I could nail a softball pretty good at times, but I was only a fair hitter playing softball behind the elementary school.
Perhaps it was my problem, thinking about it that way, but I didn’t know then that I’d go out for baseball in high school. I guess you never know how things will play out over time, but baseball wasn’t all that important to my future as I saw it at the time. The future for me that summer was what came after our softball game.
Usually it was getting too hot to stand out in the sun by noon no matter if I was mowing or playing ball, so Ryan and I were usually on the way to the mall by that time. Between the two of us we would have enough change to buy a round of soda or ice cream. I worked and always had pocket change. Ryan got an allowance, but I didn’t dole it out without Ryan needing to ante up some days. We knew each other well enough so we didn’t ruffle each other’s feathers over such simple issues of friendship.
It was during one of our visits to the mall that Ryan started to moon over Rachel Horton’s continuing breast enhancement. Along with her expanding breast size, she’d been developing a loyal following among the adolescent boys we knew. I only notice Rachel’s changes when someone like Ryan pointed out her increased wholesomeness.
“Hey, Do, you see the rack on her?”
“She’s got big boobs, Ryan. It’s not a crime,” I reminded him.
“No crime but I’d nail her for it if I got the chance,” Ryan said, laughing his evil little laugh as he leaned to get a better look.
Rachel was always with her girlfriends as the boys followed not too far behind. She had learned how to use makeup and dress in a way that made apparent what the boys came to see. There were rumors she did and Ryan said he would, and I let it pass, figuring he wouldn’t, but it did indicate a subtle change in his style.
It wasn’t long after this conversation that we got a new neighbor. He was more Ryan’s neighbor, moving in across the street from him and two houses down. I was off mowing lawns the morning the moving van was out in front of the Herman house, but the Herman’s had moved at the start of the summer.
Ryan didn’t mention Timmy that day, but I heard all about Bonnie. Bonnie was a year older than us but looked like a woman if I wanted to take Ryan’s word for it. He described her and what she was wearing and then threw in the fact she had a little brother.
When Ryan said her little brother, I understood it to mean little, and Timmy was little, looking eleven or twelve, but it turned out he was two months older than me. The fact Timmy looked young and innocent didn’t make him young and innocent.
The first time I saw him, he was drinking lemonade on the Herman’s big stone front porch. I had walked up to Ryan’s from the lawn I’d mowed a few blocks away. As I turned to go around to the back of his house, he stopped me.
“Hey, Do! Come here,” he called to me.
“Timmy, this is my best bud Do. This is Timmy, Do. You should see his sister.”
“I’ve just seen him,” I said sarcastically. “Give me a minute to catch my breath. Has she changed since last night?” I said, being hot and tired from my morning labors.
“She’s got a rack like Rachel,” Ryan continued without bothering to notice my attitude, or he was ignoring it.
“She’s got a boyfriend.” Timmy revealed the cold hard facts. “He’s in college. He’s nineteen. They’ve been dating awhile.”
“How old is she?” I asked, sensing she was out of Ryan’s league.
“Fifteen,” Timmy said. “She’s ten months older an me. She’ll be sixteen in December.”
“You’re fourteen?” I quizzed, surveying him with a glance, realizing my eyes had deceived me.
“Yeah, I’m a runt. My momma says all her brothers matured late too. Runs in the family.”
“Don’t run in Bonnie’s family,” Ryan said dreamily. “Let’s go over to my room.”
We strolled across the street and went into Ryan’s house through the backdoor, giving us easy access to his room.
“She know any boys around here?” Ryan asked, still working over Bonnie in his mind.
“She’s got a boyfriend. He’s big. You might not want to worry her all that much. She don’t like young mans,” Timmy said with the insult built into the warning.
“Yeah, well, I’m old enough” Ryan said, grabbing his package to emphasis his readiness.
“Just enough for her to rip off,” Timmy said with a certainty. “One of my friends back home got fresh with her and he couldn’t pee for a week once she let loose of him. He never did come over again.”
“Ouch,” Ryan said, feeling the front of his pants tenderly.
“You play softball?” I asked.
“No, didn’t get up in time. You never showed up.”
“Work, my man. I’ve got responsibilities. You ought to try it.”
“Who’d hire me? Besides, I get an allowance.”
“I’m going to have me a car when I’m sixteen,” I bragged.
“Yeah, and I’ll be sitting right beside you.”
“Isn’t that where his girlfriend will be sitting?” Timmy wondered.
“No, Do ain’t got no girl. He’s not the girlfriend type of guy.”
“He’s not!” Timmy said with surprise, looking me over too carefully for my taste.
“Ryan,” I growled.
“Jesus, Do, he’s a little kid. What does he know?”
“You don’t like girls?” Timmy asked with concern in his words.
“Do likes everyone, but especially me,” Ryan said, giving me his evil little grin.
“Ryan,” I growled some more.
“We’re best buds, aren’t we?” he said, sounding hurt by my reaction to his insinuation.
Ryan grinned at me. Timmy looked at Ryan’s face before looking at mine. I could almost see the wheels whirling round and round inside his head.
We didn’t exactly run with a crowd. Ryan and I had been together forever and while at times we played with other guys, it wasn’t a routine. We all went our separate ways once we finished playing ball. Sometimes we roamed the hills with guys we knew and stuck with the same boys at the arcade, but mostly Ryan and I were together. It’s how it had always been. We never needed anyone else.
“Where’s your house?” Timmy asked.
I went to the window with him at my side. I pointed across Ryan’s backyard to the back of the house to the right of Ryan’s room. Timmy followed my finger’s direction before speaking.
“Neat. You can see the back of his house and I can see the front,” he said, seeming pleased by the connection.
Timmy’s move into our neighborhood was a small thing to all those around us. For me it changed the direction of my life completely. I didn’t know it at first, and I didn’t understand it for a long time, but the single link that still held Ryan and me together had been silently severed by a boy who appeared as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
Timmy was way ahead of Ryan or I in experience, coming to our sleepy little hamlet by way of Chicago. At the time he was another kid moving into the neighborhood and I didn’t see beyond the little boy smile.
When I said it was time to leave, Timmy told Ryan he was going to see my house. He followed me through all or part of three backyards and into my house and up to my room. He stood admiring my posters for a few minutes without commenting. Then, he seemed to have a question about my taste.
“Who’s the old dude?”
“Mario Andretti,” I said, knowing he wanted to know more.
“He a fag?”
“What?”
“You don’t like girls. You got some old dudes on your wall. I just wondered.”
“I like girl’s fine. Mario Andretti was one of the greatest race car drivers who ever lived. He won the Indy 500 and the Daytona 500. Two totally different types of race cars. Mario could drive the wheels off anything.”
“Oh! The ball player? Chicago?”
“The C is Cincinnati. It’s Pete Rose. Probably the greatest player who ever played baseball.”
“Never heard of him,” he said.
“He was thrown out of the game for gambling.”
“Gambling what?” Timmy quizzed.
“Money. He bet on almost everything. He got caught and they threw him out of baseball.”
“He got thrown out of baseball for gambling? Why have a poster of a loser?”
“Yeah, tough game. He did things no one ever did in baseball. He was one of the greats. The biggest stars fall. Besides, the poster was only a buck.”
“This is a fag,” he said, staring at the figure in the tiny bathing suit.
“Greatest American diver to ever live. Won the Olympic diving championship in two different Olympics. Hit his head on the board and missed his dive during qualifying in his second Olympics. Knocked him silly. Got stitched up, came back and qualified, won the gold metal for the second time. He’s Greg Louganis.”
“Impressive,” Timmy said, checking out the tiny bathing suit a second and third time. “He ain’t so old.”
There had been other posters that went up and came down over the years, but these were the posters with the most meaning to my life.
He looked at my books next, sitting on my bed. He watched me get ready for the shower I sometimes took at Ryan’s, after early morning mowing services were rendered. Timmy stayed through it all, talking about his sister, her boyfriend, and then, quizzing me about Ryan. He gave me a good going over with his eyes as I grabbed my towel to head for the bathroom.
“I guess I’ll go. Nice room,” he said, seeming satisfied.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t see you out,” I said, raising my arms so he could see I was naked, but he’d checked me over pretty good while I undressed, but he gave me a smile and one more once over with his eyes for the purpose of memory I suppose. He headed for the backdoor.
I walked back to my bedroom window to watch Timmy retrace our path back away from my door. It didn’t mean anything. Of course it was the only way he knew to go, and I watched him go into Ryan’s backdoor. There was no knock, no hesitating, he simply walked in like I’d done a thousand times. Why it bothered me seeing him do it, I don’t know.
Summer was racing to an end and school loomed in the near future. All the lawns I’d been avoiding needed cutting before I was too busy in school to do more than one a day. After three mornings of lawns, I finally managed to pull myself up and dress to head for Ryan’s the first free morning that week.
I raced up the steps with one thing on my mind, and as I pushed the door open, there Timmy sat, watching Ryan’s small black and white television. He glanced in my direction long enough to see who it was and went back to his cartoons.
“He’s a lazybones,” Timmy informed me.
“Yeah, lazy,” I said, looking at Ryan whose swollen brown eyes were open as wide as he could get them at nine in the morning. Ryan shrugged, looking at Timmy as if it wasn’t his idea.
That weekend I was supposed to sleep over and without thinking, I showed up Friday afternoon, once I’d showered and dressed up a little for my first shot at Ryan in way too long. Timmy was lying on his bed when I showed up.
Ryan was sitting beside the bed with his feet propped up on the edge. They both greeted me like we were all old friends, but Timmy was starting to get on my nerves. It came as a surprise that Timmy was staying the night as well, and I realized it wasn’t the first night he’d slept in Ryan’s bed by the way Timmy talked.
Sometime during the night an unusual motion the bed was making woke me.
“That’s it. Yeah, just another minute. Yeah, go down like that.”
Ryan was whispering but I recognized the instructions. Timmy was missing, out of sight, under the sheet, but the motion of the bed said it all. Ryan added his two cents worth.
“Yeah, oh yes. Here it is. Here it comes. Oh yeah, …suck it. …Suck all that shit. …Oh, man, phew! …That was awesome.”
It grew cold for a late summer’s night. Adding it all up wasn’t difficult. A couple of times Timmy said things that indicated he’d be more than happy to give me the same as he gave Ryan, but I wasn’t interested in him and the fact Ryan was made all the difference to me.
There Will Be Change
Timmy got between Ryan and me without any comment from Ryan. While our routine changed, because someone else was always around Ryan, I still did my best to maintain a friendship, thinking in a matter of time Ryan would see that Timmy was only after one thing and our friendship meant more to him than that.
It helped to ease the pain of being excluded, but I’d mostly excluded myself. I didn’t want to be around Timmy, although my hard feelings for him didn’t arise when we met at school. This was about the only time I ran into either of them and then they weren’t together. For quite some time Ryan was still friendly toward me, but the matter of our separation never came up.
After I put out handbills in my neighborhood, my lawn mowing business grew. And since I’d been offering to fix small appliances for the elderly around us, I decided to add that to the handbill. My small appliance customers became customers for my lawn mowing service and visa versa. The workbench in our garage was often covered in toasters, blenders, and coffee makers. A lot of my spare time was consumed with making repairs.
During my freshman year at Statesville High School, I took a bigger interest in the baseball season. I did show up to play softball on Saturday mornings but Bobby Henry rarely came. It was his senior year and he’d devoted all of his time to having a good baseball season. It would be his ticket to State.
As far as I could tell, he was achieving his goal, leading the team in batting average, most singles, and most walks. His glove work was as close to perfect as anyone got. I took a seat behind third base to get the best view of what Bobby did. At times he waved in my direction, and before he got set for the next batter I waved back.
Some afternoons I put off appliance repair and showed up at baseball practice. I met other players and watched what went on behind the scenes. I was fascinated by the games of “pepper”, which consisted of a batter and up to a half dozen fielders. The batter, often Coach Price, sprayed balls to the right, left, and straight at the fielders. They in turn caught the balls, hopefully, tossing them back to the person who was feeding the balls back to the batter.
Mostly I went to baseball practice to watch Bobby Henry bat. When he took his turn in the batting cage, I weaved my fingers through the wire behind the batter. With my face in a position to get an unobstructed view, I memorized his stance, his swing, and his gracefulness. No matter where the ball was pitched, he seemed to have little trouble getting his bat on it.
“You should have gone out for the freshman team,” Bobby said, after walking around the back stop once he’d finished batting.
“Nah, I’ve got to work most afternoons this time of year.”
“You obviously like the game. Playing is a lot more fun than watching.”
“I’ve never thought about joining a team,” I said.
“Think about it. You’re a good fielder.”
“Can’t hit, Bobby. I don’t like hardball that much.”
“You get use to it. No one has good timing the first time he faces that hardball coming at him. You learn to follow it and stay out in front of it. That’s all there is to it,” he advised.
“There’s one more thing. You’ve got to hit it.”
“You learn, Dooley. It takes practice.”
I suppose that was the first time I thought of going out for baseball. It wasn’t a big thought or one I spent much time on, but it did add an option to my uncertain future. It was the following week that I’d stayed for our 3-2 win over Preston High. It was a boring game after the third inning, when we took the lead for good. Bobby started two double plays and he got two singles, but one of his hits batted in the winning run.
After the game, with me being one of the two dozen people who stayed for the last out, Bobby trotted over and called me down on the field.
“You hungry?”
“Always,” I admitted.
“I’m going for pizza with a couple of the guys. You come along. I’ll pick up the tab for you.”
How could I say no? I was flattered and excited by his invitation. I hadn’t had much of a social life since getting up to the high school. We walked toward the high school with most of the team straggled out in front of us. As quick as we passed through the doors into the hallway beside the gym and locker room, Bobby guided me in front of him with his big hand in the middle of my back; the clack, clack, clack of the baseball spikes echoed around us.
When I sat down on the bench next to Bobby’s locker, he said he was going to take a quick shower before we’d join a couple of players who were going with us. I felt a bit uneasy as he undressed. I’d imagined what his body looked like for some time, but I was made uncomfortable by his undressing in front of me.
Bobby was tightly built; a narrow waist gave way to wide shoulders. His legs were thin with muscular thighs to give him added mobility. He had rusty blond hair on his head though his pubes were a shade darker. I tried not to let my eyes linger in all the wrong places, but that didn’t work all that well.
Most of the other players had similar builds with only a couple having signs of extra weight. There was no doubt they were at the peak of physical conditioning. I did want to have that kind of body but I wasn’t sure what it took.
The steam rolled across the ceiling above me as the guys turned up the hot water and the humidity in the locker room began to rise. Having time to check the scenery wasn’t something I’d ordinarily do, but it was difficult to ignore so many naked young men. I sat silently and tried to keep my eyes to myself.
Bobby was walking with another boy, when he came from the showers. I only picked up on the final part of the conversation, but I figured I knew what they were talking about.
“I don’t know if he is or isn’t on the juice, but how do you explain the improvement in his numbers at an age when most guys are starting to fade,” Bobby said to a more husky boy I recognized from the game.
“Well, he’s not the only one on it,” the other boy said.
“I don’t care about who is or isn’t. I have no respect for anyone who taints the game by going on the juice. They discredit all of us if you ask me.”
“I suppose,” the other boy said, turning away.
“Don’t let me ever hear that you’re shooting anything into yourself to improve your performance. It betrays the game. It betrays the history of the game,” he said adamantly, poking his finger at my arm as he spoke and dried himself.
“I would never,” I said. “I don’t even like taking aspirin.”
“Good. I know you’re clean now, but there are guys right here fooling around with that stuff, and we know who they are,” he said with a forceful voice amplifying his words.
It wasn’t a conversation I wanted to be in on. I figured I knew what it was about, but I didn’t want to know who was or wasn’t using illegal drugs. I did understand the purity of the game but I didn’t know what the answer was.
If Bobby noticed me watching him dry off he didn’t mention it. He pulled a fresh white T-shirt from his locker, then put a plaid shirt over it. The shirt had a hint of green that matched his eyes. His blue jeans were faded but cut to show off his body, especially his posterior, which had the jeans looking like a million bucks worth of denim.
Once he’d packed his locker with his baseball gear, he indicated it was time to go. I felt his hand in the middle of my back as we passed the rows of lockers on our way to the locker room entrance. Bobby spoke to a couple of guys and a few of them spoke to him. There was a familiarity between them that I liked.
“Hey, I’ve got to stop by to see the coach for a minute,” he said, as we entered the long hallway that passed all the coaches’ offices.
“Coach Price,” he said, after knocking, and he stuck his head inside. “It’s cool,” he said to me, pushing open the door and waiting for me to enter.
“Henry,” Coach Price said, shaking his hand. “Good game. This the boy you told me about.”
“Yes, sir. John Dooley, Coach Price,” Bobby said, making me feel a bit like going on stage without a script.
“Sit down. We don’t stand on formality here,” he said, as Bobby took the last chair in a row of chairs and I sat next to him and directly across from the coach.
“So, you’re a nifty little fielder, are you?” Coach Price asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I like fielding fine.”
“He’s good coach. He’s fast and has a nose for the ball,” Bobby said, putting his hand on the back of my arm to comfort me, but adding instead to the tension.
“Well, I don’t have that good an eye for baseball talent,” Coach Price lied. “Suppose you come out and do some fielding with my freshman team. Mr. Randolph is the coach but I’ll tell him I want you to get the feel for shortstop. No obligation, understand. We’re fast coming up on the final few weeks and you’ll get enough practice time to see if maybe you’d like to join us next year. If you’re as good as Henry says you are, I’ll want to give you a solid look. What do you think? There’s no obligation here, just a chance for you to meet some of the boys you’d be playing with and you’d learn tips that make you an even better fielder. Might even help you develop your batting.”
“What do you say, Do. I talked you up because you’re good. Why don’t you give it a try.”
We all shook hands and Bobby pushed me out of the office in front of him once we were done. We walked to the backdoors that led out to the parking lot and athletic fields.
“I should have told you, I guess, but I was afraid you’d say no right off, and I’d already told Coach about you. I’ve never recommended anyone before, Dooley.”
“Thanks. I don’t know if I’m good enough,” I hesitated.
“You are, Do. You’re as good as most of the guys on the freshman team. What you need is some experience. Once you get a feel for the game, you’ll love it.”
“I can’t bat,” I said. “I’ve watched you bat and I just can’t bat.”
“I’ll teach you what I know,” he said. “Some guys are never good hitters but their gloves keep them in the game.”
“Okay, if you’ll help me with the hitting part, I’ll turn up at practice to give it a go,” I said, liking the idea of spending more time with him.
That’s how baseball became part of my life. Bobby introduced me to Coach Randolph, who knew I was coming. Coach Price came the first day to watch me with the fielders. I felt like I was on stage again.
Bobby was true to his word; after finishing varsity practice, he’d take me aside to give me batting tips. He pitched, I hit, or did my best to hit, and the backstop stopped most of the balls. He was right about one thing. I lost most of my fear of the baseball.
I never told him that my knees shook every time I faced a pitcher who only threw fastballs. These pitchers never lasted and rarely got far without adding a curve and a slider to their inventory of pitches, but they made me shake as I fully expected to have one of those pitches hit me right between my left eye and ear.
Whatever the fears, Bobby got my full attention. I especially liked it when he took me to the infield with him while someone batted ground balls, line drives, and balls that would most certainly be beyond my reach. Bobby taught me there wasn’t anything beyond my reach, because nothing was beyond his.
As we left the field after a fielding session with him demonstrating most of what he knew, he told me, “It’s all inside here,” he said, pointing at his head. “The fielding, the hitting, and how to use the knowledge to get the best of every player you face.
“Almost every player that comes to bat on the opposition team I’ve faced before. All I need to do is remember the pitches he likes and where they go when he hits that pitch. You simply use the knowledge you gain to beat him the next time you face him.”
“So it’s like having a computer in your head. You just pull up the file of the guy, when he comes to bat?”
“Something like that. It’s true of batting as well. You’ll face the same pitcher several times each season. You’ll remember how he pitches to you and then you go about outsmarting him. He’ll be doing the same thing on his end, trying to outfox you.”
“Cool,” I said, recognizing memory was the great equalizer. “I understand all that, but how’d you learn to move the way you move. You never seem to lose your balance or get grossed up like most players do from time to time. Where’s that come from?”
“Promise not to laugh?”
“Why would I laugh?” I asked.
“Modern Dance. I took dance classes for four years. If nothing else it teaches you to be graceful. I even did some ballet one year.”
“You’re kidding?” I said, surprised.
“Nope.”
“I’ll be. It makes sense.”
The freshman players didn’t necessarily interest me, but Coach Randolph was totally cool because he treated me like I was special. I guess when the big coach brings you a player and tells you to work with him, you assume he knows why he’s doing it.
I was aware of what was going on and why everyone was being nice to me, but I wasn’t certain that once Bobby Henry went on to college, I’d have the same interest in baseball.
Like anything you do, there are some things that grow on you. My reluctance to get caught up in team mentality was another issue that bit the dust once I’d played and practiced with the freshman team. When baseball season ended, I missed playing after school. When I went to Bobby’s graduation, I asked him if he was going to be around to coach me over the summer.
“You’re on your own, Do. I’ve got to be at State for summer practice on Monday. I doubt I’ll be back for more than a couple of days once I’m there.”
“You got the full scholarship?” I asked, certain he did.
“Yep, I got the full ride. Now I’ve got to prove I’m worth it. I’ll be playing against some good players. I might not make the varsity the first year. They have a starting shortstop and he has a backup in case he’s hurt or goes sour. I’m just going to be another freshman.”
“You’ll make it,” I said. “You’re good and you can do it all.”
“We’ll see. There might be other shortstops from out of state I don’t even know about.”
“I’ll be watching for your name in the Gazette,” I said.
“Yeah, and I’ll be coming home from time to time. I might come to see you play, Do.”
“I didn’t say I was going out for baseball,” I said.
“You’re going to make me feel like I wasted my time teaching you what I know? You’ll go out for the team. I’ve seen you play and you love it. That’s why I figured you’d take my place at shortstop on the varsity. You are on top of your game and don’t make many mistakes. That’s quite an accomplishment for a young player. It’s why I took an interest in you. You’re better than I was at your age.”
“You’re just saying that,” I said.
“No, I only saw you play softball, but it was obvious you had a nose for the ball. I figured you’d make a good shortstop.”
“I only played shortstop because you did,” I confessed, feeling a loss as we said goodbye.
“Doesn’t matter why. You know what you’re doing and I’ve taught you all I know about it. Whatever got you playing the game is fine by me.”
“Yeah, well thanks. You’ve got people waiting for you,” I said, and he shook my hand and made his exit.
I didn’t see Bobby Henry again. I joined the baseball team and sat on the varsity bench my sophomore season. A few times Coach Price inserted me into the lineup after the first string shortstop booted a play. The first ball ever hit to me was a slow easy ground ball. It was a piece of cake, or so I thought. I set my feet, got my glove in the proper position, and waited as the ball hit my glove, rolled across the pocket, ran up my arm and bounced off my face and into the outfield grass.
Man was I embarrassed.
“Nice play, Dooley,” Coach Price said of my only chance of the season to field up until then. “You’ll have to show me that one some day.
I’d heard the sarcasm before but he left me in the game. I charged a ball hit off the pitcher’s glove, determined to make the play, and I threw out the runner at first.
“Nice play, Dooley. That’s more like it,” Coach Price said, taking some of the sting out of his original rebuke.
I remembered the scolding long after the picture of my heads-up play faded. I didn’t see any more action until we’d played ourselves out of the league championship. We weren’t going beyond the regular season my first year.
This is when Coach Price started substituting me at shortstop late in games, when my bat didn’t make a lot of difference and my glove did. The first time I came to bat I was petrified of their relief pitcher’s fastball, which was all he threw at me. I stood paralyzed at the plate and walked on four pitches. My knees were still shaking when I got to first base. I was fearful that everyone had seen me shaking, but if they had no one said anything to me.
The coach played me for about half my junior season. I only had one error for the first fifteen games we’d played, but Coach Price pulled me out of the lineup with my pathetic .196 batting average. He started getting me into the game in the fifth or sixth inning each game thereafter, unless the shortstop made the kind of error that drove him crazy, and he’d yell for me to take over at shortstop as he stepped from the dugout to call timeout.
My senior season started the same way the previous season ended. My name appeared as the starting shortstop, and it was scratched through before the game started and another shortstop was inserted.
I was pondering quitting the game since my sophomore year. There was no great desire to spend much of the season riding the bench. Then, after being substituted in the seventh inning of our first home game my senior season, everything changed.
I made an unassisted triple play, and I was in the lineup for the rest of the season. My bat became of secondary importance to my glove for Coach Price. Batting in every game, I did get my batting average up to near respectability as Bobby Henry predicted I would.
With my senior year behind me and no invitation to summer practice at State, I was mowing lawns and saving money to pay my personal expenses at college. It was hot and never-ending work, but it kept me out of trouble, or so I thought. How much trouble could you get into mowing a lawn?
Mowing More
Mowing my neighbor’s lawns hadn’t led to anything more exciting than cool sun tea and fresh baked goods served to keep up my energy. It would have been just as easy for my clients to ignore me as pamper me, but in mid-summer afternoons, after my encounter with Devon, my thoughts were of a more spicy dish.
I’d been mowing lawns for years and the most exciting thing I’d run into was Mr. Marsh’s terrier humping Mrs. Blaney’s cocker spaniel. When I stopped to take a break one afternoon, I’d seen Nancy Macy kissing Dennis Greene in the swing behind her house. I wished I’d been attracted to girls at that age. Though still in elementary school, they held hands as they swung, oblivious to the observer who watched them.
Boys may have been able to love one another as companions and best friends, but romance wasn’t allowed. Even Ryan’s deep desires for another boy’s touch wasn’t accompanied by an affectionate embrace or any need to be emotionally close. He resisted touching me except when it was leading to one of our intimate encounters.
I wondered if I’d ever share tender affection with the man I loved. I questioned if I’d ever have a man to love. I was still waiting for a second guy to come along and take my mind off the emptiness I felt. There wasn’t anyone I’d looked at twice as a potential lover. I wasn’t sure if it was because of how Ryan had treated me or if I really was that hard to please.
While the mowing of lawns didn’t lead to anything exciting in an erotic way, it did lead to odd jobs done for our older neighbors whose kids were far away. They called me when the faucet leaked, the toilet wouldn’t stop running, or when a just-out-of-reach light bulb needed replacing.
I weeded their gardens, trimmed their hedges, and took a stab at repairing their small appliances. It was all routine. Not one cheap thrill to be had in all of Statesville. At least that had been my luck so far. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, but I was certain I’d know it when I saw it, and after all that waiting and wondering, it wasn’t long before I saw it the summer before I left for State.
I was out mowing lawns late in June. The summer heat settled into our valley; it was hot and even more humid than usual. My shirt clung to me as I sweated out the sun tea. I made it to Mr. William’s lawn without going home for lunch. It was too hot to eat and the sooner I was done the sooner I’d be sitting in a tub full of cold water.
There were no great thoughts of discovery in my mind as I rounded the corner of the house to mow the side yard and near about ran into the ladder leaning against the house. I didn’t immediately realize it, but I was in luck. Devon from the next street over was two thirds of the way up the ladder, painting.
Making a quick maneuver around the ladder, I avoided what might have been a nasty accident. I checked back over my shoulder for another look at Devon. Clad only in a pair of seriously cut-off cutoffs, he steadied himself on the ladder and looked back at me.
“Hey, Dooley” he shouted over the noise, “How about a hand?”
I was tempted to applaud, but instead I finished the pass I was making before coming to a halt next to the ladder. I tapped the off switch with my toe and found myself looking up into the leg of his cutoffs. Devon had failed to incorporate underwear into his wardrobe. Socks either, but I wasn’t interested in his feet.
Devon looked down as I looked up. All he could see was I wasn’t wearing a hat. But I was wearing sunglasses, and that furnished me with plenty of opportunity to stare undetected into the shade created by his cutoffs for any points of interest. It wasn’t the kind of thing I looked for but it was the kind of thing I noticed.
“Find what you’re looking for? I can take them off if it’ll help you see better,” Devon said without sounding angry.
It didn’t take long to realize that he didn’t have to see my eyes to know what I was investigating. In other circumstances, it was the kind of thing that could have unnerved me, but Devon and I didn’t exactly travel in the same circles.
Rumors came to mind about how he’d had his way with most of the girls in our neighborhood who could be had. Devon was the little bit bad, little bit dirty boy always on the prowl for available girls who fancied the rumors. I didn’t see it myself, or much else in the shady shorts, but my crotch tightened as I sensed the powerful presence of something just beyond my reach. I wasn’t about to turn my back on the peek show, since this was the best show in town.
A vision of my mother came to mind. She was pointing Devon out to me at the mall the summer I was fourteen. She instructed me never to associate with “that boy.” I wasn’t certain she’d heard the rumors or if it was the rings and the shorts cut off suggestively short so the young girls would giggle when he passed.
My mother was a bit put off by boys with earrings in their ears, so Devon never had a chance with her or me, until that day in Mr. William’s yard. I’d never been so close to forbidden fruit. The air was a might thin up on that ladder as my own shorts became unable to hide what resulted from my keen interest in his shorts.
The rings he wore were the source of much speculation about his weirdness. I was more intrigued by rumors of the ring he had installed in his dick. It made no sense to me that anyone would put one there, but the thought of it both concerned and excited me in some odd way that I tried not to think about. Did he do it himself, or much much more thrilling, did someone do it for him? Were any of the rumors true? Seeing for myself seemed to be a way to satisfy my curiosity and the idea had me blushing as well as throbbing as time stood still.
“After you find what you’re looking for, how about handing me the can the paint if you don’t mind,” Devon requested.
Moving down the ladder, I wiped the sweat off my face so I didn’t drip into the paint bucket before I took it to him, stopping just below his thighs to hand it up.
“Come on, Dooley,” he complained. “Move up behind me so I don’t spill it all over you.”
The maneuver was dicey. He didn’t take the bucket from me until my body was pressed up against his. I was in danger of spilling it on myself as a surge of heat ran up from my crotch and surged out of my face. As he turned to gain control of the paint, our bodies stuck together from our sweat and the heat of the moment. The first chance I got, I began to back down the ladder.
“Not so fast there, speedy. Once I get enough paint in the tray, you’ll be taking what’s left back down.”
I stopped and waited for him to offer me the bucket back. My face came to rest on the back of his leg and my nose was pointed up a few inches under the leg of his shorts. This time his legs were spread with his feet as far apart as the ladder allowed so I could use the space between them.
Now, inches away from the truth, I had a need to know. As he occupied himself with the paint, I positioned myself for easy viewing. There were definite signs of hair and low hanging fruit, which got my undivided attention. The second thing I noticed (on account I couldn’t see the ring in the first place) was the smell, which though mildly apparent before, but now with my nose at the opening of the leg of his shorts, was intoxicating. At first it was a rude distraction from the quest on which I’d embarked, but as my nose got accustomed to the musty smell, I realized the smell belonged to the object my eyes were fixed upon. It got my full attention once my nose adjusted to the fragrance. A powerful tingle took over my body while I was pondering Devon’s many mysteries.
The aroma weakened my body and caused my brain to vapor lock in the heat of the moment. The more deeply I breathed the better I felt about his body odor. I became excited by our proximity and the sight of his nakedness just above me gave me one rude idea after another. Nothing could prevent me from touching his dangling doodads once I felt him pressing the front of his shorts on my hand while I held the latter in front of him.
It was a triple header of thrills. Devon paid me no mind as he leaned forward to slowly pour the tray full. I don’t know how long he held the bucket out for me to take it, but I was preoccupied with everything I had on my plate. It wasn’t until he undulated his hips on my hand that I became alerted to my intoxicated brain.
“You could do me here, but I don’t come easy and I doubt Mr. William’s insurance will cover a sex act on a ladder,” he said casually as he held out the can of paint.
“What?” I asked, looking around his shorts. “Oh,” I said, reaching for the bucket with the hand he wasn’t pressing against.
“You play baseball over at school, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I did. Graduated.”
“I bet those boys don’t bend over in the shower with you around. You don’t pretend you don’t, that’s for sure. No harm in liking what you like, but this ladder ain’t the place and this isn’t the time, Dooley.”
It was a sympathetic scolding, more concerned with timing than substance. It didn’t sink in at the time. I was too captivated to think about what he said. I still hadn’t ruled out reaching out for him, but I knew better. Yet you don’t always know what you know, rubbing against a guy at the same time you’re hanging off a ladder. I’d know more once my feet were back on the ground and his smell was out of my nose. But I wasn’t ready to climb down yet.
“Go for it. I’m in no position to stop you, and besides, it would sure make painting more interesting,” Devon said, painting in careful even strokes, once the paint can was back in my hands. “I’m not wearing it if you want a look at the ring in my dick.”
“Oh,” I responded, embarrassed by my transparency.
He was giving me an out and I didn’t know why. We both knew what was on my mind. It was the first time I hadn’t hid my interests, since my once best friend discovered Lucy and then Bonnie.
“I left the ring out but you can cop a feel if you like. It don’t bother me none. Something to do,” he calculated. “Nothing your buddies ain’t done.”
“What buddies,” I objected, thinking of the lurking nervous twits who frequented the toilets before and after school.
“What buddies?” he repeated. “Timmy and Ryan for starters. You were thick as thieves, weren’t you? They copped a feel. Wanted to see how it worked.”
“Timmy in a heartbeat. Ryan, never,” I objected, having watched our friendship dissolve once Timmy showed up.
“Have it your way. I don’t mind. You guys were tight back when we were young,” he said, including me in a group he didn’t belong to.
“He was my best friend,” I remembered.
“Ryan isn’t after any long term deal with a dude. Once in awhile is more his style. He gets an itch and looks to scratch it. You’d have complicated his life. He’s not beyond curiosity. You’d be surprised at the guys that ask to see it.”
I listened without having any more interest in the conversation. I was never as close to anyone than Ryan, but that time was over.
“Not Ryan,” I objected.
“You do know your men. No, he was careful to encourage Timmy to get it up, but Ryan was anxious to see what happened to the ring as I rose to the occasion. He stood to one side.”
“That’s what I figured,” I said. “He was just curious. Who wouldn’t be,” I said too fast.
“He came back later without Timmy. Ryan didn’t mind asking for a favor. I could dig it, but if I give a favor, I expect one. The intent needs to flow in both directions.”
“He wouldn’t,” I declared, sensing he had no reason to lie.
“No, probably not.”
“We were best friends,” I found myself saying.
“Too close is too close. Don’t ask me to explain it. Boys are filled with contradictions. Just ask me. I am one.”
“But you’re always with girls,” I rationalized. “Ryan is always with a girl.”
“Almost always. Not when I paint. Girls are chocolate ice cream. Man I love chocolate. Chocolate chip, mint chocolate, fudge nut chocolate. Chocolate is the best, but I still like strawberry some days, cookies & cream others. I figured that out by eating ice cream. Once you try it you know what you like best, but you can even get tired of your favorite some days.”
“Man, I don’t know what I like,” I admitted in a moment of clarity.
“No?” he laughed, my face almost pressing against the back of his leg. “You know all right. You just haven’t figured out the best way to ask for a favor. You’ll figure it out in your own time, Dooley. We all do. I just had a hankering to figure it all out when I was way young.”
Devon laughed and I held fast to my spot, once I got another whiff of him. I wanted to do plenty. My mind raced from thoughts of touching him and more, but not on a ladder in Mr. William’s yard. While Devon invited the contact, I didn’t want him to know I would take him up on it, but the spell was about to be broken.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Williams interrupted, turning the corner to interrupt the impulse that was about to take over.
“He’s just getting me the paint bucket,” Devon said in mid-lean as he brushed. “Thanks, dude. You let time run out.”
“Heard the mower quit. Thought you might need gas.”
“No, sir. Just handling him the paint,” I explained as Devon laughed loudly.
I eased myself back onto the grass, unable to keep from taking one last look upward.
“Mrs. put some tea on the table in the kitchen. Don’t you boys get heat stroke out here. It’s a scorcher by golly,” he said, using a handkerchief on his wrinkled forehead. “Devon, thank your daddy for sending you over. Mrs. Won’t let me near the ladder any more. You’re a nice looking lad without all those rings, you know?”
Mr. Williams disappeared and Devon started to laugh again, shaking his head.
“What do you think he’d say if I showed him the one in my dick?”
“He’d freak,” I said, shaking my head as I imagined Devon flipping it out for Mr. William’s benefit. “I’d pay to see that.”
“You’d pay to see that? I’ll be wearing it next time we meet. You can see it or whatever. It’s not a problem for me, dude.”
“Okay,” I said, not sure how to respond to what sounded like a proposition.
I pulled the cord on the mower about ten times before Devon came down the ladder. He squatted next to the engine.
“Hold off a minute,” he said, fiddling with the carburetor.
“Go ahead. Try it again.”
“It’s hot. Vapor lock,” I explained.
“Yeah, try it. I’ll adjust the carburetor to lean the fuel some. It’ll catch in a minute,” he reassured me.
I pulled the cord three times and the lawnmower sputtered, groaned, finally catching as he eased the throttle back up to regular speed. He wiped his hands on his shorts as he stood up and stepped back to give me plenty of room.
“It’ll be fine now. Thanks for the paint, Gotta get back to work,” he said, watching me as I pushed the mower down the side of the house and away from him.
By the time I cut my way back to the ladder he was involved with painting again, paying no attention to my passing as I moved further and further away from the ladder. I looked up each time I was in the vicinity.
The allure had passed but not my curiosity. My brain was still in a quandary over my close encounter. It seemed like everyone in Statesville was getting lucky but me. The routine of following the mower did nothing to pull me back to a comfortable reality. I still had the urge to go back and talk to Devon, but talking wasn’t going to cure what ailed me.
I was drawn to Devon in a way it was impossible to explain or resist. I didn’t know him but I wanted to know him, but not casually. I wanted to know him in a way I’d never known anyone. Devon knew what was on my mind and had no qualm s about expressing his own feelings. He’d only just come alive to me in a way that made me feel better about myself. All the rumors I’d heard about Devon, now made him more desirable to me.
Devon followed his own drummer and stood out doing it. I previously avoided contact with him, while my friends discussed his peculiarities. I was made uneasy by what was said, until the day I cut Mr. William’s lawn. He’d explained himself in a few sentences and I got it.
I was relieved to mow around the back of the house. I lost sight of him and was able to get my mind back on my work. That’s not to say he didn’t cross my mind again, and when he did, I smiled.
Something was about to happen that brought it all into focus, after I’d shut off the mower and was leaning on the back steps enjoying a fresh glass of tea Mrs. Williams brought out for me. Drinking the cool beverage, there wasn’t anything on my mind. There was the tinkle of ice cubes and the cool liquid soothing my parched throat.
Devon reached over the top of the redwood gate to unfasten the latch to come in for tea, I thought. Smiling large when he saw me I surveyed his face, chest, and finally the black fur below his belly button. My mind rushed back over the feelings he had stimulated within me as he came over to where I sat. I waited for him to join me on the steps.
“Got to go, dude. It don’t matter if you like a dude, Dooley, you know,” he said, mussing up my hair as he came to a stop to dispensed his wisdom. “It don’t matter if that dude ain’t me. What matters is how you feel and what you do about it.” His friendly words were filled with assurance. “Later, dude. It’s been nice trading paint with you.” He laughed nice like as he walked away.
“Yeah, real nice,” I said, watching him as he passed back through the gate, leaving me craving more.
For the first time in a long time I felt like I wasn’t alone. I’d known Devon for most of my life, but we’d never talked or ran in the same circles. In a few minutes of conversation I’d changed my mind about him, realizing it was not his loss but mine. He knew what was on my mind and didn’t mind a bit.
How cool was that.
Baseball School
Leaving home and everything I knew behind me wasn’t the piece of cake I’d thought it would be. I was about to walk into a world where I was a total stranger to everyone I encountered. I knew I was a big boy and acquiring knowledge by playing ball didn’t worry me. Being alone worried me, even though I’d been alone in my own world since I gave up on Ryan. Leaving home seemed the only answer, but leaving home created difficulties.
My mother teared up each time we crossed paths my final week in Statesville. She’d then hug me and tell me she knew I was going to be alright. I never had much doubt that I’d be alright until my mother started bawling at the sight of me. Was life really that tough? Were there unknown forces bent on stealing my soul? I wasn’t so sure about what it was that so moved her.
Gradually I collected my favorite clothes and jammed them into one of my two bags, once she’d washed and ironed all of it. There was a new package of socks, a new package of briefs, and a package of white undershirts.
My final night in my own bed wasn’t filled with restful slumber. I tossed and turned and dreamed of horrible things that lurked just beyond Statesville. I finally fell asleep for the last time at about sunrise. When I woke up, I was in the middle of another nightmare. I saw Ryan sitting at the foot of my bed and I put the pillow over my head, waiting for it to pass. This vision wasn’t so easily driven from my room
“I’ve come to say goodbye,” I heard the apparition say in Ryan’s voice.
“What?” I said, still thinking my room would be empty when I was fully awake.
“You heard me. Get up. Your mom is cooking breakfast.”
I pulled the pillow from my head and Ryan was really sitting in my room. I stretched and yawned before I had the energy to throw my legs over the side of my bed.
“What are you doing here?” I asked in my dismissive voice.
“I didn’t want you leaving without clearing the air,” he said.
“How did you know I was leaving today?”
“Our mother’s talk even if we don’t. My mother told me. I came over to thank you,” Ryan said.
“For what?” I asked.
“Well, you were always so bitchy to me. I thought you might tell people about what we used to do.”
“I didn’t and I wouldn’t. That’s between you and me.”
“Yeah, you could have and you didn’t. I wanted to thank you for that.”
“You didn’t know me very well even though we’d been friends all our lives.”
“You knew something about me that could have done me harm. What came before didn’t matter much.”
There were many answers and I could have stretched out our final scene, but it wasn’t going to accomplish anything. He had come to say goodbye and thank me for having some sense. I was always angry around him and the best thing to do was push it aside for the few minutes it took for Ryan to satisfy his need for confession. I used none of his own actions against him and I didn’t question his credentials as a well-functioning straight male.
We shook hands, and he left feeling like we’d resolved something. I was just glad he left. I dressed and went for my final breakfast at home. My mother served me coffee, which she’d been reluctant to do for most of my eighteen years. I ate in silence and with much devotion, understanding the food I’d be getting at State would be fat filled, low nutrition waste products for the most part.
It was an amazingly perfect day. The sun was high with enough clouds to hold down the heat. The temperature was near eighty and there was no sign of autumn in the air. I sat in the backseat watching Statesville disappear behind me. Once we hit the Interstate it was only thirty minutes to the State College exit. In five more minutes we were on the street where my dorm was located.
I had to convince my parents to leave me off with my two bags, so I didn’t need to explain them to anyone. I was going to college and my parents making sure I was comfy in my room was the last thing I needed. They reluctantly said goodbye and drove off with me standing at the curb.
I examined the old brick structure that looked a little like an old brick apartment building. There was one on each side of my building and so on and so forth down the entire block. I was greeted at the door by a friendly fellow who directed me to the office where I’d get my key.
“John Dooley,” a sandy-haired fresh-scrubbed lad said as he looked at his list. “Lucky lad. You are on the top floor.”
“Why lucky?” I asked.
“You’ve never lived in an apartment before.”
“No, I live in a house. I thought these were rooms with a bunk and a few wall plugs.”
“It is, but this is an athletic dorm. Athletes tend to come with great quantities of energy. When you get a half dozen or so romping on the floor above you, it can disrupt your studies.”
“Never had the experience,” I explained without paying much attention to his description.
I climbed the stairs passing a dozen people on my way to the fourth floor. My room was in the middle of the building with a lot of other doors lining the hallway. The room was small with bunk beds taking up all the room behind the door and a space about ten feet wide on the other side of the door. Both mattresses were rolled up and that indicated I was the first getting to my room. It was smaller than my bedroom and it seemed a bit much to ask to have two boys live in that space.
I came to have a better appreciation for the description of apartment living as days passed. I made a point to study at the library, where threatening monitors kept the peace and quiet. I found studying there far easier. The apartment building I lived in was more an asylum for wayward youth. There were mostly Freshman away from home for the first time. I didn’t understand insanity or what motivated it, but it seemed to run rampant around me. My doctor had given me all my shots the week before I departed for State. I hoped there was one to fight off the lunacy that afflicted most of my dorm mates.
My roommate, Big Barn Walkershaw, was a tackle on the freshman football team. He’d commuted from his home for summer practice, not moving into the dorm until school started. His parents figured he should use the time to study that he’d have wasted at home, but I never saw Big with a book, and I had no indication he attended any classes. He loved leaving the door open late into the night. He liked roaming the halls and invading other rooms for chats or to help the more industrious boys who found a way to smuggle beer into the dorm.
It took some adjusting to get used to university living. I knew I’d be able to sleep again some day, but I wasn’t sure when. Night after night I was awakened by the thundering hordes racing up and down outside my door. It was usually after midnight when our senior advisor came in to restore order if he didn’t get offered a beer first. I couldn’t imagine what it was like living on a lower floor.
Early in my residency I got a map of the athletic complex folded into my mailbox with a schedule of meetings and practices. My first meeting with the freshman team gave me a glimpse of my competition. There were a couple of faces I thought I recognized from my high school games, but I wasn’t good with paying attention to who’s who on other teams. We did a lot of fielding the first week. Coach Moore was actively involved with the plays.
In the second week we were organized into teams. It was a loose grouping that had members of one team moving to the other team in the middle of a game and some times in the middle of an inning. There were no winners or losers. We played a few innings, did drills, ran around the immaculate track, which required sneakers. To be caught on the track with spikes was automatic reason to be dropped from the team. Running in sneaks on a track was easier than trying it in spikes, but I imagine there are some boys who aren’t that smart.
The first game of pepper we rotated eleven infielders. When you booted a ball, you sat down, until there was only one boy left, and Coach Moore might or might not recall everyone and start a new game, depending on his mood. I booted a ball right away the first game and felt like a real dope sitting by myself on the bench. It didn’t last long. His line drives and sharp poppers that always seemed to make a bad bounce had everyone sitting down in short order. We were a restless bunch, hoping the pepper game was short and we’d be back in game formation before we were all red faced.
Little was said the first few days. Anyone who booted the ball didn’t need to be scolded. The lonely walk to the bench was a sufficient motivator. It took me until the third week to be the last man standing. The pepper games weren’t all that bad. Harvey Chance was my biggest competition by October. We became the last two standing in most pepper games. Coach Moore went out of his way to give us each the same opportunity to catch or miss a hit. One afternoon we went fifteen minutes, Chance and Dooley, missing nothing hit within our range. I felt like a million bucks.
I was standing out in a way that I expected and Chance wasn’t a bad sort. He laughed when he screwed a catch and lamented the pressure got him. We were in competition with one another and we knew it, although he was a second baseman and I was a shortstop. The competition wasn’t really between us. We were in competition with Coach Moore.
The first lineup for a game with another school’s team had Chance at second and Dooley at shortstop. I was thrilled to see my name in the starting lineup. I didn’t even worry about my bat before the game. I didn’t come to bat until the second inning and the pitcher blew three straight strikes past me. My bat haunted me yet again.
“Dooley,” Coach Moore growled as I returned to the bench. “You got to get it off your shoulder if you want to hit anything. That’s why they call it a bat.”
I was sick. I’d spent several weeks showing him what I had and in one at bat I showed him what I lacked. I felt really bad until I got back to the field, even with my pathetic bat. After the first man walked, I got my glove on a hard hit ball, tossed it to Chance to get the runner before making the throw to first to get the batter there.
“Way to mow ‘em down, Dooley,” Chance said, once we’d sent the ball around the infield for good measure.
“That’s what I’m saying,” Coach Moore yelled, clapping his hands and moving up to the third base line applauding our heads-up play.
I had two more balls hit in my direction and I threw a little wide to first base on one, but the first baseman stretched out to make the play. The other opportunity was a routine play. As we fell behind 3-2 in the fifth inning on three straight singles, my career took another unexpected turn once we got them out.
I knew I was the second man to bat in our half of the inning and I was trying to stay positive about my prospects.
“Corry bat for Dooley. Higgins warm up. You’ll pitch in the sixty.”
That was it. Sit down and shut up. My day was over. I never got accustomed to the ups and downs but I was just as happy not to bat. Of course I’d never learn to bat by sitting on the bench. Corry got a single and Chance hit a homer to put us back in front. It was a team sport and we won and that was important in college. I felt secure with my fielding but my nemesis bat kept me from getting too cocky.
It was mid-October and probably in the high fifties. I almost put an insulated shirt on under my uniform shirt to assure I wouldn’t get cold. Once again we went back to the tried and true. Chance and I were the last men standing in the infield practice game of pepper. Coach Moore drove one ball to my right and the next ball to Chance’s left. It was where we each made most of our plays. After fifteen minutes I was soaked. Each time I caught my breath, the coach drove me far afield, after he’d done the same for Chance. It was all crack of the bat and the sound the ball makes as it hits the soft leather of my glove. By the time I was soaked in sweat the sound of panting accompanied each move we made.
I don’t remember a game of pepper ever lasting so long and Coach Moore wouldn’t trip either of us up to end it. Each hit was fair and we both had an opportunity to get to the ball. Some times it went between us and one of us would say, “I got it,” and playing together meant we knew each other as well as you can expect. I always let up when he said he had it.
Finally Chance booted a ball that was just out of reach. Coach Moore apologized and said it was his fault and not the fault of a fielder. It gave him an opportunity to come out to greet us and tell us how good we looked. I was panting as I walked in to get some water. A heavy-set man was behind the backstop staring out into the infield. He was dressed like a coach complete with a silver whistle. His eyes were on me as I went toward the water fountain.
When I turned away from the water fountain the same man was standing in my path. I showed my surprise finding him in my path.
“You Dooley?” he asked, seeming not to know who I was.
“Yes, sir,” I said, waiting for more.
He turned and walk away, just like that.
“Coach,” I asked later in the practice, “Who was the big guy watching us play pepper.”
“He is the big guy. That’s Coach Bell,” he said.
Coach Bell was the varsity coach. I’d seen pictures of him but none that looked like the guy watching us. My curiosity was getting the best of me.
“Did you tell him who I was?” I asked, expecting he had.
“No, Coach Bell isn’t one to do a lot of talking. I do recall he asked me about you at a meeting a few weeks back.”
“What did he say about me?”
“Nothing at all. He asked if a kid named Dooley showed up. I said you had. That’s all.”
Now my curiosity was working overtime. He’d asked about me and then at the most aggressive game of pepper ever, he just happens to be watching me. How the hell did he know who I was?
“Coach?”
“Yeah, Dooley.”
“The big man shows up and you just happen to run us all over god’s half acre. What was that about? You’ve never kept us out there that long before.”
“Dooley, you have a lot to learn. The big guy comes for a look-see and you give him something to see. I got my best two fielders out there and I’m going to show him what they got. I didn’t do anything different, you two did. Neither one of you gave an inch. I wouldn’t expect any less from either of you, but Coach Bell doesn’t know you from Adam. He’ll remember you and Chance because you’re varsity bound. He is always complaining about his infield. Can’t hurt you none.”
“No, I expect not,” I said thoughtfully.
“Of course he hasn’t come to watch you take batting practice. We need to do some work on it before spring.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, not paying all that much attention.
That was my big moment. Autumn practice ran into cold weather. We met in the gym twice a week for exercise and conditioning. I was doing fine with my classes and I’d grown accustomed to the noise where I lived. It wasn’t the perfect start to my college baseball career, but I felt pretty good about it.
When I decided to go looking for Bobby Henry, I ran into Coach Bell near his office.
“Coach Bell, I’ve been meaning to look up Bobby Henry. Do you know where I can find him?”
“You’re John Dooley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You play shortstop.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I went to school with Coach Price. He told me you were a Nifty fielder.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, not wanting to sound dopey.
“You just missed him?”
“Pardon?”
“Henry? You just missed him. He put his name in the draft. He’s in Tulsa waiting for the season to start. You got some big shoes to fill, son. Bobby Henry had it all. I was sorry to lose him, but he wasn’t going to get any better playing college ball. You think there’s things you still need to learn, son, or are you ready for the Bigs?”
“The Big Leagues. I don’t think so. I got a lot to learn.”
“Well, at least you know it. That’s a start,” he said, turning to walk away and hesitating to dispense some wisdom. “When the season starts, get a local paper and check the Tulsa box-score. Henry’s name will be there. I’d bet on it. Big shoes, Dooley, awful big shoes to fill.”
“He’s why I started playing ball,” I said as he walked away.
He put one big hand in the air and waved to indicate he’d heard what I said.
I didn’t know what to make of it. I liked that I met him and he knew me. I didn’t like that he knew me without me knowing why he knew me. He said he went to school with Coach Price. Maybe that’s all there was to it.
Homesick
College was a bold new experience. State was far enough from Statesville that I had to live at the dorm. Unlike most of my counterparts, I didn’t want a car, trips home, or anything to distract me from campus life. The problem came once I got there and realized my predictable environment had been replaced by something less organized, mainly because it depended on me to get things done.
By November fall practice was over. The coaches had taken a look-see at what they had to work with and we’d seen our competition. If fielding was the most important thing to Coach Moore, I’d get a spot on his freshman squad. If hitting was what he was looking for, I might be on my way back to Statesville for good.
In the half dozen games with nearby schools, I’d walked twice, got two hits, and mostly struck out with the bat’s never leaving my shoulder. When I thought about hitting, I still thought it would be what finished me off. I’d listened. I’d watched. I’d talked to guys like Chance to get batting tips, but none of it took. Once I was standing at the plate, staring out at the pitcher who was staring back at me, my focus broke, and no matter what he threw, I wasn’t ready for it.
By the time there were only studies to occupy my time, I felt alone and isolated in a chaotic dorm that made studying in my room more and more difficult. With Big being your basic slob, having never once in his life put away anything he owned, the entire room was awash in dirty clothes, clean clothes, and stuff he needed to pacify his over-inflated sense of being.
I could have made it an issue, constantly arguing with him, but I didn’t want to be that intimate with him. If his parents hadn’t been able to tame him in eighteen years, what chance did I have in a few months?
My parents asked me to come home for Thanksgiving, but I didn’t want to let them know I was homesick and wondering if baseball was really the ticket to higher education. I could have asked for a car and lived at home, but during baseball season I’d have had to leave home before six in the morning and wouldn’t have gotten back until after midnight on days we had late games. No, if I was going to play ball I needed to adapt, so I simply told them I had to live on campus so I could study. They sounded disappointed, because I’d never been away from them for that long before.
The day before Thanksgiving I climbed aboard the afternoon bus to Statesville and felt no excitement about going home, because as wonderful as it would be to sleep in my own bed and to hear silence again, it wasn’t what I wanted to do. I guess I had to go home to gain some perspective on what I was doing and why.
I walked with my bag the two miles to the house and I knocked on the front door before opening it.
“It’s me,” I yelled, and my mother was upon me, kissing me and hugging me the way I had always hated but strangely appreciated after so long with no personal interaction with anyone.
My father waited and shoved out his hand for a good shaking, and then he hugged me against his ample chest, tearing up the way he did when there was a happy surprise.
“Well, come on, honey. I’ll warm up some supper for you. You must be hungry. Did you bring your laundry?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, thinking I had my nerve, and not realizing she expected I brought a bag because it was jammed with the T-shirts, shorts, and sweat clothes I wore day in and day out at school.
“I would have driven out to pick you up, John. Why didn’t you call?”
“Oh, I wanted it to be a surprise,” I lied.
“Your mother said to me last night, do you think John will come home?”
“I told her you were having too much fun to worry about having Thanksgiving with your parents. How’s ball?”
“Good! Fine! I only see the guys at gym. Fall practice ended about the time it got cold. Our coaches make certain we get plenty of exercise in gym class.”
I walked to the fridge and swung open the door to get some cold refreshing milk. There on the top shelf was some lump covered with plastic wrap and seasoning visible under the covering.
“Mom, what’s this?” I complained like a ten year old.
“It’s a turkey breast, dear. For Thanksgiving.”
“Mom,” I complained, “It isn’t a turkey. I came home for a turkey dinner.”
“Yes, I know. Your father will go out and find one. It can’t be frozen, I’ll never get it thawed in time. Try Leonard’s butcher. He might be open and if he’s not, that little butcher shop over by the old highway. They live above the store. Pay them whatever they want to open up if they’ve closed,” my mother directed my father as he left, while I was digging into the leftovers of their dinner.
“Ooh wow, this is good,” I said, remembering the cardboard and plastic foods I got at school, except when I walked down to the highway and got greasy burgers and fries.
“Glad you’re going to eat it. With all the leftovers from Thanksgiving, I’ll never be able to use it all.”
“Make me some turkey sandwiches for when I go back.”
“We’ll need to take you Sunday early. Your father works Monday. It’ll give you a little time to relax, but you must eat those sandwiches pretty fast or they’ll spoil if you don’t have any refrigeration.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, figuring that would take no effort and for a few days I could have real food.
The ride back to school was quiet. They didn’t want to see me go and I didn’t want to return to school, so we were all going against what we wanted. When they delivered me to my dorm, I hugged my mother from the backseat of the car and shook my father’s hand, carrying my fresh clean clothes and bag of ten turkey sandwiches.
I swung open the door to my dorm room, thinking Big would be sitting there expanding off one of the two chairs in the room, but the room was empty. The smell of his clothes permeated everything. I kicked them out of my way as I moved to put my clothes away.
It was quiet and I started in on the turkey sandwiches with dressing, cranberry sauce, and Miracle Whip. The only miracle being how I managed to get it on the book I was reading, the shirt I was wearing, and even some decorating my blanket. I somehow got it off with out ruining anything to the point it was useless, then reached for my second sandwich. I’d had a big breakfast but it was two hours between then and when I started in on my rations.
Big returned that evening, howling like a banshee after swinging open the door, which wasn’t unusual for him.
“Mom, I’m home,” he yelled, laughing large and looking at me like he could not believe I was reading a book.
By nine o’clock the entire dorm was back to being filled with people, noise, and annoyance. I once more wondered if this was the way I really wanted to spend four years of my life. The answer was a resounding no, but I had to finish the school year and consider my options.
I had eaten seven turkey sandwiches by the next afternoon. Then my mother’s warning about the Miracle Whip spoiling had me thinking twice, and I closed the bag and set it at the back of my desk to throw out the first chance I got.
Big came in screaming on Thursday afternoon. He tossed the one book he sometimes carried at his desk and slapped my back before asking, “How’s it hanging there Do, buddy.”
“Fine,” I answered as he leaned to look at what I was writing.
“You boys on the baseball squad write your own papers?” he asked, mortified by the prospects.
“You don’t?” I asked, having never seen him put pen to paper.
“I’m a football star,” he answered. “Besides, they couldn’t read nothin’ I wrote.”
“Yeah,” I said thoughtfully as I recognized his girth.
“What you got there in that bag, Do? You ain’t holding out on your roomy, now are you? That ain’t food is it?” he asked, snatching the bag from where I had stored it.
“Man oh man, can I have one,” he said, pulling one of the overstuffed sandwiches from the bag. “Turkey! My absolute favorite,” he said, unwrapping the top sandwich and smelling deep, which I was certain would warn him of potential danger.
“I wouldn’t….”
“Please, Do. I’m starved. Just one. You got three.”
I reconsidered the warning I was about to give him and contemplated him on his knees barfing his well-camouflaged brains out.
“You can have them all,” I said happily about the nearly five day old sandwiches.
“Oh man, I’ll never forget you for this,” he said, dropping into his too small chair.
As he literally stuffed the first sandwich into his mouth, he chewed to make room for more as he pressed the backside of the sandwich to keep it moving into the gapping hole in his face. Dressing, cranberry sauce, and Miracle whip oozed out onto his face and down his shirt into his lap. He reached for sandwich two and then three, consuming them all in little more than a couple of minutes. He wiped his well-greased mouth on his shirt sleeve, which now had the same red hue as the front of it and his sweat pants. A matched set of sweats, I thought. Let the barfing begin.
Big was fine and never so much as came up with an errant belch, which was his favorite activity when he was bored. I felt like I was going to get sick myself, thinking about his eating habits.
Life never improved that first semester. I ran across Chance twice, he grabbed my hand, pumping furiously and giving me that big toothy smile. He always acted so happy when we ran across one another, but I felt nothing at all, except I had a friendly face to look into for the few minutes we’d stand and chat.
The dorm wasn’t a hostile place. It simply lacked any sign of civilization. Our senior resident rarely said anything about anything anyone did. I supposed by the time you became a senior the chaos was merely a reality of campus living. I was certain if I stayed to be a senior, I’d be as crazy as a church house mouse.
Christmas was grand. I was home for more than three weeks. The new semester didn’t start until the 5th of January and I mostly slept. I was comfortable with my grades, which came out to a 3.4 and assured ineligibility wouldn’t come because of my grades. I laid in bed most mornings, basking in the quiet of my house, wondering if murdering Big would make me ineligible to play baseball. I even had a plan. I’d buy a box of rat poison and liberally sprinkle it on the sandwiches my mother made for me, and leave them in a bag on my desk. I could say I had seen mice and I’d set the sandwiches out for the mice to eat, but alas, my beloved roommate had fought the mouse and consumed the poison I intended for a smaller rat. What’s the worst I could get, negligent homicide. I could say I never intended for him to get the sandwich. They’d look at my history and deduce there was no sign of homicidal tendencies in my family, but there was a history of gluttony in Big’s.
I left home with the bag of sandwiches, but without the rat poison. I’d need to hope he was hit by a bus or maybe a really unexpected heart attack from the massive body he toted around with him, but the gods were not smiling on me and Big was bigger and noisier than ever, but only a little more obnoxious.
As the days passed, I showed up twice a week for conditioning exercises and kept up in all my important classes. I didn’t consider my A’s in gym a factor, but they raised my grade point average so they were in the stratosphere compared with many of my fellow athletes. I was only playing ball to go to school and not as a road to my future.
Spring practice started indoors with more conditioning. It took a week of daily exercising for my body to get with the program. We ran laps and used the batting cage, set up with an automated pitching machine to start working on our timing and swing.
The pitching machine wasn’t nearly as intimidating as the human pitchers. The rare mis-pitch usually meant it failed to deliver a ball as it’s arm came forward, but there were no pitches at my head or body to force me back off the plate. I didn’t find it easier to get my bat off my shoulder, but there were no hits, just contact and the ball’s bouncing around in the net enclosure where the batter and machine faced off.
Chance was always smiling, always nearby, delighted to be back with his team. He was a leader and the type of guy a coach knew he could depend upon. It was a pleasant change from my off-season life. I was happy to be back with boys I had some knowledge of but didn’t know.
I was considered important to the team because of my glove. I didn’t feel important, but Chance never missed a chance to tell me, “you got one hell of a glove on you, Do.”
I always blushed at times like that. Chance was the entire package, and if I was a better fielder than he was, it was by such a small measure that a coach would never put me in a game if Chance was waiting to play.
These were contradictions I didn’t understand, because I wasn’t a coach and each coach valued something different. Fielding was certainly an important part of the game, but if you didn’t hit for a reasonable average, which was a different number existing inside each coach’s head, you were in trouble.
I was on the freshman team, which wasn’t there to win games. We were there to learn and to practice in the hope we’d go varsity as a sophomore or junior. Seniors going varsity were toast. One year playing real ball wasn’t enough to get a scout out to scout you. Two years on the varsity would get you a look see, and three varsity years might get you a scout who kept coming back to look at your play.
I was as ready as I was ever going to be.
Our varsity had played six games by the time we were playing our third. Freshman teams didn’t travel long distances with the varsity, but a short trip did allow a half dozen freshman teams to play one another. With six teams in our vicinity, our games were played against teams we played often. I’d started two of the three games but warmed the bench our third game of the season.
We could hear the applause and reactions of the crowd watching the varsity game, and I wondered what it would be like having a college crowd behind you. I wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on, because I wouldn’t do any pinch-hitting if Coach Moore was smart.
I heard coach Bell’s voice, recognizing it from our conversation a few months earlier. He stood at the corner of our bench talking to our coach. Coach Moore stood up and walked the length of the bench to where I sat.
“Dooley, go with Coach Bell. His shortstop just sprained his ankle and his backup is ineligible. He wants you. And swing at the damn ball if you come to bat.”
Coach Bell nodded at me as I approached.
“Did he tell you what I need?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, forgetting about the bench I was warming.
He kept his hand on my shoulder as we walked toward the stadium. I was in shock that he called on me. I didn’t have time to worry about all the stuff I worried about in every game.
“Sit down,” Coach Bell said as he stood up to watch his batter swing and miss a third strike pitch. “Go on. That’s out number three. You’re my shortstop. Do what you do. I don’t want to need to tell you what out it is again,” he said, firmly but with no hostility.
I trotted on the field and smelled the fresh mowed grass and the lime used to mark out the playing field. There was applause and maybe a couple of thousand people watching the game. I forgot everything I knew. I swallowed hard as the applause greeted the players taking the field.
Before I knew what was going on the ball came whizzing at me as the infielders moved the ball around to warm up for the first batter. It hit the palm of my glove and plopped out at my feet.
“Shit!” I said, grabbing the ball angrily and blasting at the third baseman and the ball made a loud sound as it hit the padding in his glove.
“Lighten up,” he yelled at me, after throwing to the catcher, who let the ball squirt over at Coach Bell’s feet.
Coach Bell had turned his back in response to my dropping the ball and it was still turned as the first batter came up to the plate.
Can You Hit?
I got out of my first inning of varsity baseball without needing to make a play. I was relieved until I got to the bench.
“Can you field, Dooley?” Coach Bell asked.
“Yes, sir,” I said with confidence.
“Can you hit, Dooley?”
“No, sir,” I said with equal enthusiasm, never considering yes to be the right answer.
He looked away from me and down the bench before he broke out laughing. He’d seen me bat, so that came to mind.
“I found me an honest man. Well, Dooley, don’t worry about your hitting the ball. When you get to the plate, you look at me, and when you see my face, remember, if the bat is on your shoulder you can’t possibly hit the ball. Get the bat off your shoulder. That’s it,” he confirmed.
“What’s it? What do I do?” I said, because I was sure I missed something.
“Swing at every pitch. I don’t care if it’s over your head. I want you to swing every time the ball is pitched to you. Look at my face before you step into the batter’s box, then swing at the pitch.”
“What about hitting?” I asked, thinking I needed more information than he was dispensing.
“We’ll work on that later. First we need to get the bat off your shoulder.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, having no understanding of where he was coming from.
We were back on the field before I could relax on the bench. I didn’t know anyone on varsity. It was at these times I thought of Bobby Henry and how I’d love for him to be there to keep me from feeling alone. I could ask him what the coach wanted.
Their first batter hit a bouncing ball into short centerfield. He stopped at first base. I didn’t even know the score and it was no time to start looking around. I was nervous enough already. All I wanted was to not screw up. How come it is, when you are telling yourself not to screw up, you always find a way?
The second batter hit the ball right to me on a single hop. I positioned my glove properly, kept my eye on the ball. There was no reason I didn’t immediately reach into my glove, retrieve the ball and make the easy out at second, which would have been the start of a routine double play. Except the ball hit the padding in my glove down near my wrist and bounced off the webbing, falling between my feet.
I was lucky, in that I didn’t boot the ball out of my reach, and I grabbed it as fast as I could and threw to second, never even looking toward first. With his foot on the bag the second baseman fired to first, but the runner had already crossed the bag.
Then I heard the coach’s voice breaking into my funk.
“Nice recovery, Dooley.”
I glanced at Coach Bell, who stood out in front of the bench clapping his encouragement directly at me.
“Okay, okay, you got the front man. We’re okay,” he shouted toward me as the second baseman gave me less than a happy-camper look.
I didn’t get the error, but there was only one out instead of two and there was still a man on first. The next batter hit it right back to the pitcher on the fly and we had two outs. The next batter hit a lazy fly to centerfield and we were out of the inning. My muffed play hadn’t cost us any runs.
“Okay, Dooley,” Coach Bell said as I returned. “Nice recovery. Way to keep your head. Now, pick out a bat and make sure it isn’t bigger than you are. You don’t need big lumber, son. You remember what I told you to do?”
“Yes, sir. Look at you and swing the bat. When do I bat?” I asked, still not knowing the score.
Our first batter hit an easy ground ball and was being thrown out as I took a bat from the rack.
“No time for warming up. It’s your turn at the plate. Remember what I said,” he said, as I jogged toward the plate trying not to throw up.
I forgot to look at Coach Bell before the first pitch, but I remembered to swing the bat, even if I never came close to making contact with the ball. I looked at him and he was applauding my wild swing and I figured he knew what I was doing even if I didn’t.
I swung at the next pitch without coming any closer to the ball and Coach was still applauding me. The third pitch was low and outside and I couldn’t have reached it if my bat was a foot longer, but I swung anyway, and when I looked, Coach Bell was applauding my strikeout. I returned to the bench knowing a little more about how a fool felt.
“Okay, that’s it. Every time you bat, you swing no matter where the ball goes. Got it?”
“Yes, sir, I think so,” I said, still in the dark.
I got one more chance to field the ball and I threw the runner out at first. When the game was over, Coach Bell told me to return to Coach Moore and tell him he was done with me for the time being. I returned alone to the freshman game, but no one was there. The game was over and the scoreboard had been cleared of numbers. I’d had a perfect day. I played in two games and I never knew the final score of either. I was simply glad the day was over. Oh well, I did make the varsity for an hour my first season at Statesville, but my association with the varsity hadn’t ended completely.
It wasn’t very long before I saw Coach Bell talking to Coach Moore near the batting cage. Coach Moore yelled for me to take a turn in the batting cage. When I came to take my swings, Coach Bell stood right behind the batting cage. When I glanced at him, he nodded, and I knew what he expected.
I swung at every pitch that damn machine mustered up and I got a piece of my bat on a couple balls, but had it been a pitcher and I was up to bat, the balls I hit wouldn’t have made it back to the pitchers mound. When I walked away from the plate, I glanced to see what Coach Bell was doing, but he wasn’t doing anything, or at least he wasn’t doing it with us. Coach Moore had disappeared with him. I shrugged and didn’t think much about it when I saw none of the players had paid any attention to what I was doing either.
One day we were in the middle of a fielding drill and Coach Bell was back, watching Chance and Dooley as they covered much of the infield with their play. I liked showing off something I was good at doing, but I knew Coach Bell wanted Chance first, because he could hit a ton and was nearly as fleet on his feet as me, but that showed what I knew.
Something about making a fool of myself swinging at pitches no batter should ever swing at had me taking far more pride in what I could do well. Being watched no longer made me nervous and it probably taught me to sharpen my focus so I didn’t muff ground balls hit right to me at any time. It no longer got me much praise, because I was expected to perform when I took the field.
Everything moved fast at State, everything except me. Classes were hectic. Practice swirled on around me much of the time. Taking a job at the Pizza Palace gave new meaning to chaos. The guy that managed the place was a year older than I was, but he fancied himself the master of his pizza kingdom. The twelve of us working under him on his shift didn’t see it that way. It made for some interesting working conditions.
It was the first time I’d worked inside and the confinement caused the pressure to grow. The pressure on me from playing baseball made the pizza joint a piece of cake. What was fun to watch was the way people went out of their way to complicate each other’s life. The workers would purposely do something that reflected poorly on the manager and in turn the manager would retaliate, making conditions unbearable for his workers.
I stood my ground and took the pizza out of the oven when it was time. It was a hot sweaty job that didn’t allow for socializing if you valued your extremities. Besides, most people moved too fast to get to know anyone. After seeing them in action, I stayed at my station, watching the pizza wars and the clock. I was always happiest when my four-hour shift ended.
Baseball offered me a holiday from the mundane, except there was a certain routine you became accustomed to. Everything was organized in the same way each day. When you weren’t to be at point A you were to be at point B.
The batting cage continued to frustrate me. No matter the coach, the results were the same. I sweat a lot in the batting cage, maybe more than at the Pizza Palace, but when I got out in the field, I was ready to play baseball. The idea that a shortstop who couldn’t hit wasn’t going very far no matter how good a fielder he was had come home to me more than once.
I noticed Coach Bell a few more times. He kept a close eye on his prospects, but he had no more words of wisdom when it came to my bat. He never spoke to me when he was on or near the freshman field and I didn’t approach him.
Out of sight, out of mind, was my philosophy. I hadn’t been cut yet, and maybe I’d make it to year two. I was certainly not going to make enough money at the Pizza Palace to pay for a year at State. I took extra batting practice whenever there was no one around, after the grounds keeper showed me how to load and turn on the pitching machine. It wasn’t much different than a lawn mower, except in place of grass hurling at you, you got baseballs.
During practice one day, Coach Bell brought me Andy Warren. Andy was rangy with arms and legs that seemed a bit too long. He was amiable and soft spoken and he seemed anxious to do anything Coach Bell asked of him.
“Andy, this is Dooley. What’s your first name, Dooley?” Coach Bell asked me.
“John,” I said.
“That’s no good. I’ve got two coaches named John and one of my players. He’s Dooley, Okay?” he said to Andy.
“Dooley,” Andy said in a deep voice that didn’t fit his appearance.
After we all stood there silent for a few seconds, I figured it must be my turn to talk since no one else was.
“I don’t understand what you want,” I said, looking from Andy to Coach Bell.
“No, you wouldn’t. I haven’t told you what I want yet,” Coach Bell said, seeming unsure himself.
Coach Bell wasn’t a man you could rush.
“Yes, sir,” I said, waiting.
“You two are a matched set. I brought him over here to…. He can’t catch a ball and I need someone to work with him who won’t do him more harm than good,” Coach Bell explained. “You’re it. You can’t let him frustrate you and you can’t yell at him. He is sensitive,” Coach Bell said, sounding like the word was hard to get out. “Can you do that, Dooley? Work with him without yelling at him? My coaches can’t and he’s worth making an extra effort if I can make an adequate fielder out of him.”
“Sure, Coach. How much time with him and how much time with the freshman team? For me I mean? I don’t want to piss off Coach Moore.”
“He’s yours, except varsity game days. He needs to be with the varsity when we play our games. The rest of the time he’s your shadow at practice every day. Include him in your drills but first let him watch you and Chance work together so he has some ida of what I expect of him.”
“Yes, sir. Can you tell me a little more so I have something to go on. I want to do the job right.”
I always felt like Coach Bell left things out, and it wouldn’t have bothered me all that much, except the thing he always left out was the reason why. If he couldn’t field, what did he do that Coach Bell couldn’t do without on game days?
“That covers a lot of ground, Coach,” I tried again as he stood fast and silent.
“I told you, he’s sensitive. Take a lap, Andy.”
“Yes, sir,” Andy said, starting off toward the right and then changing his mind and running past us to the left. I was beginning to get the picture. How much of my career was resting on this little favor? Why me?
Coach followed him with his eyes and he spoke with clarity. “He can’t field, Dooley. I got him in left field. Hell, my centerfielder can practically cover the entire outfield, but when a ball is hit right at the kid, once, two, three times a game, it’s goodnight Irene. He moves under the ball like it might explode. It bounces off his arm, his chest, and in last week’s game, the ball bounced off the kids head. I need someone with a glove and a soft touch to help him. I’ve been thinking about this all season and well, you’re the guy that can do the trick.”
“I hope so, Coach. I’ll do my best. I will. Just him seeing your moves can’t hurt, but you raise voice and he’s no good for the rest of the day. He’s like a whipped puppy. My coaches are pulling their hair out. I’d be pulling mine out if it hadn’t fallen out years ago.”
“Do I need to run another lap?” Andy asked enthusiastically..
“No, go tell Coach Moore to get you a pitcher. Tell him I want Simpson. You’ll bat next. Maybe give me ten to fifteen pitches.”
“Yes, sir,” Andy said, jogging toward home plate.
“Hey, you two,” Coach Bell yelled out into centerfield. “You pitchers?”
The boys nodded as they tossed a ball back and forth at a leisurely rate.
“Good, since you got nothing to do, go out the gate and stand outside the fence for a few minutes. Just do what comes natural.”
They looked at Coach Bell like they weren’t sure what he wanted, but they opened the gate and walked out behind the chain link fence near centerfield.
“Simpson’s best pitch is outside and high on his fastball and down and away on his curve. Andy’s reach exceeds most of my hitters. He lives to face a pitcher who pitches him outside. A good outside pitcher, once you’ve hit him, has a tendency to go further outside. It’s the wrong move against this kid. If they pitch him inside, he lets them hit him. It’s as good as a hit. Once you hit him, he crowds the plate even more, forcing the pitcher to pitch him outside. Watch his swing. He might teach you something.”
Andy batted right and stood at the plate swinging the bat. He moved up to the plate when the pitcher said he was warmed up. The first pitch was shoulder high on the outside of the plate. The bat hitting the ball made a sound my bat never made. Coach Bell and I looked up as the ball sailed over our heads as it gained altitude, going over the fence in left centerfield. Before we turned around there was a second crack and another ball went out of the freshman field.
Simpson knew he was being watched by the big guy and he reached back for his fastest fastball. Andy hit this pitch up against the fence on one bounce. As Simpson regrouped with his curveball, Andy hit two in a row over the fence.
Coach Bell said, “Don’t you hit him.”
His voice wasn’t raised at all, but Simpson turned and looked at us. His usual confidence was shaken as he nodded to let Coach Bell he understood.
“Give him two more strikes and I’ll be done with you for today,” Coach Bell said to let Simpson know the game plan.
“Okay, Andy, that’s enough,” Coach said, after two more towering fly balls.
I watched his swing and recognized it from old film I’d watched on the best hitters to ever play the game. Andy’s swing was fluid and when he took a full cut at the ball, he rocked back on his heels. I didn’t know who swung like that but I’d seen his swing before and could only hope to learn something from him.
“You two boys were made for each other. If he can show you anything about hitting it’s a match made in heaven. Do me proud, Dooley. And don’t yell at the kid.”
“I won’t,” I said, as Coach Bell walked off raising his one hand up to wave that he’d heard but he wasn’t turning around.
My heart was pounding. If he could teach me to hit how cool was that? Andy seemed like the answer to my problem and I was his.”
Once Coach Bell left the field, Andy came out to where I was still calculating my future.
“What do I do?”
“Well, let’s play catch,” I said, suddenly faced with needing some kind of plan.
We tossed the ball back and forth and he caught it every time I threw it to him. He held the glove right and he didn’t seem all that awkward to me. I couldn’t put my finger on anything and I figured we’d make a plan as we went along.
Andy was friendly. He smiled and thanked me several times for putting up with him.
“What do you think the problem is?” I asked, figuring he might have an idea.
“I don’t know. I hit okay but being out in the field is boring. I don’t get many chances to catch anything. Maybe I need more practice.”
“What happens when you do get a chance to catch something?”
“I guess I’m awkward. I can’t make up my mind what to do or how to play the ball. I mean throwing it back and forth is easy. I know it’s coming and I’m waiting for it and I throw it back. You never know when they’ll hit it your way when you’re in the outfield.”
“No, but it shouldn’t be that much different. I mean they hit the ball, it’s in the air, it’s hit into your part of the field, you know it’s coming, why not just pretend you’re playing catch and someone just threw the ball at you?”
He thought about it some and couldn’t say what the difference was. It was worth a shot but he didn’t know any more than Coach Bell knew about the reason behind his fielding lapses.
I decided to hit the ball to him and see if that changed his reactions to the ball, but it didn’t and after five minutes, Chance, Morgan, and Wertz were crowding Andy out, as each tried to make the play on every ball I hit.
That didn’t work.
I decided to take a break and get some water and I took Andy with me. After a couple of cups of water, I turned to find Chance and Wertz grilling Andy about his swing. They each stood in every possible position around him as they watched his wide stance, squared shoulders, and slight uppercut swing that pushed him back on his heels as the bat finished its journey around behind him. He was never off balance or awkward looking, even after twenty or thirty swings.
Chance and Wertz grabbed a bat and tried to copy the smooth motion as Andy’s bat sliced through the air. I was coaching him and he ended up coaching us. I grabbed a bat and watched what he showed us and I too tried to copy his swing.
Andy smiled and laughed, seeming none the worse for wear. As he got ready to head back to the varsity field, the daylight was fading.
“See you tomorrow,” he said
“Yeah, see you tomorrow,” I answered as he jogged away from the freshman field.
I liked him.
Ball Catcher
The following day at practice I had to get Andy away from my infielders who wanted batting tips. Andy didn’t seem to be bothered by the hitters or me. As quick as I got him to one side and started to hit him balls to see what I could see, both Chance and Wertz were right there, doing their best to take my hits that were directed toward Andy. He didn’t mind this at all; in fact, he proved he could stand his ground against two hungry infielders.
I mean he literally held his ground with Chance bouncing off him on one side and Wertz on the other side because they all wanted the ball. The remarkable thing was Andy caught more balls than he missed. He was no Chance, but he fielded the balls I hit from twenty feet away. I was hitting the ball sharply and his competition didn’t dominate him.
As soon as I got tired of the game my teammates got a bat for Andy and once again they wanted to watch his swing. I was contemplating what to do next when I caught sight of Coach Bell walking back toward the varsity field. I didn’t know how long he’d watched but he certainly left when he found I’d lost control of my student.
“Come on Andy. You aren’t here to practice hitting,” I said.
“I don’t mind. Here, take the bat,” he said, tossing his bat at me. “Let me see your swing,” he said.
“We’re not here to work on my swing.”
“Yeah, I know, but you look like you’re all tied up in knots. Loosen up and let the bat go all the way around behind your back. Don’t stop your swing out in front of the plate, follow through. Let me see you swing.
“Yeah, loosen up,” he said, going behind me to press his thumbs into a space a few inches below my neckline.
“Ouch,” I said, twisting away from his bony thumbs.
“You’re all knotted up. You need to follow through. Let the bat travel. Do what I tell you and you’ll see it makes a difference.”
“Go ahead, Dooley,” Chance said. “Listen to him.”
I swung the bat halfheartedly a few times to satisfy him. Chance and Wertz were doing the same thing and watching Andy for instruction, but he was focusing on me.
“Look, watch me. You aren’t going to hit yourself in the head. Just wing the damn thing like you intend to do bodily harm on the ball. You couldn’t even bruise it the way you’re swinging.”
Chance and then Wertz spent the next few minutes swinging their bats until they almost wrapped them around their necks. I did what he said and saw nothing in it. My shoulders did feel a bit less restricted as I implemented the full swing he wanted out of me.
“That’s where your power comes from,” Chance said.
“I don’t know. It’s a combination of things. You’ve got to use your entire body, especially your upper body, but your thighs and down to your feet are important. It generates a great deal more force when you hit the ball. It doesn’t require you swing as hard as you can. You need to swing with balance and use all your body.
If you can’t beat them join them. I didn’t need to worry about Coach Bell showing up, so I listened to what Andy had to say. By the time we got to the batting cage we numbered an even half dozen and Andy stood behind the backstop until Coach Moore showed up to see what the disturbance was all about and to answer the question, where’d everybody go?
When he saw all the anxious hitters taking batting practice willingly, he walked away and left us to our own device. After batting against the machine a few times, a couple of the pitchers roamed over from their warm up area and they took turns pitching to us. The sound of batted balls echoed around the field and people turned to see who was hitting.
Simpson wanted to pitch Andy when he took a turn at bat. He continued pitching on the outside corner of the plate. After Andy hit two balls in a row out into deep centerfield, Simpson threw a pitch inside to force Andy back away from the plate. Andy did not brush back and took the hit, swinging his bat a half dozen times at Simpson without stepping out of the batters box.
I was impressed. Most batters would have moved further from the plate. The next pitch was back outside, after Simpson spent a few minutes rubbing up the ball and looking at the outfield. Andy caught all of the ball and it was over the fence in left centerfield. He stepped out of the batters box and left his impression on Simpson for the second time in two days.
I was next at bat and Simpson walked away, not having anything for me. When Baker took his place he started throwing heat right down the middle of the plate. He knew I was afraid of the fastball and he felt no obligation to let me catch a piece of the ball, but on the fifth pitch he threw, I caught it solidly and ripped it right back across the mound, making him dance out of the way.
“Hey, asshole, it’s batting practice,” Baker yelled, unnerved by my nearly taking his nuts off.
“Maybe you ought to ease back the throttle on your pitches if it’s only practice,” I said, knowing my voice carried plenty far enough for him to hear.
I hit the next pitch into right field and was delighted I hit two balls in a row. I quit while I was ahead and Wertz couldn’t wait to get up to face Baker.
“Told you,” Andy said. “You looked like a hitter up there, Dooley.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, not being that easy.
“I’m supposed to work with you on your fielding. You’re not here to give batting instructions, but I appreciate that you did.”
“I can’t help myself,” Andy said. “I’ll spend the rest of the time fielding, but I don’t see where it makes a difference.”
“You don’t have any trouble with ground balls,” I said.
“Nope. I can judge grounders okay.”
“So it’s fly balls that cause you the trouble?”
“I guess. It’s different in the field. I don’t know how to explain it. I think it’s going a certain way and that’s not the way it goes. I don’t know why. I guess my judgement isn’t that good.”
“You were scrapping with those guys when I was hitting grounders. I don’t think you need that much practice. Maybe we’ll try hitting fly balls to you and I’ll see if I can find out where you run into trouble.”
“Okay,” he said, sounding as anxious as I did when I was told to take some swings.
He jogged out into left centerfield and I moved near second base. I tossed the ball in the air and met it as it came down. We had time for a conversation as I reached down and picked it up after it bounced against my knee to add insult to injury. My next try was a ball that hooked away from Andy and went well foul. He stopped running after three steps. He knew it was out of reach. He pounded his fist in his glove and the next fly ball bounced three times before it reached him. I was 0 for 3 and looked around to see if anyone but Andy was watching me. He didn’t bother me so much, because he’d go back to the varsity in a few days and we’d never see each other again. I began making preparations for my next attempt at hitting a fly ball, but when I got my mind back on my work, I bumped into… Andy?
“You’re supposed to be in the field so I can hit fly balls to you.”
“Yeah, and you’re supposed to be hitting fly balls to me. I could get old waiting. Hand me the bat.”
I handed him the bat and he wrapped his hand around mine. He stood way too close for comfort. I smelled his fragrance and it created warmth down in my stomach and groin. He leaned further to get me to release the ball, but my mind wasn’t cooperating just then.
“Let it go, for Pete sake. I’ll show you how to do it.”
He took my resistance for reluctance to let him have the ball. Feeling his hand on top of mine was a connection to him I hadn’t intended and didn’t want. There was no faster way to work myself off a ball club than to let the word spread that I was a little light in the loafers. I held it for a few seconds longer, wanting the hold his had on mine to continue warming me in a cold world.
I let go of the ball but our eyes met in the process; his eyes were a powder blue with a thin black ring circling the outside of the iris. I hesitated again as he smiled; I could feel his breath on the side of my face. Our bodies had ended up touching in several places as he laughed about my unwillingness to let go of the ball. I didn’t find it necessary to tell him I would have thrown him on the ground and done unspeakable things to him, because I didn’t know how to talk that way. It was how he made me feel, although he showed no inkling that he understood the half-minute or so it took to pry the baseball free.
“…and then you meet the ball,” he said, after I missed how his sentence started.
“Run through it one more time for me,” I said softly, watching his body move as he tossed the ball in the air and swung the bat away from me.
“You’re tossing it too high. You only need to toss it as high as the time it will take you to swing when it is coming down. A couple of feet and,” crack the bat went as he watched the ball sail into deep left centerfield. I watched him watch the ball sail into deep left centerfield.
“Hey, let me do it. You go out in the field with him. That way you can see what he’s doing wrong,” Chance said, taking the bat and ball from Andy in about a second and a half.
“Yeah,” I said, as Andy jogged in front of me while Chance watched.
I wasn’t sure how long he was watching. Chance often watched me. I thought it was because of my fielding, but he wasn’t far from being as good a second baseman as I was a shortstop. Chance knew if it came to the choice between him and me, he’d get the pick, because of his bat, where I wasn’t close to him at all.
“You take the first few,” Andy said. “I get to watch you.”
I wondered what he meant. He couldn’t have known I was watching him for any reason beside what we were there for. Did he feel something too or, worse yet, did he sense what I felt when he got too close to me. It wasn’t something I could let happen again. I was there to play ball and that’s what I intended to do.
True to form, Chance hit soaring fly balls from just in front of home plate. I wandered under the first few balls and tossed them back into the infield once I’d made the catch. He only made me run once, but I knew he did it on purpose, because he had no difficulty hitting it directly to me the first half dozen times he hit it.
“You watching me?” I asked.
“Yeah, I see what you’re doing. It looks like what I do.”
“Except for one little detail. You aren’t catching the ball. What do you think the problem is?”
“I don’t know,” he said, giving it little thought.
“Okay, you catch the next few.”
The first hit he fielded, he circled, coming back to the same spot and catching it in the webbing of his glove. It would have rolled out if it were caught any higher.
“Let me see your glove,” I said, waiting for him to take it off. “You use mine. I’ll take the next ball.”
It was too obvious. There was something wrong with his glove. I should have thought about it before. Sliding it onto my hand, it was softer than my new glove with its leather that was still stiff. There was the soft smell of leather and a hint of Andy’s essence. My hand being inside the glove that he used became erotic. My mind shifted into another place. I didn’t hear the crack of the bat or look for the fly ball. My brain was locked into something so unusual and so exciting, it had no time for the mundane. The ball landed a few feet to my right and bounced toward the fence.
“I think you’re supposed to be showing me how to catch the ball,” Andy said, sounding amused. “I can do that by myself. I’ll get it.”
He ran out behind me where the ball had come to a stop. I watched him as he threw the ball on a line. It bounced behind the mound and rolled to within a few feet of where Chance stood. His throwing arm seemed fine.
“You okay?” Andy asked, putting his hand on my shoulder.
“Yeah, just need to keep my mind on my business,” I explained, glad I’d worn the plastic jock that day.
He gave me a big smile before stepping a few feet away. I heard the bat and moved a few steps to my left before I looked up to find the ball. I made the catch using two hands, one in the glove and the other to trap it so it couldn’t squirt out. It’s not how I caught but it’s how you caught when you had trouble holding onto the ball. I caught another ball and knew the glove was fine. It was better than my glove, supple, and fragrant and broken in well.
On the next hit Andy glided toward where it should have been and this time, at the last second, he moved the glove up in front of his face. The ball dropped behind him.
“No! No! You can’t do that. You’ve got to watch it into your glove. Don’t take your eye off the ball,” I said, moving to where he stood staring at me.
“I didn’t,” he defended.
“You put the glove in front of your face,” I explained.
“I did?” he said.
“You did. You can’t take your eye off the ball,” I said.
“You never even looked until you were under it. How do you do that?” Andy asked.
“I don’t know. It’s instinct, I hear the sound the bat makes. I know if he’s batting right or left. I know from the sound how far it is going to go, and by looking at the batter it’s obvious where it’ll go.”
“Obvious to you maybe. I don’t know where it’s going. How can you know where it’s going. Aren’t you ever wrong?”
“Not usually. I know which way to break once it’s hit. I never thought about it.”
When the light started to fade, we called it a day. Coach Moore asked me how Andy was doing and I confessed I didn’t know. I was going step by step and looking for the obvious. I hadn’t found the problem yet.
Coach Moore walked toward the coaches’ offices in the athletic building. I knew Coach Bell would hear what I had to say by the time I got to the locker room. Coach Bell in turn would take another trip down to watch Andy’s progress the next afternoon. He might quiz me a little further than Coach Moore had done, but he wouldn’t learn any more than I had told my coach. I wouldn’t bother to tell him that Andy gave me a rod that was so persistent that I couldn’t even shower, even though Andy was somewhere in the varsity side of the building.
I dressed and put on deodorant to cover up my odor. I’d be getting real ripe by tomorrow, but I knew better than to go into the shower with a stiff dick or let myself get one after I started my shower. There were certain rules and regulations you broke at your own peril. I knew by the time I finished working and got back to my room, any memory of Andy’s impact on me would long ago have passed. Nothing could take the stiffness out of your underwear like a tour of duty at the Pizza Palace.
I gave my manager a big happy smile, which always perplexed him, and went to the “dump” pizza and took a couple of pieces to eat before I punched in. By the end of my shift I had to stay alert enough so I didn’t fall into the oven trying to get one of the way-back pizzas out. I survived with a minimum of singed hair on my arms and what felt like a sunburn but wasn’t.
I fell into my bed as soon as I got to my room. I had a late class to start the following day and I’d be able to sleep. Except my roommate kept opening the door and yelling down the hall at the same time. I didn’t wake up completely but it took a long time for me to fully fall asleep, and it didn’t make for a fun night or a restful sleep.
Sociology started my day at ten. I would eat in the dinning hall using one of my complimentary athletic tickets. This forced the cashier to lean back to mark a clipboard tacked to the wall with a single line. She took the ticket and placed it in a box conveniently placed beside her. She didn’t smile or wish me happy eating, but then again, it was the dinning hall. I’d loaded up, not because I liked the food, but because I could. There were certain items that weren’t offensive, because as a freshman you learn fast what to take and what to leave alone.
Even after my first class my eyes were still sagging. It was early but the dinning hall was filled and loud. I needed to search it for a table that wasn’t crowded, and in the back corner there were several. Most kids couldn’t wait long enough to scout the periphery and so they all ate in a clump toward the source of the food. I, on the other hand, had no desire to be close to what they called food, and the din of the crowd had already lost its allure when I was still in high school.
Reasoning & Mysteries
I was more interested in reading my economics assignment than the food. I ate to fill the hole in my stomach, which grew by the hour. I found if I read my assignment the food didn’t make that big an impression on me. It was at times like these that I longed for the table my mother set. Having eatable food was a given at my house and I simply expected it without asking for it. At State I had to ask for my supper and that always left me wondering if I was smart enough to be in college.
“Hey, can I join you?”
“Sure,” I said, looking up from my assigned reading to watch Andy brush off the seat left less than tidy by the previous diner.
My interest in economics declined as I watched Andy arrange his food, taking it off his tray and placing it on the table, using his hand to clear the crumbs and food particles out of the way of his grouping of food.
“What are you reading?” he asked.
“Economics,” I said, still watching him get everything the way he wanted it.
“How can you read at lunchtime?” Andy asked.
“It’s difficult to read at practice,” I said in jest.
This observation got a curious look as Andy dug into an odd colored macaroni and cheese with the cheese far too yellow for cheese and the noodles a cloudy gray. My stomach grew uneasy.
“You can’t read in your room?” he inquired.
“No, I can’t read in my room,” I said without explaining.
“I can’t think about my school work while I eat. Gives me indigestion. I want to enjoy my lunch.”
“That’s the reason I read in the cafeteria, but I don’t expect to enjoy the food. I eat to stay alive. Enjoyment rarely enters the picture.”
“The only reason I do any studying at all is so I can play baseball,” Andy said, scooping up a large spoon filled with macaroni and cheese.
“I play baseball so I can go to school,” I said, seeing how far apart we were.
“Really? That surprises me. How’d you get so good with the glove?”
“Practice,” I said. “I didn’t need to study all that hard to get good grades in high school.”
“I sure did. If I hadn’t played baseball I’d have gone nuts. It’s what made school tolerable,” Andy said between bites.
“How are you doing with your schoolwork here?”
“Lousy. Coach Bell has two guys tutoring me over at the varsity dorm. It’s a hassle. They aren’t much smarter than I am. What do you plan to do, anyway?”
“What do I plan to do?”
“If you only play baseball so you can go to college you must have other plans.”
“I want to open up a small appliance business. I’m good with my hands. Mechanical things appeal to me but working for someone else doesn’t.”
“Me, I’m planning to play ball.”
“What will you do after your playing days are over?”
Andy chewed on the food and my question. It wasn’t something he’d been asked before.
“I don’t know. I haven’t given it that much thought. I like playing baseball. It’s mostly what I’ve done the last few years. I guess I should think ahead. There’s no guarantee I’ll get past college ball. I’m just not all that smart.”
“Maybe you’re smarter than you think. It doesn’t sound like you’ve applied yourself. You’re majoring to be a gym teacher?”
“No, I wouldn’t call it majoring in gym. I’m more majoring in baseball with a minor in gym. You don’t think it’s enough?”
“I’m not a job councilor, Andy, but you might want to find something else you like and get some credits under your belt. I’ll help you if you like.”
“You aren’t tired of looking at me. I’d figure two or three hours of practice a day would be enough,” Andy observed, watching me for a reaction.
“I like you. If I can help you I don’t mind. I don’t want to offer to help you and you not take it seriously. You need to investigate classes you might find interesting. That will make studying easier and we can meet at the library a couple of times a week to make sure you don’t get stuck.”
“That’s cool,” Andy thought out loud.
“Wouldn’t it be easier if I came over to your room. That way you wouldn’t take as much time meeting me somewhere else.”
“No, that would never work. My dorm is like a constant rock concert. Half the time I don’t get enough sleep to feel like I want to study. I don’t go to my dorm until I’ve got my studying done. We have a lot of football players and they’re a pain in the…. They’re loud.”
“Sorry to hear that. My dorm is quiet. We have a curfew and Coach Boil makes sure we don’t violate it. Our senior dorm resident tells Boil any time there’s a disturbance after curfew.”
“You don’t know how lucky you are,” I said, taking some food and wondering why my plate was still full.
Even with our chat, Andy was finished and ready to leave; I was still in the middle of reading my assignment and had way too much food left to throw it away.
He stood and bid me farewell, saying, “I’ll see you at practice.”
I watched him walk away, deposit his trash at the exit and drop the tray in the appropriate pile of trays. I felt good about our talk but I didn’t know why. Liking Andy was the only hint of why I liked being around him. Tutoring him wouldn’t be a big deal and it would allow me to get back to my dorm even later. I liked the idea of spending more time with him.
Practice that afternoon had me hitting fly balls to Andy before Chance came over to hit them, which freed me to take the field beside him. He was still able to field the grounders on a hop without that much difficulty. The high flies were what gave him trouble. Each time he misplayed one, I asked him to tell me why.
Our cordial chat from lunch did not follow us to practice and Andy got mad by the fourth or fifth ball he muffed. Putting myself into his position, I wouldn’t have liked being criticized, even when it was constructive criticism. By five in the afternoon Coach Bell was leaning on the backstop watching Chance deliver fly balls into left field. I found myself talking Andy under the balls so he could make the catch, but even then he had a tendency to put the glove in front of his face. It was as though he wasn’t sure at the last second, when he should have been in position to make the catch was when the glove went up to protect his face.
“Why do you keep putting the glove in front of your face?” I barked, unhappy Coach Bell was seeing me fail at the task he was giving me.
“I didn’t do that,” he barked back.
“Andy, you do it almost every time. If you cover your eyes you aren’t going to make the catch.”
“I’m not covering my eyes.”
When I looked back at the infield, Coach Bell was gone. He’d seen it all and I didn’t know what to do next. Andy became more and more angry the more I pressed him. That made me feel bad and even if Coach Bell saw the exchange, there was nothing I could suggest.
Andy returned to the varsity field as the light was fading and Chance came over after Andy was gone.
“What’s wrong with him? Can’t he see the damn ball? I hit the thing right to him and he still blows it. He catches like a girl.”
“I don’t know. He won’t tell me what’s going on and my guesses are all played out. I don’t know what’s wrong. To make matters worse Coach Bell was watching us.”
“Glad he didn’t put me in charge of him. I wouldn’t want to be you. Good luck with that,” Chance said, walking toward the gym.
Good luck indeed.
I showered and felt bad for Andy. If I could figure out his problem, it might help him with Coach Bell, but I didn’t have any more ideas.
Uncharacteristically, I went straight to my room, figuring I’d spend my night off enjoying the total chaos of my dorm. Once I got to the hallway that took me to my room, I found it strangely devoid of noise and noise makers. I wondered if I’d missed the fire alarm. When I got to my room, I realized I hadn’t missed a fire alarm.
“Coach Bell!” I said, with apprehension. “What…?”
“I watched you working with Andy and I wasn’t all that impressed. What’s wrong with the boy?”
“I….” I said. “I… I think he needs glasses,” I blurted, remembering Chance’s opinion at the point I was going to throw in the towel.
“Glasses?” he said back to me. “You mean all this time his problem is he can’t see? The boy hits a ton. How do you explain him hitting a fastballs if he don’t see ‘em?”
“A pitcher is close to a batter but a batter is a long way from the outfield. He can pick up the pitched ball as it leaves the pitcher’s hand. A hit ball is a hundred, two hundred feet away. He doesn’t pick it up until it’s on top of him and then he might not pick it up at all. I think he needs an eye exam,” I said, cringing and telling myself to shut my mouth.
“Glasses?” Coach Bell said with a lot of skepticism in the word. “I give you a fielder and tell you to teach him to catch the ball and you give him back and tell me to get his eyes checked?”
I was dumbstruck. What an idiot. Why did I come up with that little piece of advice. What a dope.
“Your roommate, Pig Pen or whatever his name is. You tell him Coach Bell has his eye on him. That boy’s a mess. He always yell in the halls that way?”
“I think that’s his regular voice. He’s a football player,” I said, giving him as much information as possible.
“I wasn’t impressed. How do you study, Dooley?” Coach Bell asked, as he moved toward the door.
“I study at the library. Sleeping is more of a problem. They won’t let me sleep at the library.”
“No,” Coach Bell agreed. “Tell him I said to shut up.”
“Yes, sir,” I said and he moved out into the hall.
“Oh, yeah, Andy said you’d help him get his grades up. It’s all I can do to keep him on the team. Is that true?”
“Yes, sir, but I told him it would need to be at the library.”
“Okay, Dooley. That’s all I got. Glasses huh? We’ll go into it later. I got my eye on you,” he said as I watched him move down the hallway toward the stairs.
One of his big hands shot up in the air in that abbreviated wave of his. He didn’t turn around to see if I was still there, but there was that wave and what did it mean, ‘I’ve got my eye on you’? Oh, did he ever. What a stupid thing to say. He needs glasses.
It took a few hours but the dorm was back to its normal noise level without regard for anyone else who might wander into our midst.
The following day Andy didn’t come down from the varsity field. Coach Bell didn’t make an appearance either. If he was keeping his eye on me it was from a distance. Chance and Wertz, our best hitters, were working on bunting. Both of them could rattle the fences if they got all of the ball. It was with bunting they needed the practice.
Because of their power, a well placed bunt was likely to catch the infield flatfooted, allowing them to make it safely to first. The prime placement of a bunt was half way between third base and the plate and an equal distance from the pitcher. A bunt placed there would leave the ball an equal distance from the pitcher, catcher, and third baseman. If done properly it was likely to bring all three of them charging for the ball. By the time one of them fielded it a fleet runner would be safely crossing first base.
I watched Chance show Wertz how he held the bat once he’d pulled it down off his shoulder. This was the first sign he might bunt as the pitcher was ready to deliver the pitch. By allowing it to hit the bottom half of his bat it drove the ball into the turf, which took the energy out of the ball as it bounced and maybe rolled down the inside of the third base line until it lost its momentum. If it didn’t go foul or move too quickly, it turned out well for the batter.
With Barber on the mound pitching batting practice, Chance and Wertz alternated as hitter. Chance was by far the most proficient and I couldn’t help but get into the act. Barber wasn’t a head hunter and he usually pitched batting practice so the batter could hit the ball. It was no different with bunting practice.
The first two or three times I didn’t manage to get the bat on the ball. The fourth time the ball hit the bat and my forefinger, causing me to jerk the bat away and dance in a circle to let my finger stop stinging. It was then I realized the stinging passed in a minute or so.
Chance and Wertz looked at it and agreed it was a finger. Barber came in off the mound and was in full agreement with the other two. Wertz asked if I wanted him to kiss the damaged digit. I gave him a suggestion of something else he could kiss. Everyone laughed and the finger was none the worst for wear.
“Look at the ball,” Chance said.
“Perfect bunt,” Wertz said.
After smashing my finger the ball had bounced to a spot halfway between third and the plate just on the edge of the infield grass. Everyone patted my back and congratulated me on getting it right. It was the first time I felt good about bating. Bunting was a specialized art, however, that was employed under certain circumstances to advance runners or for a power hitter to cross up an infield playing back on him at which time the bunt went right down the third base line. No one was going to reach it in time. You couldn’t do it very often or it no longer caught the infield off guard.
We had two games that week and there wasn’t any time to go looking for Andy. I batted twice in the first game. I walked once and struck out once. It never occurred to me to try the bunt, but the first game we lost 8-2 and the second game we won 6-3. I came up three times, hit a single over the leap of the second baseman and I scored a run.
It was mid-April and between baseball, school, and work, the amount of free time I had didn’t amount to much. I went about my business and It was only six weeks before I would be back home in Statesville. For the first time I looked forward to being in Statesville. I knew the city and it was small enough for me to feel like I might belong there.
University life was cool but far more hectic than I could have expected. There was no telling what would happen next. I went to class, to baseball practice, and to work without really feeling I was an important part of any of my activities. I was a freshman and it took four years to attain a degree and it probably became easier as time passed, but looking at it from deep inside my first year at State, it looked like an endless journey.
Then, one day Coach Bell was back. We were going through our paces in a typical infield practice, when Coach Moore interrupted.
“Dooley,” he yelled from the plate.
I looked around for Coach Bell but he had disappeared. I jogged up to Coach Moore apprehensive. He was kicking dirt and looking at his feet.
“Clean out your locker. Leave your game uniforms on the chair in my office. See Coach Bell before you leave. Good luck, son.”
I watched him walk away without saying another word. My face was flush and the bottom had fallen out of my stomach. What had I done? I’d done everything I was asked. I looked back at my infield and saw that they were doing fine without me at shortstop. There was an empty hollow feeling down in my depths.
Baseball wasn’t my life like it was for Andy, Chance, and Wertz. I could take it or leave it, but leaving it like this stung more than being hit on the hand by a pitch. I headed for the locker room to do as I was told before any of my teammates came to inquire. I didn’t want to talk about what Coach Moore had said.
I needed to be alone.
Moving On Up
I decided to shower so I could gather my thoughts. There’s nothing like the spray of hot water to wash the cobwebs out of my brain. The showers at my dorm were at best warm. At the athletic complex you could make it as hot as you wanted. The cobwebs hadn’t cleared by the time I sat in front of my locker. I could always pass on seeing Coach Bell before I left, but he wasn’t the kind of man who would take a snub. The thought of him ending up in my dorm room again cleared my brain enough where I decided to get the meeting over with.
I dried as much as necessary to get into my clothes without getting that soggy feeling. I set my books out on the bench beside me, neatly folded my game uniform, and hung the hangers back inside for the next guy. Stopping at Coach Moore’s office, I set the uniform just inside his office on the chair he kept by the door. I walked the extra half hallway until I stood in front of the door marked Coach Bell, Baseball Head Coach.
I knocked on the door while hoping he wasn’t there, but I thought twice when I imagined him sitting in my dorm room.
“Come in,” the unhappy voice ordered.
He looked up out of some papers on his desk and hesitated.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“Nothing. Coach Moore said to see you before I left.”
“Left? Oh. You did talk to Coach Moore?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s customary not to keep your coach waiting, when you are told to report to his office.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“I’d offer you my comb but as you can see, I don’t really have a need for one. Do something with your hair.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, using my hand to push down the hair I never dried.
“Well sit down, Dooley, you ain’t going to grow any more and my neck’s getting tired of looking up at you. You know what’s going on then? I guess Coach Moore was none too happy with me. Can’t be helped. I don’t have any options left and I’ve been thinking about this for half a season.”
“What?” I said, thinking it made me sound a bit absent.
“What did Moore tell you,” he said, his two chubby hands resting on top of a file he was looking into when I arrived.
“Clean out my locker, turn in my game uniform, and see you before I left. That was all,” I said, trying to remember words that had sucked all the air out of me.
“Damn it. No wonder you look like a deer in the headlights. Garnett hurt his ankle again. My backup shortstop isn’t as good a fielder as you are. We’ve got to work on your hitting, but for what’s left of the season you’ll be my starting shortstop. You’re on the varsity. I don’t usually touch Moore’s boys and I wouldn’t be sniffing around you but there’s more to it than playing ball.
“Can you field, Dooley?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you hit, Dooley?”
“No, sir,” I confessed.
“I found me an honest man,” he quipped and smiled real big. “You’re a pretty good student. You’re one of the top third in GPA out of all my players. You still want to tutor Andy?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, still processing my dismissal’s being replaced with a ticket to the top squad.
“Good. I’ve made arrangements for you to move into the varsity dorm. You are on the varsity. Andy hasn’t had a roommate since the beginning of this semester. He’s no Einstein and his grades are barely enough for him to play ball. Now that he has those glasses you recommended, he’s making most of the catches hit in his direction. Questions?”
“I’m moving out of my dorm?” I repeated, trying to recover from the shock of defeat turning into a major victory.
“Can’t be helped. You’ve got to get your rest and I want you next to Andy’s elbow. When he isn’t playing ball or in class, I want him studying with you. I ran it by him and he’s okay with it. So, Do, welcome to the varsity,” he said, standing and offering me his hand. “Welcome aboard.”
“I work at the Pizza Palace three to four days a week,” I said. “It’s late, ten or eleven before I’m done.”
“What do you make, minimum wage?”
“Seven an hour.”
“I can work something out for you to be paid for tutoring Andy. He’ll need you there at night. I’ll see what we can arrange so you aren’t working for me or doing something that might damage your eligibility. How’s that sound?”
“Fine. It all sounds fine. I can’t wait to get some sleep.”
“Dooley, you’re a fine little fielder. You’ve got the poise of a fielder with a lot more experience. I want your glove in the lineup, but there are going to be times I need a hitter and I’m going to pinch hit for you. We’ve got to work on your bat so I don’t need to pinch hit you. I just want to let you know where we stand. It’s not all a bed of roses here. You’ll need to work even harder.”
“Yes, sir. Sounds good to me. I’ve been working on my batting. Andy has been showing me some things.”
“Good. I was going to make it official with the squad today, but you aren’t in your uniform and it can wait.”
“I turned in my game uniform,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s true. I’ve got one here that should fit you. I guessed at your size,” he said, turning around to the table behind him and scooping up a folded varsity game uniform. “If these fit, I’ll get you another pair so you can always have one clean. I want the team looking sharp when we face the competition.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, taking the uniform from him.
“You’ve got all the time you need to move your things. It’s way late for them to worry about reassigning your room to someone else. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. The varsity dorm is monitored by my coaches. There’s a resident player coach who takes names and kicks asses when necessary. He’ll know you might be staying up late studying with Andy.”
Coach Bell jotted the room number down on his message pad and ripped it off and handed it to me.
“Nice doing business with you, son. See you at practice tomorrow after your last class.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, standing and shaking his hand again as he walked me to the door.
I’d gone to Coach Bell’s office dragging my tail and as I walked away from his office I did a little dance.
“Yes,” I yelled in the long empty hallway.
I went back to my dorm and stripped the sheets off my bed, smiling at the maelstrom whirling around me as Big Barn and a couple of footballers passed the football back and forth past me in the hall as I headed for the exit.
“Hey, Do, where you heading,” Big yelled from the far end of the hall.
As I turned to make my exit, my arms full of bedding and the gym bag with everything I’d need for the next few days, I sang, “Moving on up to the West side….”
I was doing what all the athletes on my floor hoped to be doing soon, only I was doing it now. It was easy to look fondly on them and their damn immaturity as one more experience it was good to have behind me. It was easy to figure none of them had ever escaped the confines of home before, but neither had I. That brought it down to parenting and discipline, which my folks had rationed in equal doses, letting me know when I was crossing the line and when I was doing well. I knew how to act in the house and it had never included passing footballs or small pieces of furniture up and down the hall. I was trading chaos for something new, but I already knew it couldn’t be anything worse, and so, I smiled.
I had one thought as I entered my new world,
‘To whom much is given much is expected.’
I was not foolish enough to think that my promotion was irrevocable. The path to my new dorm went in both directions. I had to make certain Andy passed his classes with grades that took him out of danger of being declared ineligible. I’d also practice my batting whenever there was time.
I threw my bed clothes on the bottom bunk, which was the one that was rolled up. The top bunk was a shambles and showed all the signs of someone sleeping in it. There was a big closet with maybe three or four items hanging on hangers and a pile of clothing on the floor below. There were some empty hangers and I used half of those available to hang up a few of my clean shirts.
There were two desks. One had a computer on it. The monitor was on with nothing identifiable on the screen. I clicked the switch to off, put my books on the unused desk, and then stood in the middle of the room to look at all the space. It was easily twice as large as the one I’d just left. Then I noticed something else. Quiet.
It didn’t matter the hour of day in my old dorm, there was always noise, but it was worse than noise. I mowed lawns for a living and knew a thing or two about noise. The old dorm was populated with boys who were all infected with the same madness.
The silence in my new dorm was the first thing I noticed. I imagined it would be quieter with more supervision, but there was no sound that wasn’t natural. I could actually hear toilets flush and showers running. I made a point of being extra quiet as I went to the window, opened the blind, and looked down on the athletic complex below our window. We were just high enough to have the best view without being so high that it all appeared too tiny to recognize. It was a nice day and I breathed in the fresh April air.
After I made my bed, I leaned back on my pillow and fell asleep. It was the soundest sleep I’d had in ages. I woke up with Andy shaking me.
“Here, I brought you a banana. I looked for you at dinner.”
“Oh, I must have fallen asleep,” I said.
“I guess,” Andy quipped.
“I took the bottom bunk. I’ll change with you if you want.”
“Nah, I like being on top,” he said. “Don’t you work tonight?”
“Shit! Yeah and I’m an hour late already.”
“I guess they’re all standing around waiting for you to take the pizza out of the oven, huh?”
“No, but my boss is an asshole and I don’t need his lip.”
“Coach told me you are quitting your job. Coach said you were going to tutor me instead. Good luck on that job. You’re replacing two tutors fwho haven’t made much headway. I’ve been on academic probabation since I got here.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I forgot. I don’t need to deal with that jerk any more.”
“I could have used some free pizza. Too sad,” Andy thought aloud as he peeled back the last bite of his banana and popping what remained into his mouth.
“You want to walk over with me. I’m not going to work tonight. I’ll tell him I’ve got to quit and work until the end of the week.”
“Yeah, it’ll give us time to talk about the damn glasses I’ve got to wear because of you. Coach Bell threatened physical damage to me if he saw me without them. I’ve been trying to avoid wearing glasses since I was nine.”
“You knew you needed glasses?” I asked in a voice that showed my dismay.
“Sure, I’m blind not stupid.”
“All that work we did in the outfield and you didn’t think seeing the ball would make it easier?”
“I didn’t think much about it. It’s the way I’ve always seen. Things looked okay to me. Glasses make me look like a dork.”
“Put them on,” I said, as we left the quiet halls on our floor. “Let me see…. You look fine,” I said, thinking with or without the gold wire-rim glasses, they actually made him more dignified; they broke up his angular face and the impact made his fairly large ears seem diminished.
“You’re just saying that because you’re sleeping under me,” Andy said.
“Yes, well, just because I’m under you now doesn’t mean that’s the way it will always be.”
Andy looked at me curiously. Either one of our statements could have been read as suggestive but not so much so between two college roommates in the early stages days of their developing relationship. It was okay to joke about sexual things as long as you didn’t follow through. I understood the complexities of being strongly attracted to Andy, but I was certain I could keep my thoughts and desires under control.
“Dooley, where the hell have you been?”
“Sorry, I got to quit. My studies come first,” I said in a relatively accurate statement for my reasoning. “I’ll finish the week if you want.”
“Nah, I breaking in a new guy who was in my office when they told me you haven’t showed up. It’s cool. We’re not AT&T. You can come down for your check Friday night. Good Luck!”
“Yeah,” I said, suddenly feeling quite small.
“Hey, Dooley,” he yelled as I was heading for the door. “Here. This has anchovies on it. The customer ordered everything, no anchovies. If you want it, it’s yours.”
He leaned over the counter with a large box as I did an about face.
“Thanks,” I said. “Really, thanks a lot.”
“You’re the only one of these assholes that ever treated me fair. I’m not going to give it to them. I’d rather trash it.”
“Do you eat pizza with anchovies on it?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Andy said smiling as his hand retrieved a big piece of pizza dripping with toppings.
“I don’t know,” I thought. “I’ve never followed a bear long enough to see where he shits.”
“He seemed okay to me,” Andy said, before filling his mouth with another huge bite of pizza.
“Yeah, I’ve only seen him from behind the counter. Funny how your impression of people can change just like that.”
“Any man that gives me food is okay by me,” Andy said, reaching for another piece of pizza before he’d finished the first.
“You just ate dinner,” I remembered.
“That was an hour ago. This is just to hold me over until my evening snack. Good pizza. I’ve never been to the Pizza Palace.”
Andy was easy going and had an unusual view of the world. He wasn’t going to win any academic awards for his GPA, but his unusual wit cracked me up. I didn’t regard myself any smarter than he was, only I’d had teachers who taught me to enjoy learning.
Our first night we talked until late. We’d turned the lights out and laid in bed once the nine o’clock lights out had passed. Our voices were the only sound I heard, except for a horn blowing on the street below every now and then.
I was introduced to the varsity the next day. They had all seen me when the starting shortstop had first damaged his ankle. There were nods and the infield made themselves known to me. Garnett had shown up on crutches and told Coach Bell he was done for the season, which meant for good. He was a senior and I chatted him up for as long as he stayed. In general he didn’t think there was anything he could tell me that experience wouldn’t do better. He wished me well and went off on his crutches making pretty good time.
Coach Bell had us in an intense infield practice for over an hour. I was soaked in sweat and feeling some pressure to perform when he called it a practice, sending his infield to the showers.
Once I’d dressed I went back to the practice field where Coach Bell hit one fly ball after another into left field. Andy caught every ball and looked good doing it, but I may have been prejudiced by my feelings for him. Coach Bell saw me sitting behind the backstop and wandered around and stood in front of me.
“If you can solve his academic problems with as much ease as you improved his fielding, it will be a blessing, son.”
“I didn’t do that much, Coach.”
“How did you feel working with my infield?” he asked.
“I knew Chance. I knew where he’d be according to where the ball was hit. It’ll take some time to know Boil that well.”
“Don’t spend a lot of time worrying about it. They’re all seniors. You’ll be the center of my infield next year. You’ll be playing with Chance, but I want him to be king of the freshman team for a few weeks. I had to move you up to let him develop his leadership skills.”
“He’s a lot more confident than me,” I said.
“Confidence is one element and it can be over done. He’s good and that will help him adjust, but the two of your will have three good seasons together, good Lord willing.”
I don’t know why that made me feel good, but it did. I was the odd man out playing on a team that would graduate most of its starting lineup.
Only in a dream could I imagine everything going as well as it had gone. It was almost like being born again, and I settled into my new role on the varsity and left all my old doubts and concerns behind me.
Chance still stopped when we ate at the same time and he seemed giddy with happiness for me. He kept poking my shoulder with his fist, smiling at the guy who’d made it. He kept promising he’d be up there soon, but I didn’t feel comfortable telling him what Coach Bell had told me. I merely agreed that he would look good in the varsity uniform and this made him smile even wider.
I didn’t know how someone I’d started out competing with could be so happy I got the call before he did. Injury to a starter had greased the wheels of progress, but Chance seemed genuine in his happiness for me.
Understanding how he could feel the way he did was as difficult as figuring out why the guys in my previous dorm had acted like children whenever they weren’t being supervised. It wasn’t possible to know how they came to be the people they were. Chance’s attitude left me feeling like I wanted to see him succeed. Before our casual meetings in the cafeteria, after Coach Bell had called me up, I had almost no appreciation for Chance, beyond how he impacted my team, but I was genuinely rooting for him now to do as good as I knew he could do. He was a way better and more complete player than me.
Varsity
I felt like a stranger in the infield. My backup was a senior. He was ready to take the injured shortstop’s place when I was called up to play, which made him my backup. In tight games he replaced me in the later innings so someone with a more potent bat than mine would come to the plate. We cruised to a 5-1 win in my first game. I turned one double play and made several throws to first for outs. The game was never in doubt and I was relieved.
In the second game we fell behind 3-0. I knew Coach Bell’s game plan and that kept me on my toes in the field. Most of my nervousness came before I took the field and when I had time between innings to think. I had swung at every pitch when I came to bat in the first game, striking out three times. I was left in so the infield got used to the way I handled the ball.
Before I came to bat in my second game Coach Bell stopped me on my way to the batter’s box.
“Okay, Dooley, you’re on your own. Don’t swing unless you think you’ll make contact with the ball.”
This news surprised me and I don’t know if it was easier simply going up and swinging away, though I rarely made contact, and when I did the ball rarely got beyond the infield. When I went up with swinging on my mind, I didn’t get nervous about it. This time at bat my knees were shaking again and I started to sweat, paralyzed at the plate for four straight balls. They were balls and I ended up on first base.
We were playing a team with a record better than ours, which was barely over .500. We’d won two more games than we’d lost. This team had beaten the varsity twice. I felt awkward taking my lead off first. I hadn’t been on base all that often. When the pitcher went into his windup, I found myself dashing for second. The batter swung and missed. The catcher stood to make the throw to second. It ended up in short centerfield and I was standing on third with my bench cheering my progress.
“Okay, Dooley,” the third base coach said, as he roamed up beside me clapping his hands. “Anything past the infield, tag up and go home unless I put up my hands to stop you.”
The count went to three and two on the batter and he hit the next pitch into straightaway centerfield. I made sure the fielder who moved under it had the ball before I left third base. I never looked at the third base coach, but I knew I could get home before the ball.
It stayed 3-1 for the next couple of innings. When I came up in the fourth inning, we’d had two hits for singles and there were men on first and second with no one out. I loved turning a double play but the prospect of hitting into one made me even more nervous.
The first pitch went right down the center of the plate and the bat never left my shoulder. Two straight balls followed before a second strike had me undecided. I stepped out of the batter’s box and took a handful of dirt to rub on my sweating hands. I watched the two runners on base. The man on second talked casually to the second baseman. The man on first took one step off first base and stopped and stared at the pitcher so he wasn’t surprised by a quick throw to first.
I remembered the bunting exercise the week before as the next pitch was high and outside. If he threw a ball I was on first base with a walk. If he threw a strike, I would try to bunt. Too hard and it would end up with the guy heading for third being put out. Too soft and the catcher would be on it and have an easy play if he didn’t throw it away.
With the count three balls and two strikes, the pitcher threw a fastball right over the center of the plate. I’d pulled down my bat, advertising the bunt, and did my best to make contact on the bottom half to drive it into the ground.
It made a fairly solid ball hitting wood type sound. The first hop was way high. I dashed for all I was worth toward first, but the ball beat me as the catcher got to the ball and made a perfect throw. I was out by a step and turned back toward our bench.
“Nice little move, Dooley,” Coach Bell said. “A sacrifice is almost good as a hit.”
Had I executed the bunt perfectly, we’d have had basses loaded with no one out, but instead we had runners on second and third with one out. It was better than striking out but less than I had in mind. With two outs, there was a line drive single to center, and two runs scored. It was a tie game.
The next inning two balls were hit to Andy in left. He moved under each and made the catch. The other run struck out and the tie took us into the fifth and I was still in the lineup. I didn’t come up in the sixth but I was to bat right after Andy in the bottom of the seventh. Coach Bell would pull me for a pinch hitter, which was fine. I hadn’t made any errors and I’d scored one run and put the other two in a position to score.
“Good luck,” I said to Andy as he strolled toward the plate.
I got my bat and moved to the on-deck box to hit next, but I knew Coach Bell would call me back to the bench for a pinch hitter. I let my mind predict the future, but Andy couldn’t read my mind. He got his bat on the ball and I knew by the crack of the bat, he’d caught all of the ball. By the time I looked up Andy was trotting to first in front of me and he made the complimentary trip around the bases.
Home run.
The pitcher who’d served up the fast pitch for Andy was kicking the pitching rubber and cursing himself loud enough for me to hear. I’m sure he realized he should have walked Andy to get to me, but he hadn’t and the game was over.
Things warmed up around me after that performance. The following game I turned three double plays, winning the confidence of the infield. We won the game without my bat being needed. My batting wasn’t going to win any prizes but I wasn’t brought up to win games with my bat. I was brought up to win games with my glove and I hadn’t made a mistake serious enough to cost us a game.
On Saturday Andy came to the room in a T-shirt and jeans and he asked me to follow him. I’d done all my homework and most of my reading, so why not? I followed him out of the dorm and over to the athletic complex where the day was fading fast. He walked me to the batting cage where someone had left on the lights over that one section of the field.
“Okay, I’ve made a deal with the ground’s keeper. We have an hour each night we don’t have a game.”
“An hour?” I said.
“We’re going to work on your batting. First I want you to watch me as I take some swings. I’ve set the machine to pitch a ball every fifteen seconds. It’ll give us enough time to talk about the pitches.”
“A pitching machine isn’t going to throw at my head or dust me off,” I explained.
“Your fear is of the ball. This will give you time to adjust to a pitched ball. No one can hit you if you don’t let them. Do you know the penalty for purposely hitting a player?”
“No.”
“You’ll be lucky to play again if you do that.”
“What if they lose control of it and it just hits you?”
“You can tell a bad pitcher from a head hunter. A pitcher has to pitch over the plate to be a pitcher. Sure, he can make a bad pitch, but that’s why you have eyes and legs. You can see when it leaves his hand where it’s going to end up. Usually it’ll end up within a foot or two of where it’s supposed to go. Your head doesn’t fit in that space.”
“Okay, I’ll give it a try. I’m just not a very good hitter.”
“I wasn’t a very good hitter, until someone showed me why.”
“I thought you hated wearing glasses?” I reminded him.
“I do, but I guess I don’t mind looking like a geek for a few hours a few days a week.”
“You look good in them. They look nice on you.”
“Nice try, Sherlock, but I can see into a mirror without you blowing smoke up my ass.”
“Have it your way,” I said, and for some reason the blowing smoke remark stimulated me in a way I tried to keep under control.
In a white T-shirt and jeans Andy looked good. He had a little more meat on his bones than showed in his uniform, which was mostly how I’d seen him until the past few days. I was still careful not to spend too much time admiring him, but he was a good ball player and the idea he wanted to help me made it all the more interesting.
He batted for awhile, just meeting the ball so we didn’t need to chase them outside the field. He had a pretty swing. His body was never off balance, no matter how hard he hit the ball. I felt anything but smooth when I came to face the machine.
It was easier not expecting a ball thrown at my head. It was a stupid fear than should have abated, but each time I came to the plate during a game, the image that came to mind was a fastball being thrown at my head. Facing the machine wasn’t the same thing. The machine had no mission beyond delivering the ball to be hit.
Even after I’d tired of the practice, Andy needed to go back for some more. I watched him connect with nearly every ball. By the time he sat down our hour was about up.
“How do you feel about it?”
“It’s not the same. Practice makes perfect. Maybe I’ll feel different at the plate. What did it cost you to get the lights left on and the machine out for this special practice,” I asked, as he sat next to me.
“I agreed to mow the field each Sunday,” he said.
I began to laugh and fell off the bench onto my butt, making me more hysterical. Andy looked at me like I was crazy.
“I mow lawns at home. I’ve had a business since I was in junior high school,” I confessed, and he started laughing.
“See, we do have things in common. I mow lawns for my neighbors at home, but I don’t have a riding mower. This is a neat John Deere tractor with a huge mowing attachment. It’ll take me an hour at most.”
“I’ll help,” I said.
“You want to ride behind me?”
“That might look a little strange,” I mused.
“Not so much,” he said as I brushed myself off and sat back on the bench with him.
“It was really nice of you to want to help me.”
“You’re helping me, Do. Why is my helping you any different. You’re helping me with my studies.”
“How’s that working out?”
“It’s a bit early. I’m still on the baseball team. I have trouble with everything but gym and lunch.”
“We’ll do a little each night and it’ll keep your grades up.”
We sat and talked about a schedule that would have us together for eight hours a day if you didn’t include sleeping. I didn’t mind helping Andy because he was a nice guy and I liked being around him.
On Sunday when he went to mow the field I went and used a pair of clippers to trim the grass around the fence. I didn’t ride behind him on the mower but neither of us had taken that offer seriously. My desire to be close to him didn’t include giving grounds keepers or baseball players something to talk about.
Sunday was a pleasant day with the morning warm enough for working in a T-shirt. Andy mowed the baseball outfield and the areas outside the fence as I trimmed near the fence. It was like old times but I wondered if my clients would wait for my return from college or go elsewhere for their mowing services.
The grass at home would be flourishing by mid-May, and it would be getting out of hand by the time school ended. I thought most of them would wait because I was away at school. I knew the ones who weren’t bound to me by loyalty.
There would be summer practice, but I’d still spend enough time at home to continue mowing for my best clients. They trusted me to do a good job and I wasn’t ready to turn them over to someone else. I took pride in my work and I felt responsible for their lawns. It was no longer a question of money, because the fee for tutoring Andy provided all I needed. I made a mental note to call my father and have him tell my clients when I’d be home and ready to go back to work.
As was true most Sunday afternoons, the dorm was deserted when we returned from two hours of lawn care. Andy raced me to the shower and seemed happier than usual. We were going to study for two hours and then go out to eat and relax for the rest of the day.
As I got back to the room, he was right behind me, grabbing my arm at the door to swing me around so he could get in first. When I jumped back into his way he pulled at the waist of the towel I’d wrapped around myself and it dropped to the floor. When I stooped to pick it up to wrap it back around me, he was going into the room.
I fought him to keep his progress at a minimum and he used those long arms of his to keep his advantage. We wrestled each other and he pulled at my towel, tossing it across the room. He held me from behind as I turned to retrieve the shield that kept me from being naked. His height advantage allowed him to reach me when I wasn’t able to reach him, and he pulled me back away from the towel.
My naked ass ended up against his fluffy tan towel and there was an abrupt protrusion that became apparent to me as the smooth skin on his chest rubbed against the smooth skin on my back. I made it a point to allow him certain liberties without making any effort to remove my lower body from where we stood.
Having his arms around me with his body pressed close to mine, I wrestled less as he wrestled more. When we ended up on my bed with him on top of me, he lost his fluffy tan towel, which put his stiff prick against my seriously overheating skin. Staying behind me and getting no protest from me, he pushed his erection up the crack of my ass three times, as I was perfectly still.
His arms held him up as he panted from wrestling and the sudden onset of ardor that drove his desire for more. When he stopped moving, his cock against my hole, I swooned and realized I was every bit as erect as he was.
When he pushed himself up off me and reintroduced his towel to his waist, I looked in time to see his stiff cock in all its glory. He was fast to tuck it behind his towel as I wanted a better view and more of the same.
“You okay?” I asked, seeing the red blush in his skin.
“Not exactly. I’ve got a girlfriend,” he explained.
Nothing could explain his abrupt stop in the middle of one of the best moments of my entire life. I could feel my stomach turning over as my attraction and desire for him met the reality of the day.
“We’re too old to be doing that,” he said, turning away with nothing more to go on.
“When do you get too old to like someone?” I asked.
“I don’t know. We going to do English or History this afternoon?” he asked, putting on his glasses and picking up one of his books to put anything he could between us.
My heart pounded, my cock throbbed, and I thought I might puke. How can someone be that far gone and pull himself back in an instant. Being confused by boys was a full time job for me. From Ryan to Devon, I didn’t get it. I loved being close to someone and guys liked being close to me, but they kept stopping before they really got started. It seemed to me that being in a room with Andy after this was going to be the hardest thing I’d ever done. He was the nicest and sweetest guy I’d ever known, but we’d crossed a line and it wasn’t so easy for me to spring back onto the other side.
He sat at the computer and I stayed in my bed.
Balancing Act
There was a tension that grew up between Andy and me, once we lived together. I couldn’t forget how nice it was having him touch me. There was no repeat of our nude wrestling, even though I looked for ways to encourage him.
But living with him was still pleasant and way better than my old dorm. Instead of studying at the library until I was exhausted enough to sleep in spite of the noise, I now studied in my room. I was focused on a paper that would account for a large potion of my grade in English. The quiet made working a breeze.
Andy was nervous when I didn’t stop what I was doing to help him as soon as he decided to open one of his books. Several times he hit me with something that was due in short order, forcing me to set aside my own work to make certain he passed his classes. I reminded myself not to let his procrastination bother me. I was there to help him and that’s what I intended to do, even when he made a habit of waiting before asking me for help. I encouraged him to let me know about his assignments so we could plan our study time better, but it was always the same last minute rush. I was smart enough to have had some instruction on almost everything he needed to learn, and this was invaluable in expediting my learning sessions with him.
One of my best classes was English and it was his worst. No matter what we discussed and studied, the next day the same information baffled him again. Andy was not stupid, but working with him was frustrating to the max. I remained calm and ended up completing my studies long after he was asleep. If he became ineligible my own future would be in doubt.
We lost the next three games in a row. While I didn’t make any errors, the second baseman dropped two of my throws, which were the front part of what should have been double plays. One time he recovered fast enough to make the out at second but neither ended in a double play. He was unhappy with me and I told him to hold on to the ball and he might have a better disposition. Coach Bell told us to cool it, suggesting the throws were fine, but not saying more.
Two of the three loses were blowouts, 9-3 and 5-0. I bunted twice, struck out four times and walked twice. Neither bunt accomplished anything but making an out. I was confident in my fielding, but I dreaded coming to bat and being replaced in the fifth or sixth inning each game. Coach Bell had no more comments for me and that was both good and bad in my mind.
It was the following Sunday that Andy and I went out to mow the grass on the varsity diamond, after a couple of evening hitting sessions late in the week. We didn’t talk about the feelings that we’d been dealing with since meeting. I caught him watching me at times and he caught me looking at him a lot. There was no sign of any change in direction. We were both depressed when the baseball team slipped below the .500 percentage in wins to loses.
We ended up wrestling on the freshly mowed lawn. Andy always ended up behind me with his face pressed against mine as he kept me from getting up. I wasn’t trying all that hard and we mostly laughed a lot and enjoyed the closeness. I didn’t want to upset him by pointing this out, but he wasn’t working all that rigorously on the relationship with his girlfriend. I’d been holding all my feelings inside me for what seemed like forever and I wasn’t made of metal, but moving the wrong way could spell disaster to my college aspirations.
I could feel his heart beating against me as he prodded my backside with the bulge in his jeans. For a few minutes I stayed still, enjoying the contact. I made no serious effort to slip the grip he had on me and he knew that. Our giggling was the only thing that said we weren’t serious as far as wrestling was concerned, but that’s not all that was concerned.
He got up first and took the mower back to the shed and I got up and collected the tools I’d been trimming with. The chat and laughter of our Sunday morning chore left us as we walked back to the dorm. It was a little cooler than the week before with the sun appearing and disappearing into the mostly cloudy skies. We had a game Monday afternoon, but the forecast was for rain.
Andy told me of the paper he had due in English the following week. We showered and sat in front of his computer as we constructed a paper that was indicative of his ability and not mine. I was dressed in a clean pair of boxers and he was still wrapped in his towel. Keeping my mind on the paper was going to take some focus.
We discussed his understanding of his assignment and I jotted down ideas while he looked into his textbook at what the class was studying. As I typed the information he leaned forward to see the words. His bare leg leaned against mine, making it more difficult for me to concentrate. When he finished reading he leaned back thoughtfully, leaving his leg against mine.
The heat he furnished through that little contact was enough to push the idea of putting on a shirt out of my head. The slight coolness in the air was welcome as my body flushed from his touch. There was no way to know if he was experiencing a similar pleasure from our legs leaning together. I didn’t move my leg and he left his in place once he leaned back to give some thought to what he was reading.
His upper body wasn’t tight and lean compared to Chance’s upper body. You could see where Chance’s power was built into his arms and shoulders. Andy wasn’t defined in that way but even with a larger torso, he was relatively fat free. His shoulders were the widest part of a well-proportioned body. His hips were almost too small for his body but his thighs were thick and more defined than the rest of him.
Above his knees Andy’s legs were hairless. Blond wiry hair covered his lower legs. By the time he leaned back the third or fourth time, he was pushing down on the front of his towel, using his thumb and first two fingers to move the bulging to one side or another. As quick as he released it, the towel slowly began to rise in the same spot where it first appeared.
He couldn’t help but notice that I noticed, but he made no move to readjust the seating arrangement to where we were no longer touching. His clear vivid blue eyes watched me typing and his leg kept me toasty warm. As I leaned to see the words I’d put on the screen, he leaned to see them as well. Our faces touched as they did when we wrestled and he held me from behind. He hadn’t shaved yet that day and I detected an ever so slight roughness near his chin.
I turned my face a little, but it was enough to allow our lips to touch. His eyes left the screen and became aware of how we touched. There was no movement in the instant before I decided to take the kiss that was on our lips. I suppose there were a million good reasons not to kiss him and only one reason why I should, but the one won out.
I kissed him and put my left arm on the bare skin of his back. He made no attempt to move away from me. His lips moved as mine moved against his. His right arm hung over the arm I had around him. His left hand ended up on my thigh. His mouth responded and opened as I experimented with where my lips, tongue, and lust belonged. He helped me figure it all out.
“We aren’t making much progress with your paper,” I said, having progressively more trouble breathing.
“It’s time for a break,” he said, standing up and pulling me to my feet.
I left the keyboard behind me on my chair as our bodies came together. He kissed me this time and I kissed back. Both of my arms slipped around him. Thinking became something I traded in for feeling. My body was exploding with feelings. I tingled in places I’d never tingled before. Every place our bare bodies touched heightened the excitement. He held me close to his body and there was no longer any cooler air to be found in the room. We furnished enough heat to wawrm the entire dorm.
We ended up on the bed with me on my back and him on top of me. He’d stripped off his towel, and I felt his ass and lower back as we kissed fervently. We spent the next hour in my bed, speechless. It was the kind of experience I only expected once.
It seemed like the perfect timing to discover what little was left to learn about the other. Being close to him, or closer to him, created a new level of awareness about him. What came before those intimate moments no longer mattered. Sharing intimacy with him removed what little distance remained between us.
We got up, brushed ourselves off, and tackled his paper again. It somehow got finished in between breaks that always ended with us in my bed, exploring new ways to kiss. Andy was one of the nicest people I had ever known and now I knew him better than anyone. I fell asleep reading from my economics textbook late that night. When I woke up Andy was back in my bed and the textbook was on the floor.
I woke him for long enough to get him under the blanket with me and I fell asleep in his arms. I’d never felt so content as I did that night, but it was over and the sun was shining through the window far too soon. I felt like I’d just fallen asleep, but sleeping wasn’t what we did so well together.
On Monday we had an afternoon game. We were all edgy because losing creates discontent. It rained. We sat in Cornwall’s locker room, us on one side and Cornwall on the other. Andy and I kept looking at each other. I put my hand over the front of my game pants. The fellow sitting next to me got up to get a drink from the water fountain just outside the door. Andy got up and sat down beside me to ask me about the paper we’d finished the night before. We were packed in like sardines and Andy let his leg lean against mine. I smiled at nothing, staring off into the distance, feeling content. Let it rain.
The game was rescheduled and Andy and I sat together on the bus ride home. It rained even harder that night, which made for great sleeping weather, except we didn’t sleep. I woke late and raced across campus for my economics test. By the time I got there the time left for the test was less than thirty minutes.
“Mr. Dooley, you are skating on thin ice with me. Do you understand how important this test is to your grade?” the economics teacher whispered as he handed me the multiple choice test questions.”
“I’m really sorry. We went all the way to Cornwall and the game was rained out. I didn’t get to sleep until late,” I explained without giving him the details of how long it took to make love, when you were just learning where things went.
When it was time to leave I kept answering questions until everyone else had handed in their test. Then, I jumped up and raced to the front of the class, caring my jacket, my test, and the books I’d grabbed before leaving my room.
“Go back, Mr. Dooley. You have another twenty-seven minutes coming to you. I don’t want Coach Bell up here chewing on my ass,” he announced as I returned to my seat in the back of the room.
With five minutes to spare I finished the second half of the test. I put on my jacket and strolled to his desk.
“Okay, now how about winning a game or two before season’s end. We depend on alumni contributions to keep us well funded. They always feel more generous when you fellows win.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief once I made it to the hall.
I raced to my next class and got the same long unhappy look when I interrupted with my late entry. The professor stood silent until I made my way to the only empty seat I could find. Luckily there was no test and no reminder that I should be prompt or not bother to come at all. For the most part it was up to me to be where I belonged when I was supposed to be there. On the days I missed classes to travel for a game there were special arrangements made to furnish me any of the work I missed and a modest amount of time to get it done.
I really didn’t have trouble with my grades but missing tests was never a good idea. No one wanted to be the only student in the room taking a makeup test, but if it came to that it wasn’t unusual for athletes to be extended a little wiggle room.
When I got back to the room, Andy was still asleep in my bed. He wanted me to get in bed with him until I told him it was almost noon. We did our kissing standing up and he dressed so we could eat before our afternoon classes.
Later that week we faced Greenwood at home. The day was clear and cool with no sign of rain. In the first inning the first batter hit a single past me into left field. The second batter hit the first pitch right at me. It bounced once next to the pitcher’s mound and I was on the move, scooping it up and tossing it as quick as I could to second and he shot it to first for the double play.
I had been graduated to the second spot in the lineup and I walked on five pitches before the pitcher was in his grove. The third batter up hit a single out of the reach of Greenwood’s shortstop. I stopped on second and Andy came to bat. He looked out at the pitcher and beyond, smiling when he saw me.
The pitcher took a real risk by throwing his fastball down the center of the plate. Andy swung and missed but he looked damn good doing it. He swung his bat a few times before stepping back in for the next pitch. I took a couple of steps off second base and watched to see how far off first the other runner went. There were two straight balls. One was high and outside and the other was low and away. On the third pitch he went back to his fastball and Andy was waiting for it.
He took that roundhouse swing that rocked him back onto his heels before he tossed the bat down and headed toward first. By the time he got there the ball had gone over the fence in left centerfield. He trotted around the bases and we greeted him at the plate. We never looked back, winning 7-2. We were delighted after the losing streak and the rain that had depressed all of us.
Coach Bell was delighted and kept hitting me early, going against his theory that he needed to bring me up late so I batted fewer times. As the second batter I walked a bit more often than before. I had made several singles and a double to get my average over .200 for the first time. My glove kept me in the lineup except when we fell more than two runs behind, and then, he pinch hit for me.
After the game Andy and I went to the cafeteria for dinner. We sat off to one side and spent a lot of time chewing and staring at one another. I don’t remember what was for dinner but if you didn’t ask, you usually couldn’t be sure what you were getting. Sometimes you had to read the tags that were loosely fastened to spot where they set the food for us to take. Many times they didn’t hit the right spot with what they were laying out, so your mac and cheese might actually be rice pudding. Interesting enough you couldn’t tell the difference half the time.
Andy turned in his paper and we actually did study some each night, but admittedly we were both far more interested in studying each other’s bodies than the knowledge that came from our books. I could refresh my own memory of high school classes to tell Andy what would likely end up on his tests. He didn’t get all that much homework so we devoted all our study time to details in English and History.
We put together three wins in a row and went back above .500 in the league standings. Mr. Philmore smiled and told me I had done a good job, which came out to a B plus on the test, but he was talking about the games we’d won. Until the day of the test I didn’t know he even knew I was on the baseball team.
The world is a far larger place than small town boys realize. Even when you go away to college you don’t immediately know how many people might be aware of you. I proposed that concept to Andy and he thought that as long as we knew each other, he wasn’t bothered about the rest of the world, and he wasn’t.
Andy was never distracted or out of sorts, which wasn’t true of myself. I thought a lot about who I was and what I was becoming. Baseball was far more important than I’d calculated it would be when I left home for college. Up until the last couple of months of the school year, baseball was a game I played, but then, I learned that baseball was at the center of what I did at school, in my bed, and on the field.
Go figure.
My freshman year at State ended with a notice to return at the end of July for summer practice. I’d spend a couple of months at home and then I’d come back to see what my sophomore year would look like.
The thought of leaving Andy was hard and I suggested he come home with me for a few days to see where I lived, not to mntion sleeping in my bed with me in his arms and the door locked. I got no answer and the final few days I waited patiently without bugging him about what I wanted him to do. He was the thing primarily on my mind, once all my tests and papers were handed in.
“Well, have you thought about it?” I asked the next to last day.
“What?”
“Are you coming home to see where I lived or not?”
“You asked me, didn’t you. Of course I am. How long we been sleeping together. I’ve got to tell you I’m going to be in your bed until you throw me out, Do. It’s not something we need to talk about. Is it?”
Of course it wasn’t. I told him I thought Chance and Wertz were coming up to replace some of the graduating varsity players. He didn’t know how Coach Bell made his decision but Wertz played right or left and Andy wasn’t interested in giving up his left field perch. We had an idea of what the team might look like with so many graduating and Coach Bell was obviously looking to build his team with the players he’d recommended for scholarships. The last few weeks he’d spent a lot of time on the road, taking a look see at the next crop of high school players. We’d be ready early and I was excited about our prospects.