Date: Mon, 13 Feb 2012 11:21:32 -0800 (PST)
From: Joe Hunter <hunterjoe45@yahoo.com>
Subject: Baseball Diamond Tails -  5A

All the usual disclaimers apply:

+This story is a work of fiction.  If you think it is real, you have a very
active imagination.

+Do not read this story if you live in an area where it is illegal to do
so.

+Scenes of sexual activity between an adult male and a young boy are
represented.  Do not read further if this offends you.

+Please do not imitate the actions portrayed herein - the author cannot
accept responsibility for any actions promoted by this story.

If you would like to get in touch, please e-mail me at:

			hunterjoe45@yahoo.com

I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Support Nifty!   Joe

____________________________


BASEBALL DIAMOND TAILS - 5A
(copyright 2012, Joe Hunter)

Baseball - the Great American Game, the national pastime...  As much myth
and legend as it is sport...  All over the country, every summer afternoon,
the kids come on their bikes or get dropped off by a parent for team
practice - and there they receive traditions handed down from coach to
player; the traditions and experiences that are the heart of baseball.

Not all the drama and great plays are in the major leagues.  Some OF the
most exciting are done by young boys on ragged diamonds with only a handful
of spectators to witness.  Those exploits go unrecorded, yet I want to
believe that the diamonds themselves remember.  The small fields and
sandlots...  What stories they could tell if only we knew how to listen!
They might speak of a little second baseman's courage, taking a hot
grounder to the face and still making the play; or perhaps they would
describe the fear a young boy must overcome to stand in against fast
pitching when the game is on the line...  The eternal challenge of
performance and competition...

I coach on the new field now; shiny aluminum stands, lights for night
games, spacious dugouts, grass kept green by a modern sprinkler system -
all the little extras.  I'm not complaining.  But on occasion, in the long
summer twilight when fireflies are dancing, I wander down to the old
baseball diamond and sit on a crumbling wooden bleacher staring out at the
pitcher's mound and the overgrown infield...  Listening for the memories...
Waiting for the voices I once knew so well to come to me again out of the
darkness...


:::::::::::::::::::::
 Third Base: Part A :::::::::::::::::::::

"Coach, I had to make a little change to your roster."

It was draft night.  We were getting our team lists from the league
president and the old man avoided my eyes when handing me mine.  I knew
exactly what that meant.

"You've assigned a player to me."

"Yes," and he added hastily, "But he's not going to hurt you.  He's twelve
and he's played before."

This relieved my worst fear - that I had been saddled with some little
spazz who had never seen a baseball, let alone handled one, whose parents
were important enough to get special treatment.  More than once I had been
expected to pass a miracle with kids like that.  Having the reputation as
the coach who could deal with 'problem cases' was not an advantage.

But the league president was reassuring.  "This boy's father was a manager
where they used to live, and he wants to coach here.  I know you don't have
an assistant yet, so..."

"You assigned him to me."

I took the roster, ran my finger down the list and saw the new name at the
bottom: Edwin Morales, 12.

Much became clear.  The boy was Mex, and so presumably was his father.

Our community had few racial problems, but what discrimination existed was
directed at Mexican-Americans.  With the kids I knew there would be no
problem.  Given the right example the kids would be fine.  But a Mexican
adult coaching the sons of Anglos...  Well, it was a different thing.
Probably also not a problem, provided it was handled right.  And that was
exactly what my good-hearted league president wanted - for it to be handled
right.

I smiled at the old man.  He had given all of his retirement to the cause
of youth sports and I liked him enormously.  "Don't worry," I assured him.
"Everything will be fine.  I'm sure Mr. Morales will be a fine assistant
and I could really use the help."

"I knew I could count on you, Coach."

With a relieved look he gave me a quick squeeze on the arm and then called
the meeting to order.  I sat down with the other team managers to make my
draft picks, confident that things would turn out well in the new season.
T was wrong as it turned out.  There were problems, but not the ones I
anticipated.

Monday was our first full team practice and I met my new assistant.
Edwin's father, Esteban, was a big bear of a man with dark eyes, thick
black hair that he wore brushed back and a friendly grin.

"Everyone calls me Pepe," he told me as we shook hands.

The moment we started talking about practice organization I knew I had
lucked out in getting him.  Pepe was knowledgeable about baseball - a
quality all too rare in the eager beaver dads I occasionally got stuck with
- and right from the beginning he got along with all the kids, even the new
shy 11-year-old rookies.  From the way he followed my lead setting up the
opening drill, the two of us might have been working together for years.

With everything going so well it came as a bit of a shock to discover that
Pepe was great with other people's kids, but totally incapable of coaching
his own.  It was like Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde.  He was patient and kind when
the other boys made mistakes, but with Edwin he would scream, yell and
erupt in long strings of Spanish curse words.  In the very first drill he
cuffed the boy, not hard, but contact was contact so I took him aside.

"Pepe," I told him.  "I have great respect for you as a coach.  And, of
course, you always have the last word on Edwin as his father.  But I must
ask you never to strike him or any other boy, while they are here under my
authority."

He was instantly contrite.  "You are right, Coach.  You are right.  I beg
your forgiveness.  If you only knew my frustration.  I promise it shall
never happen again."

It did not.  But the verbal abuse went on.

As for the boy himself, Edwin was a walking disaster area.

I had been talking to my veteran center fielder, the unofficial Team
Captain, when Edwin and his father drove up and got out of their truck.

"Ah no, Coach," my center fielder groaned.  "Don't tell me we got stuck
with Goofy on our team."

"Who?"

"Him."  The boy pointed.  "The Mex kid.  Goofy."

"That's not a very nice name," I said, frowning.

"That's what they call him at school.  Tell me he's not on the team,
Coach."

"Well, he is.  And I better not hear anyone call him Goofy."

"But Coach, that's his name!"  The boy protested.

"Not here it isn't."

I looked over at Edwin, studying him.  He was tall, very skinny and I could
see how he had gotten his name.  He did look 'goofy'.

Nature had played some cruel tricks on Edwin.  He had been born with a
harelip and an eye condition called strabismus.  Both had been corrected
with surgery, but the harelip had left a scar, and one of the boy's eyes
did not quite track with the other.  His vision was fine, but the slightly
off-track pupil gave him a strange look.

As if this were not enough, Edwin's other features were unattractive.  Lank
black hair surmounted a monkey-like face with sparse black fuzz just
visible on his upper lip.  The rest of his body was hairless except for the
lower arms and legs, where a few black strands could be found as well.

He was quite tall.  You had to keep reminding yourself that he was only
twelve because he looked about fourteen.  And he was so spectacularly thin
he might have been a survivor from some concentration camp.  In fact, with
his skull like face and knobby, skinny frame, he appeared so emaciated I
made a tactful visit to his home around suppertime just to see if he was
being fed properly.  I covered this investigative mission by bringing
scorebooks and schedules for Pepe, but I really was worried that the poor
kid might be starving.  It was with some relief that I watched him clean up
two helpings of rice and beans.

"I feed him and feed him," his mother, who was Anglo, told me desperately,
"But he's still so thin!"

"He's growing," I told her.  "In a year you'll see a difference.  He's
going to be tall, like his dad."  I reached over and ruffled Edwin's black
hair.  "I bet he's going to be strong, too."

The boy gave me a shy grateful smile and suddenly he wasn't ugly at all.

Rapid growth was, in fact, Edwin's biggest problem.  Like many Hispanic
boys, he had hit the big adolescent growth spurt early and shot up so fast
the rest of him was still struggling to catch up.  He had the long-legged
coltish appearance boys get when they go through this stage, and it was
exaggerated even more by his height.  The boy's head came nearly to my
shoulder and his legs were proportionately spindly and long, but his upper
body was like a little kid's.  It made him clumsy.  Edwin just did not know
where all of his parts were at any given time.

I comprehended this at a glance during that first practice.  Poor Edwin had
probably been a reasonably good ballplayer at age nine, ten and even eleven
before his body had betrayed him.  Now he tripped over himself running in
the outfield and every fly ball was an adventure.  When he tried to bend
down to glove a grounder the ungainly effort would put him off balance and
his subsequent throw to a base would fly wide of the mark, unleashing
another torrent of Spanish invective from his father.

Fortunately his hitting was not too bad.  He lacked the shoulder strength
to crush the ball, but he got respectable contact, and even though his eyes
appeared to be going in different directions there was nothing wrong with
the way judged incoming pitches.

In that first practice I was unsure where to begin with Edwin, so I decided
to deal with the most obvious thing - the teasing.  I had been hearing
little pieces of it all through the drills, never in my immediate presence
or I would have collared the offenders.  Edwin had not reacted in any way,
but I figured it had to be bothering him.

My chance finally came at the end during a snappy situation/base running
drill that the boys liked, so I often saved it for last.  A few parents had
already arrived to pick up their sons and they stood at the side watching
with interest.  When it was Edwin's turn to be a runner his legs got
tangled trying to make a turn at first to go to second base.  He sprawled
heavily in the base path, scrambled up and gamely kept going, but the throw
beat him, which lost his team a point.

"Run much, 'ya goofy spic?" a shrill voice yelled out.  There was some
muffled laughter.

I knew exactly who had made the remark.  It was my top 11-year-old draft
pick; a cocky kid - one of the reasons I drafted him.

"Well," I thought to myself, "Figures it would be one of the 11-year-olds.
The veterans know better."  I took a quick glance at the parents waiting on
the sidelines.  There was no way I wanted them in on this.

I stopped the drill and, pointing to a spot way out in left field, ordered,
"Everybody over by the old fence."  Then, when I saw that some of the boys
were moving slowly, I snapped, "Right now!"

Turning to the parents I announced, "We're finishing up today with a team
meeting.  Won't take long."

As I trotted out to where the boys were waiting I reminded myself not to
intimidate them or lose my temper.

My center fielder was saying something to the first round draft pick but
they broke it off as I came up.  I happened to have a baseball in my hand
so I tossed it up and down, looking at faces, building up the tension,
making them all wait.

Then I began -

"What we're going to talk about right now is private.  Just among us - the
guys on this team.  It's not to be discussed with anyone else.  Not your
parents, not your brothers and sisters, not your friends - not anybody.
Got it?"

There was a chorus of, "Yes, Coach."  All the heads bobbed.

"All right." I looked around, calm, but serious enough to let them know
this was important.  "I'm only going to ask this once.  Who made that
remark?  You know the one I mean.  Whoever it was, tell me now."

There was silence.  I waited, turning my head to watch each boy, hoping the
first round draft pick would admit to it, because if he did not I was going
to have to remove him from the team.

My unofficial Captain, the center fielder, was looking around, too.  He was
well aware of the situation and, not wanting to see the season go right
down the drain before it even started, said, "We'll talk to him, Coach."

But I shook my head.  "I need to hear it from him."

There was more silence.  I was about to give up hope when the first-round
pick put his hand up.

"I said it, Coach."  He did not sound cocky now.

I nodded, keeping my face neutral, but I was very relieved.  "OK.  That was
the right thing to do.  Step up and admit it.  I won't take you off the
team, but we need to talk about this.  What you said was very, very wrong
and I'm going to tell you why."  I looked around at all the boys again.
"In two weeks you're gonna' be out on the league field, playing other teams
in games that count.  Every one of those teams has kids just as good as
you, and some even better.  The only hope you've got of winning those games
is to play like a team.  Not one of you guys - not one - can play this game
by yourself.  Baseball is a team game.  More than any other sport, it
requires you to function closely with others whose skills and personalities
are different from your own.  A team that can't learn to function as a
whole is just a collection of nine guys.  It might win a few games, but not
any big ones."

I scanned the faces, making eye contact with each boy.  I had them now.
They were all paying attention, even the veterans who had heard it before.

"Nothing," I said smacking the baseball into my palm, "Nothing is more
destructive of team spirit that for one player to make fun of another,
especially when that boy is trying his best.  It's never right to make fun
of anybody, but to say something mean to a player on your own team?
Someone who's trying the best he can to help the team and improve himself?
That is cowardly, destructive and dead wrong."

I turned to my draft pick.  "Those are pretty harsh words.  I don't mean
them for you personally because I don't believe you're any of those things.
In fact, I drafted you because I know you're not like that."  Then I
pointed at each of my other 11-year-old draft picks.  "Or you, or you, or
you...  I know more about each of you than you might think."

I let the message sink in for a moment, and then I turned back to my number
one 11-year-old.  "You said what you did because you haven't learned yet
how important team spirit is - and how wrong it is to say things like that.
But that's exactly why you're here.  To learn.  And that's why I'm here.
To teach.  There isn't a single boy on this team who doesn't make mistakes
in practice.  Not one of you is perfect.  But I swear that as long as you
try your best, no coach and no player will make fun of you or tease you.
And the more you guys support each other, the better you'll play, the more
you'll improve and the more games this team will win!"

My number one draft pick was staring at me, looking solemn and very
serious.  "OK," I told him, "You owned up to what you did.  That was the
right thing to do and I was sure you would, because that's the kind of kid
I know you are.  Now you need to do one more thing and I think you know
what it is."

We all waited.  The boy swallowed, and then turned to Edwin and put his
hand out.  "Sorry, Edwin," he said humbly.  "I shouldn't have said that
stuff.  I was being a jerk."

Edwin took his hand with a shy smile.  "That's OK," he mumbled.

I gave both boys a pat on the shoulder and then told the group, "Like I
said - this is strictly private between us, right guys?"

There was a chorus of, "Right, Coach."

"Pretty good first practice, guys.  But there's a lotta' work to do before
you're the kick ass team I know you can be - and there's only two weeks to
opening day.  Long pants tomorrow for sliding drills!  Edwin, it looks like
you already know how to slide, but we'll have to teach you to get closer to
second before you hit the dirt."

This got a chuckle from all the boys, including Edwin.  I put my fist out
and they piled hands on it.  "Nice one guys.  I'll see you tomorrow.  Team,
on three!"

The boys gave a quick cheer and started walking back toward the parked
cars, but I gestured for my centerfielder, shortstop, first baseman and the
11-year-old ace to stay with me.  Nodding to the 11-year-old first I gave
his shoulder a quick squeeze.  "I'm proud of you."

Then I looked at all four boys.  "Does Edwin get teased like that at
school?"

Heads nodded.  "He gets razzed a lot," the centerfielder said.

"OK.  I want that stopped.  I don't care if you have to fight the whole
fifth and sixth grades.  It stops.  Any kid that teases him has to deal
with you guys.  I better see some black eyes and busted lips here
tomorrow."

My shortstop, a rangy 12-year-old who lived on a ranch outside town and
rodeo'd when he was not playing baseball smiled happily.  "All right!"

"I want you guys with him all the time.  You live with him.  You don't even
let him go to the boys' room without you.  You got it?"

They all nodded solemnly.

"Every one of you is to make friends with him.  The poor kid could probably
use a few.  And make sure every other boy on this team is on his side.
This is important, don't let me down on this.  On paper you guys are be the
best squad I ever coached.  Even better than last season.  But we have to
be a team.  OK?"

They all nodded again and my tough little shortstop was grinning.  "From
now on," he said, "Just call us the five amigos."

The teasing did stop after that - at practice, at school, everywhere.  I
knew because I checked with my private sources: teachers and a few older
Hispanic kids from Edwin's neighborhood, kids that I had coached in
previous years.

"Edwin is much happier now," one of them told me, a boy I had been very
close with when he was younger and who now played on the local American
Legion ball club.  "Edwin really likes you a lot, Coach," he said smiling.
"He talks about you all the time."

"Keep an eye on him, will you?  And get your batting average up over 400
this summer.  I know you can do it."

The boy nodded.  "I think I can, too.  Coach, when you comin' over to work
with the Legion Team?"

I grinned at him.  "As soon as school's over I'll be there for a few days
during your batting skills week.  But the Legion Team is for the high
school coaches to manage."

"You're better than any of them," my ex-ballplayer assured me.  "I told
Edwin how lucky he is that you are his coach.  I also told him he does not
need to be shy with you."

"Thanks."

The boy touched fists with me.

With the teasing out of the way, I went to work on another problem.  Only
time would improve Edwin's gawky coordination, but I could do something
about the skinniness.  Without telling his father, I began to supplement
him, using as helpers my centerfielder and first baseman.

"Every day," I told them, holding up a plastic bottle of protein drink and
a foil package of the unmixed powder.  "Every day, you're gonna' find this
in the back seat of my SUV.  As soon as Edwin gets here for practice you
make him drink what's in the bottle.  Wait till his dad's busy coaching."

"What about that?"  The centerfielder pointed to the foil package.

"That you bring to school the next day.  You mix it into his milk at lunch
and make him drink it then."

"Geez, Coach," the first baseman said doubtfully.  "I don't know.  What if
it, like, tastes bad and he won't drink it?"

"It doesn't taste bad," I told him in no uncertain terms.  "And you'll make
him drink it if you have to sit on him and pour it down his throat.  And
don't waste this stuff!  It costs a fortune."

From then on, at the start of every practice, I would see three boys slip
off to my truck and sneak back a minute later with Edwin wiping his mouth.

Pepe's verbal abuse of Edwin was something else I wanted to change, but no
simple solution presented itself.  The older man, an excellent coach in
every other way, seemed unable to restrain himself.  Whenever we talked
about it he always acknowledged that it was wrong but then something at the
next practice would set him off and another torrent of abuse would spew
forth.  Given the situation there were limits on what I could enforce, so
strategy was called for.

The trick was to keep Pepe and Edwin separated.  As often as possible I
arranged practice so the 12-year-olds were with me and Pepe had the 11 year
olds, or else I drilled infielders and pitchers while Pepe hit fly balls to
the outfielders.  Since Edwin was in the 12-year-old group and assigned to
third base, this put him with me most of the time.

Third base had been arrived at as the position for Edwin by a process of
elimination.  Clumsy running made it difficult for him to cover the
outfield.  His fielding was not a good enough for shortstop, but too good
for second base, a position I reserved for the weaker 11-year-olds.
Catcher was out because of his tall gawky build, and I already had a star
first baseman - so third base it was.

My ideal player for the hot corner was a tough, aggressive type that could
take a line drive to the face, spit out a few teeth and nail the runner at
first.  Edwin did not come close to fitting that profile, but he tried hard
and always did his best.  The awkwardness caused a fair number of fielding
errors but I made sure good players were always backing him up in left
field, either my 12-year-old rodeo star or else the top 11-year-old draft
pick, and it was interesting to watch Edwin work because he was always well
positioned, even when unable to make the play.  The boy's baseball
instincts were excellent.  You could see the ghost of the confident
ballplayer he had once been and hopefully would be again once the ravages
of adolescents had had their way with him.

His big problem was the throw to first - psychologically the toughest throw
for a boy to make at that level of play.  The distance across the long
diagonal of the diamond was at the limit of a 12-year-old arm and only a
perfect throw could put out a runner on our short base paths.  A third
baseman needed plenty of hustle to have a chance.

Edwin was doubly jinxed.  Awkwardness usually had him off balance when he
made the throw and nervous lack of confidence made him rush.  His throws
were never online and that set up a vicious circle.  He would make a bad
throw, his father would yell at him, this would create even more anxiety
and the next throw would be worse.  I foresaw some real problems if the
cycle started up in a game.

My worst fears were dramatically confirmed in our first exhibition match
against a team coached by a friend of mine.  Edwin started at third base
and in the very first inning made a nice little stop on a grounder hit to
his left.  But he was way off balance when he came up for the throw.  The
ball sailed by the first baseman's outstretched glove and wild confusion
followed by a flurry of errors resulted in the runner getting all the way
around the bases to score.

I thought Pepe was going to have a stroke.  He directed a volley of rapid
Spanish at Edwin and the kid just wilted.  From then on, no matter how hard
he tried, he couldn't make a play.  Even his hitting was awful.  By the
third inning he was one bad play away from bawling in front of everyone and
no boy can endure that kind of humiliation.

Pull a rabbit out of the hat right now, I told myself, or else you're
gonna' lose a ballplayer.

I called time and trotted over to my buddy, the other coach, pretending to
be checking substitutions in the lineup.  "Listen," I pleaded.  "Do me a
huge favor.  Tell your batter to try a swinging bunt up the third-base
line.  For God's sake don't let him hit it too hard."

My friend, a grade school teacher who knew kids, nodded sympathetically.
"You got it," he said and went over to his player at home plate.

On my way back to the third-base dugout I stopped for a talk with Edwin.
"Play in on this guy," I told the boy.  "I think he may try a bunt."

Edwin nodded and moved up a little.  The poor kid was so tense his hands
were shaking.

The batter took an easy swing on the next pitch and the ball went hopping
toward third.  I held my breath.  As always Edwin was well positioned.  He
bent down to glove the ball, staggered a little, steadied himself, and then
made a throw to first that was a bit off-line, but my lanky first baseman
stretched out to grab it and the runner was out.

"Nice one, nice one," I called from the dugout.

I saw my shortstop say something to Edwin and the skinny boy gave him a shy
little smile.

Taking no chances I substituted at the end of that inning, juggling the
lineup to get Edwin out of the game.  I had intended to let him play the
entire thing, but it was much wiser to quit while I was ahead.

This close brush with total disaster worried me and I tried to spend even
more practice time with Edwin in an attempt to build up his confidence.
The tall awkward boy was easy to coach.  He listened with eager
attentiveness to everything I told him and he was pathetically grateful for
any attention.  Praise always earned me that shy little smile that lit up
his dark eyes.  It was hard to remember how ugly he was when he did that.

I changed my infield strategy to minimize damage from bad throws.  "With
runners on base," I told Edwin, "I want you to always try for the lead
runner.  If you can't get him, than you hold the ball.  Don't throw it."

The boy nodded solemnly, eyes locked on mine.

"If you do throw to first base," I continued, "I want you to count, one,
two, before you throw.  It doesn't matter if you don't get the runner.  I
want you to count before you throw.  Do it for me."

"1, 2," the boy said.

"No.  Too fast.  Try again.  A slow count."

"Onnne, twooo," Edwin counted.

"Yes."  I patted his shoulders.  "That's how I want it.  Just like that
every time."

I found a nickname for him: "Gatto", Spanish for cat.  I invented it during
an infield drill after a particularly nice play he made on a hot grounder.

"That's the way, Tiger!"  I yelled.  "That's the way to move out there.
Like a big cat!"

I could tell from his body language that this pleased him, so I kept it up
all through the drill.  "Way to go, Edwin!" I kept yelling.  "Way to get
the ball.  Pounce on it like a big cat!"

I could hear him talking to himself after that.  "Gatto," he would say
quietly as he waited for the ball.  "Grrrr..."

He seemed a lot more confident during that drill so afterwards, when I
walked past him, I gave his bony shoulders a hug.  "Gatto," I said, smiling
at him.

The boy looked delighted and went, "Grrrrr..."

From then on that was my pet name for him.

Things began to go a little better in practice and I had hopes the worst
might be over.  I tried talking to his father again.  "Edwin's really
coming along well, Pepe.  He's making good progress."

"I wish he would make good progress in school," Pepe growled back.  "His
grades are terrible."  With Pepe it was always something.

"I think you should ease up a little," I told him.  "Give Edwin some nice
words.  He's trying very hard."

My burly assistant sighed and gave me a rueful look.  "Well, you're
probably right, Coach.  My wife, she tells me the same.  I am too hard on
him.  I will try it your way."

So for a while it was better and I moved on to all the other distractions a
manager had to deal with.  Then came the Saturday of our first game and I
discovered how far I was from solving any of Edwin's problems.  In fact,
everything got worse.

The calamities that day unloaded in two installments: the events of the
afternoon, which were bad enough, and then what came after that evening,
which really put things over the edge.

We had the noon game on that opening Saturday and, anxious to start the
season with a win, I went with my best lineup even though I judged the
other team to be a weak one.  League rules required that every boy play at
least half the game so with a fourteen kid roster I would have to make
substitutions, but my very best players would stay in and as extra
insurance I started my best pitcher, figuring I could pull him once we got
a comfortable lead and save his innings for later use.

This was a great plan, but we never got that far ahead.  What the other
team lacked in talent they made up for in sheer grit, battling back
whenever we got a lead and giving us a real scrap.

Part of our trouble was Edwin.  Initially he did fine and made a few nice
plays, following all the instructions I had given him, but then in the
third inning with two outs and a runner on second base everything fell
apart.  A ground ball was driven up the line to his right.  Edwin scooped
it cleanly, thus saving an extra base hit that would have certainly scored
a run.  I was about to yell, "Nice one!" when I saw that he was going to
try for an out at first.

It was possible.  The safe option was to hold the ball, preventing any
advance by the runner at second, but a perfect throw would put out the
batter, ending the inning.  Unfortunately Edwin's rushed, off-balance throw
was way over our first baseman's head.  It went bouncing off into the
parking lot, the umpire allowed the runners to move up on the overthrow and
both of them subsequently went on to score before we could get a third out.
In the dugout Pepe let Edwin have it with all the other kids listening.

After that nothing went right for him.  An easy ground ball went under his
glove and then he nearly had his head taken off by a whistling line drive
that rolled to the fence in the outfield.  I tried to buck him up, as did
his friends, but nothing helped.  Then came the base running error that
almost lost us the game.

We were down by a run at the time, but there was only one out, our best
hitters were up, so when Edwin stroked a single through the right side and
then went to second on a wild pitch I was confident we could bring him
around to score and tie the game.

"All right!  Here we go!" I yelled, giving the batter a sign to hit away.
This was my veteran rodeo star and he responded with a towering fly ball
that arched out over left center field.

Our base runners were drilled for these situations.  On fly balls with less
than two outs they were to go only halfway down the base path so they could
retreat safely if there was a catch.  With two outs they could turn on the
jets, go for broke and hope the fielder missed the ball!

Edwin had lost track of the number of outs and thought there were two
instead of one.  Partly this was my fault because it was my job as third
base coach to make sure he knew the situation.  But I was watching the
batter, and then I was watching the fly ball, and I never caught on that
Edwin was charging at full speed until he rounded third on his way to home
- just as the ball was caught by the centerfielder.

"Edwin!  Only one out!"  I yelled.  "Get back!"

With a horror stricken look at me Edwin skidded to a stop, panicked and
headed directly for second base without even thinking about re-tagging
third.  Not that it mattered.  The centerfielder lobbed the ball in and had
him out by a mile at second.  The double play ended the inning and we were
still one run behind.

Edwin came trotting back to me looking like he was about to cry.

"I'm sorry, Coach."

"It's my fault, Gatto."  I hugged him around the shoulders.  "I should have
told you how many outs there were.  Don't worry.  We'll catch up next
inning."

With a little pat on the butt I sent him off to the dugout for his glove
thinking that things could hardly get worse, but they were about to because
Pepe was in the dugout waiting.  I heard him say something in Spanish that
sounded pretty rough and Edwin came back out so pale his skin looked green.
I was afraid he was going to be sick.

I went into the dugout and sat down next to my steaming assistant.
"Yelling at him isn't going to make it better.  It was my fault.  I should
have made sure he knew how many outs there were."

But the older man just shook his head.  "It is disgusting," he said with a
cold stare at me.  "He should know."

It was no good arguing.  I sat there wondering how Pepe, who was so patient
with the other boys and so well-liked by them (there had been none of the
problems my league president had feared) - how this good man, the best
assistant I had ever had, could possibly be so blind when it came to his
own son.  It was up to me to think of something that would help both Edwin
and his father.  It was my team.  I was the manager.

Somehow, in a desperate last inning comeback and with the help of errors by
the other team, we ended up winning that game.  It was not a pretty
victory, but a win is still a win.  Our kids were happy, and even Pepe was
smiling at the end.  Edwin joined half-heartedly in the cheering, and some
of the celebrating, but it was obvious he was miserable so I went over and
gave him a little pat on the back.

"You had a rough day, Gatto.  But, you see?  We still won, and some of your
plays at third were really good.  Next time you'll do better.  And I'll do
better as a base coach, too.  Next time I'll be sure to tell you how many
outs there are, okay?"

He looked up and gave me a heart rending little smile, but I could tell he
was still unhappy.

Pepe and I cleaned out the dugout and as we packed our equipment he asked,
"Will you be able to help at the kids' boxing tonight, Coach?"

This was something he had been after me about for several days.  Pepe was a
guiding force in a boys' boxing program he and a few other men had started
and they were hosting an event that night.  I had been putting him off, not
that I had anything against boxing - I had taught it to several boys who
needed help standing up for themselves - but it was controversial.  Anglo
parents tended to keep their kids out of it and the participating boys in
Pepe's program were all from his community.  I had a suspicion that one of
the reasons Pepe wanted me there was as a token of validation.

But now I decided I had better go.  Pepe had been a loyal assistant,
following my lead in everything without complaint although I knew he had
been a manager himself in another league.  Except with his own son he was a
good, caring coach and our relationship had become a close one.  I owed him
support, plus I was worried about what might happen with Edwin.

So I held out a hand and said, "I'll be there Pepe."

We shook on it and he gave me a warm smile.  "I knew we could count on you,
Coach.  You are not like some."

The boxing club Pepe and his friends had started was in a social hall down
by the interstate on the edge of town and the parking lot was crowded when
I got there so I parked a little way out next to a tree.  Inside, the ring
was a makeshift affair surrounded by rows of folding chairs on three sides.
The place was jammed with contestants, parents and a crowd of spectators,
all Mexican.  I was the only Anglo.

I helped Pepe finish arranging tables for the officials and then got
drafted into helping record team rosters and match results.

Under the club rules boys were paired off by height and weight rather than
age, an arrangement similar to what I was familiar with as an assistant
wrestling coach.  The system was designed to prevent injury, as was the
protective headgear the boys would all be wearing, but no system ever
accommodated all the developmental variations existing between boys growing
through adolescence.  No matter the formula, mismatches could occur and I
knew subtle differences in reach, height, weight and maturity could be
dangerous in boxing.

I had been worried about Edwin from the start and when I caught sight of
the boy he had been matched with I was appalled.  Because of his unusual
height, 12-year-old Edwin was going to fight a 15-year-old from another
club.  I went to Pepe who was refereeing, but he brushed off my fears.

"Don't worry, Coach.  The other boy is the same height and almost the same
weight.  It is an even match."

I wanted to tell him that 12-year-old versus 15-year-old was certainly not
an even match, but I held my tongue.  I was not an official, or even a
member of the boxing club, and Edwin was not my kid.  I went back to the
recorder's table with an uneasy feeling.

The first few fights dispelled my fears a bit.  They were between boys of
nine and ten or so and the youngsters were lightweights, evenly matched,
and not strong enough to hit very hard.  Nobody got hurt.

I'm probably worried over nothing, I thought.

Then Edwin and his opponent got into the ring.  As required by the rules
the 15-year-old was Edwin's size, which is to say he was small for his age
and slight.  After that, however, all similarity ended.  Edwin was tall,
skinny and had gangly arms and legs.  The other boy was compact, well
developed, and moved like a pro.  Although Edwin was growing fast and his
legs had started to develop, his upper body was still that of a child.  The
other kid had solid arms and shoulders.  As he warmed up in his corner I
could hear his jabs smacking into the palms of his handler.

The bell went for the first round, the two boys moved into the ring and
what followed was no fight but a slaughter.  Edwin did his best.  He knew
how to keep a guard up and his reach was as long as the other boy's, but he
was nowhere near fast enough or coordinated enough to defend himself
against the older boy's attack.

It was the difference in strength and development between a 12-year-old and
a 15-year-old.  The older boy's punches came quick as the strike of a
snake.  Edwin could see them coming - he might have even known how to parry
them - but he was simply not strong enough to overcome the inertia of his
arm and move it fast into position.

Even so his opponent was unable to put him away immediately, because Edwin
did a good job keeping his head protected.  But the only result was that
Edwin took a beating.  The older boy got a series of very hard combinations
into Edwin's body and I saw my ballplayer grimace in pain.  He tried a few
jabs of his own and each time the 15-year-old hit him with a solid counter
punch on the heart or ribs.  Another series of brutal combination shots
landed on Edwin's skinny form, his guard dropped a little and the opponent
bored in.  A quick jab and then an uppercut sent Edwin to one knee, but he
managed to get back up.

He got knocked down twice more in that first round, the last time by a
right hook that rocked his head back and sent him sprawling.  It broke my
heart to watch the boy shake his head dazedly and struggle back to his
feet.  The mismatch was so obvious it was a miracle Edwin made it to the
bell and I was sure Pepe would stop the fight right there.

I should have known better.  Just as Pepe could not stop himself from
yelling at Edwin in practice, he could not let go here.  For whatever
reason - pride, frustration, or just plain stubbornness - Pepe let the
fight continue and the two boys went a second and then a third round.

Edwin was staggering by then.  He had survived the second by staying away
from the older boy or else clinching, but even so he had been knocked down
again.  Now his legs were wobbling and his guard had dropped.  The
15-year-old stepped in and nailed him with a right, left, right combination
that put Edwin on the canvas.  He thrashed around in a few weak attempts to
get up, finally made it to his hands and knees, but then could not go any
further.  The fight was over.

I did some fast-talking and convinced a man sitting behind me to take over
the recorder's duties so I could go over to Edwin's corner.  There I was in
time to see Pepe finish some kind of tirade in a soft, hissing voice that I
doubt Edwin even heard because he looked so dazed.

"I'll take care of him, Pepe," I told the angry father.  "You need to get
the next match going.  You're the only one here who can ref."

Pepe grunted and went back into the ring.  I threw the robe Edwin was using
over his shoulders and took him outside where, in the dark parking area,
the stunned boy made a noise and slumped against me.  Taking him in my
arms, I carried him to my SUV, put him on the back seat and got in next to
him so I could cradle his head and shoulders on my lap.

Right about then I was half convinced that my starting third baseman had a
concussion and would be out for the rest of the season or worse, but then
he rolled against me, hugging around my waist, and I realized he was only
humiliated and hurting.  That was a big relief.

I stroked his hair.  "You're OK.  Coach is right here.  Man oh man, what a
fight.  That guy was tough.  I don't see how you hung on so long.  You were
great."

Edwin began to cry so I was glad I had gotten him to a place where he could
do it privately.  "OK," I told them over and over, stroking his lank dark
hair.  "All right.  It's all right my little Gatto."

The crying turned into sobbing and the boy's skinny shoulders heaved.  I
let him go, rocking and hugging until the storm passed.  "It's all right to
cry, Gatto," I kept telling him.  "Everything's all right."

Finally the sobbing turned to hiccoughs and the tears slowed to a trickle.
I stroked his head.  "You're all right now," I told him, but the boy shook
his head.

"No," he said in a shaky little voice.  "I'm no good.  I know it.  I'm
ugly, I'm stupid and I'm no good."

"Sounds pretty bad," I said, continuing to stroke him.  "Who says you're
all those things?"

"My dad...  And the other kids.  They say so."

I sighed and kept stroked him gently.  "Your dad was upset tonight, Gatto.
And he was worried about you.  And, I think, mad at himself.  He doesn't
mean it when he says those things.  I know that's hard for you to
understand, but it's true."

I turned the boy's head and he stared up at me, tear-filled eyes glistening
in the darkness.  "Listen to me, Gatto.  Are you listening?"

Edwin nodded.

"Those other kids - the ones you say tell you things.  What do they know?
Nothing.  It is all the twittering of birds.  No one knows the truth about
you, except me.  I know you, Gatto.  I know the real you."

"What do you mean, Coach?"  The boy's voice was still shaky.

I stroked a finger down his face.  "Why do you think I am the Coach,
poquito Gatto?  It is because I see what others do not."

With a caress I brushed hair off his forehead.  "I see all inside you.  I
see the real you.  I see a boy, handsome and proud, shinning with the fire
of courage and determination.  I see him prowling like the great jungle
cat.  He dreams of being the best at everything he does.  He is smarter
than anyone knows.  And I see that boy, Gatto, because I see inside you.
Right now, I am the only one who sees him.  But someday everyone will see
him."

The boy kept staring at me, eyes dark and shining.  I stroked a palm down
his slender back, feeling every rib through the cloth of his robe.

"Someday, Gatto, you will be the best.  I say it.  The best ballplayer,
perhaps a great boxer as well.  All of that can be - but only if you do
what you must do, and learn what you must learn."

"What must I do Coach?"

"I will show you.  For now, you must learn to believe.  That must come
first."

"I do," the boy said desperately.  "I do.  I will."

"Good."

I pulled him up higher on my lap, the robe fell open and my hand went under
it to stroke his skinny body where the skin, unlike on his lower arms and
legs, was smooth and hairless.  The boy's waist was tiny and delicate, his
bony pelvis a hard angle under the boxing shorts.  My palm slipped around
his curved butt, the only part of him that was rounded out, and then
drifted down over the shiny cloth onto bare slender thighs.  When I moved
my hand to the inside Edwin shifted position so I could stroke up under the
shorts and the edge of my hand found the pouch of a supporter filled by
jutting hardness.

The boy relaxed against me, eyes half closed, mouth parted, the ugly scar
on his upper lip hidden by darkness, and I rubbed that hardness through his
jock.  Then I gave him a final hug, withdrew my hand and slid it from his
groin to his chest rubbing over the stiffness one more time as I did so.

"Let's go back inside, little Gatto.  Your dad will be waiting.  I'll fix
things with him for you.  Remember.  You must believe."

"I believe," the boy told me earnestly.

Leaning over I whispered, "Gatto..."

"Grrrrr..." the boy growled softly, his eyes shining.

[ To Be Continued In Parts B and C ]

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Hope you enjoyed it!  This baseball series has a 'long' short story for
every position.  Look for a new chapter or two each month.

Thanks for taking the time to read my story and if you'd like to comment,
my e-mail address is:

			hunterjoe45@yahoo.com

I will try to answer all serious mailings.  My on-line access is very
limited.  Rants and ravings will not get consideration.

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You can find links to all my other stories on Nifty under my name, Joe
Hunter, listed under the J's (for Joe) in the prolific authors list.  To
get that list click the Authors tab at the top of the Nifty home page and
then select 'Prolific Authors'.  I hope you will read and enjoy!

All the Best.  Joe