Date: Thu, 5 Jul 2012 10:26:41 -0700 (PDT) From: Joe Hunter Subject: Baseball Diamond Tails = 7A 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 To all you readers who enjoy these stories, please support Nifty with contributions and keep the Archive online. Check the Nifty home page for ways to make contributions. Without this Archive those of us who write for you will lose a wonderful resource to get our stories out. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Support Nifty! Joe ____________________________ BASEBALL DIAMOND TAILS - 7A (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... ::::::::::::::::::::: Left Field: Part A ::::::::::::::::::::: "You're one of the coaches, aren't you?" I looked at the young dark-haired boy who had approached me and now stood peering up with an inquiring, half accusing expression on his face. I smiled at him in a friendly way. "Yeah, I'm a coach. Listen, I think you may be at the wrong field. The 11 and 12-year-old tryouts are about a mile down the road." The boy's eyes appraised me coldly. "I'm 13. I know where I am." He seemed annoyed, but willing to forgive an understandable error. He handed me a slip of paper with his name on it, and then after taking a little breath he declared, "I know I'm small for my age, but I've played baseball since I was eight. I turned 13 this month and I'm here to try out today. I'm sure if you watch me you'll see that I can play better than a lot of the kids here and that I could help your team. I hope you'll draft me and give me a chance to... To show you what I can do." It was obviously a prepared speech. He stumbled a bit at the end, but I thought he did pretty well. I must have looked favorably impressed because the boy stared up confidently waiting for my response. I studied the name on the scrap of paper. "Your first name's Andrew? Is that what you like to be called?" He shook his head. "Andy." "Tell you what, Andy," I said, giving him back the paper, "I'll watch you. That's a promise. And if you're good like you say you are, I'll draft you - or try to. I don't think size matters all that much." After a pause, while the boy kept staring up at me, I nodded thoughtfully and added, "Here's another promise. I'll try to draft you even if you're not as good as you think you are. I think desire's important. I might not draft you very high, but I'll draft you. Okay?" "Okay," the boy told me politely. "Thanks. What team do you coach?" I told him and could see he was unimpressed. He checked me off a list on another piece of paper and walked off. Geez, I thought, wondering if the kid's parents had put him up to it. Now I've seen everything. But there was no time to speculate. Tryouts were getting ready to start and I was late. Carrying my clipboard I hurried over to the bleachers, looking for a seat up far enough to have a decent view. One thing I was sure of. It was no mystery why the kid was unimpressed when he heard what team I was coaching. It was not a good team. The previous year's season had been a disaster and they had not even finished their full schedule of games because of kids quitting. The League had been unable to find a coach until at the last minute one of my neighbors down the street, Ed Blake, s coach at an area High School, had found out I had baseball experience and volunteered me for the job. "Look, they really need help," he told me. "If they can't find anyone there's gonna' be some kids that don't get to play ball." So I let myself get roped in and there I was at tryouts, clipboard in hand - young, naive, my only baseball experience, besides playing High School and College ball, the coaching of Police Athletic League kids in the slums of a big city. I knew nothing about politics and the fierce competition found in suburban leagues. I had no information at all on any of the kids in the draft except their ages; I knew nothing about who had played before, how well they had done, what friends they had, or if they played other sports. At these tryouts I would get to see boys field a few grounders, catch a fly ball and take one at-bat against a pitching machine. From that I would have to make a draft list. Any coach could tell you what a hopeless task it was to judge talent like that, except in the most obvious way. Then, as I tried to get comfortable on a hard bleacher seat, it occurred to me there was at least one boy I did know something about: Andy - a dark-haired boy, small for his age, who wanted to play ball so badly he was willing to find out who the coaches were and introduce himself to them. Even if his parents had put him up to it, it was still unusual enough to be worth knowing. I had promised that I would watch him and I did. Right away I saw what he had been talking about. Although not overpowering, due to his small size, he was a competent little player and one of several boys who did not miss any grounders or fly balls. But what set him apart and caught my attention were other things. You could tell he was very determined. He was all business out on the field, not talking or joking around with the other boys; nor did he look nervous or fearful like a few did. He stayed focused on what he was doing, and I was favorably impressed with his throwing from the outfield. For his small stature he had a good arm and his throws came in dead on line. I paid most attention to his batting, thinking the lack of size would be a weakness. I was at least partially right. It was physically impossible for Andy to drive the ball the way a bigger boy could. He was not built to lead the league in home runs. His turn at bat was interesting, and quite revealing in a way. Andy was the shortest boy on the field. Not by a lot; he was not a midget by any means and there were a few other immature looking boys. But there was no denying that Andy looked more like 11 than 13. The boys that preceded him at the plate were all bigger and when he came up to take his turn his short stature was emphasized by the way the pitching machine, set for the taller batters, shot two pitches in over his head. There was a long, awkward pause as a coach on the pitcher's mound fiddled with the elevation adjustment on the machine. Andy stood self-consciously by the plate, waiting with everyone's eyes on him. Finally they tried again, but even at its lowest setting the machine put the pitches in too high. It was not until someone had brought out a shovel and scooped dirt out from under the machine's front tripod leg that they could get it depressed far enough to put a ball through Andy's strikes zone. All this took time and Andy had to stand alone, the center of attention while it was going on. It would have been humiliating enough for any boy even if there had been no comments. But, inevitably, there were titters and even some outright laughter from the crowd of kids and adults in the stands. I heard someone call out, "Get him a box to stand on!" Andy had been standing patiently, ignoring the laughter and whispering, but I saw his head turn at the comment and I was close enough to see his expression. His eyes swept the crowd and for just an instant I saw anger and an almost desperate defiance. Andy quickly turned away and stared stonily at the coaches fussing with the pitching machine, ignoring everything until they had it ready. I wondered why they had gone to all that trouble, messing around with the machine, when one of the coaches could have just pitched to the boy. After all that waiting Andy's at-bat was an anti-climax. He made contact with every pitch, even sent one line drive into the outfield, but the rest of his hits were all short ground balls. Part of his trouble was that he was swinging too hard. In an attempt to make up for his lack of size the boy was trying to kill every pitch. I studied his swing closely. All the fundamentals were there. When he walked away after his last hit dribbled to second base, there were more laughs from the crowd. The look on the boy's face of humiliation and disappointment was so poignant that I made up my mind right there to draft him if I could. That draft was a crap shoot. With no information to go on except the little I had gleaned at tryouts I was choosing boys almost at random. In addition, right up to the time of the draft meeting, I had no idea how many 14-year-old veterans I would have returning. When I called them on the phone to ask if they were going to play I discovered that one had moved away, two others were not sure, and another said he would only play if he could be on another team. I tried having a few early practices with just the veterans in order to get a feel for who was going to stick and who would quit, but by the time of the draft meeting I still wasn't sure how many new players I needed. The complicating factor was the league rule specifying the minimum number of boys of each age every team was required to have. The number of returning veterans I could count on would determine how many players of each age I had to draft from the group of new boys trying out. After a good deal of shuffling through all my notes I ended up taking eight new players; Two 14-year-olds, and six 13-year-olds. One of the younger ones was Andy. He was not exactly thrilled when I called to tell him that he was on my team. "Okay," was all he said. I could hear the disappointment. I gave him the practice field we would be using, our practice times and what my home and work phone numbers were. "Okay," he said. Then after a brief hesitation, "What place did you draft me in?" I had been required to draft two 14-year-olds first so Andy had been my third pick, but I decided it was not a time for truth. "First," I told him. "First?" The boy's voice showed some interest for the first time. "Yeah. There were other coaches that wanted you, but I beat them out." "Really?" "I was lucky to get you." "So I was your top pick?" the boy persisted. "Yeah, I took you first. Like I said, there were some other teams after you. Listen, do me a favor. Don't spread that around to the other kids, okay? I don't want anyone to feel bad." "I won't." "Okay. I'll see you at practice. Oh, say listen. Let me talk to one of your parents. They have to sign some papers." There was an awkward pause, and then I heard, "My mom's not home right now." "Okay. No problem. Just tell her she has to sign some papers for the insurance. I can give them to her when I see her." There was another, longer pause. "Andy?" I said, thinking we had been disconnected. "Okay," he said in a dull voice. "I'll see you at practice tomorrow," I told him as brightly as I could. "We'll see what the team looks like." I heard him hang up and sighed, thinking I had probably not impressed him much. I found out later how wrong I was. That first full team practice had me nervous. As an unknown coach with a new team I was anxious to set the right tone from the start. It wasn't school, there was no law forcing the boys to come. Somehow I had to capture their interest and loyalty or else it would not be much of a season. I prepared the best I could. I had already practiced twice with the five veteran 14-year-olds so I at least knew something about them. I had memorized all the names and nicknames and devised a plan for the first day that would keep things moving. (PAL coaching had taught me to avoid the fatal error of having kids standing around doing nothing at practice!) I had no assistant coaches to help out but, reminding myself, "Hey, you can't have everything," I got to the field early and prepped it, hitching an old beam and cross-linked fence drag I found there to my truck and raising a cloud of dust by pulling it in circles around and around the dusty infield. When I was done, I parked the vehicle where it would be safe from foul balls, crossed my fingers for luck and waited nervously by the sagging sun bleached backstop hoping at least some of my players would show up. Our practice field was on the side of an enormous open tract of public land by the airport. There were five other practice areas spotted around and still enough space left over for the local golfers to have a driving range. Far across the big open space I saw two bicycles coming toward me, raising little dust plumes. As they got closer I saw that one was Andy, and the other a 13-year-old I had drafted named Benjy. As they arrived and parked their bikes Benjy greeted me enthusiastically but Andy just nodded politely, giving no sign of our having ever met before. The boys helped me unpack the equipment bags and then Andy spoke the only words I heard him say during the entire practice. "Let's throw," he told Benjy. Ignoring me completely he went out by first base and began playing catch with his companion. One by one the rest of the team arrived, most driven by a parent. I tried to greet each one individually with a word for the parent as well. Then, as quickly as I could, I started the warm-up drills. I learned a few things during that first practice, and none of it was good news. To begin with, the two 14-year-olds I had been required to draft were a disaster. Even though they had played ball before in other leagues, neither was any good. At first I thought I had been unlucky in my selections. It was not until later that I discovered the entire draft was a fraud. Any good, new, 14-year-old players coming into the league had been snapped up by the coaches of established teams even before they had signed up. Only unwanted players were sent through the tryout process. I had noticed at the draft meeting that certain teams had not had to take any 14-year-olds because their quotas were filled. That was why. The same was true of the 13-year-olds. Any good ones coming up from the 11 and 12's had already been assigned to the better teams long before registration. The kids I had chosen were, at best, just the top of the leftovers. The league where I was coaching was a feeder to the bigger Babe Ruth and high school programs in the surrounding area. The high school teams in particular were high visibility organizations. It was not unusual to see major league scouts at every game and the 13 and 14 level where I was coaching was one of the first big winnowing out processes. The league was required by its own rules to put every boy who signed up on a team. But it was an unofficially established fact that some teams were reserved for the best players and the rest took the overflow. Dumb young coach. I had the facts of life explained to me later in the season by a coach of one of the favored teams. "The thing you have to do if you get stuck with one of those rec league players is run them off," he told me. "How do you do that?" I asked. "Mostly the other kids will do it for you. You just stay out of the way. After the little wimp gets hit in the face enough times with hard throws and gets jeered after dropping a fly ball, he'll get the message." Yeah, he'll get it, I thought. He surely will. "The thing is, these kids are competitive," the coach explained. "They all know what they want. And they don't want some kid who's just goofing around to hold them back. That's just the way it is." The man was quite serious and there was not much I could say to him in reply. I was young, but no one knew better than I did about sports being competitive. And there were rewards at stake: Major League contracts, college scholarships, preferred treatment in high school, all-expense-paid tournament trips... All those things were very real and like every good thing in life, they went to the people willing to strive and compete for them. And I knew another thing. No matter what I thought of that coach's methods, I was well aware they were mild compared with reality. The worst excesses of organized youth sport pale in comparison to the savagery of any typical sandlot game. Adult supervision in kid's sports actually tempers a lot of the natural brutality and cruelty children all possess. Neighborhood play starts winnowing out even earlier than our league did. As a very young coach in the Police Athletic League I had heard the process explicitly described by an eight-year-old who told me, "Ya' can't have a good time 'til ya' get rid of the babies!" The advice I got from the coach in the 13 and 14 league was an eerie reminder of those words. All this eye-opening wisdom was still ahead of me on that afternoon of our first practice. What I knew then was that, except for Andy, my team was bland. There were no stars, no standouts, no boys you could point to and say, "Oh yeah, he's a hitter," or "There's a natural fielder," and it made me vaguely uneasy. How could there not have been at least one or two players like that in the draft? I asked myself. Dumb young coach. Only later did I realize that there were boys on my team who understood the situation far better than I did - my five veterans, and Andy... Looking back on it now, it amazes me that any of those 14-year-olds who had played the year before came back at all. In the previous season each one had learned the harsh facts. They knew what our chances were of winning any games, and in the great, unacknowledged process that was occurring - the separation of the wheat from the chaff - they knew exactly what group they had been put into. Yet they came back. Who knows why? Maybe to be with their friends. Maybe they thought a new coach would change things. Maybe, against all the evidence of reality, they still hoped. Maybe they just loved the game... That was why Andy came. Although he was only 13, he knew better than any other boy on that field what the situation was. I'll tell you something about Andy that I did not know until later. The boy lived and breathed baseball. He dreamed about it the way other kids dreamed about going to Disney World. From the time he was three or four it was all he had ever wanted to do. But nature, with its cruel sense of humor, having given the boy the desire, failed to provide the means. Andy was short, immature and had no natural ability - so he tried to compensate by sheer determination and hard work. The kindest thing that could have been done for him would have been too divert him at an early age to some other sport; swimming, soccer, wrestling, something... Any other thing where his natural competitiveness could have found an outlet and given him a chance to succeed. But youth league coaches are impressed by dedicated boys who work hard. Instead of diverting they encouraged, and Andy proceeded deeper and deeper into the cul-de-sac fate had prepared for him. Although he never told me, the first signs of approaching disaster must have appeared in his final year in the 11 and 12 league. Despite the fact that he made the All-Star team, no one took an interest. Other boys and their parents got calls from coaches in the 13 and 14 league; Andy's phone never rang. Worse, his height and size failed to change. His friends and teammates were sprouting up all around him while his own body failed to develop. Boys of 12 and 13 cannot analyze in the way adults can. But they can feel. Without being able to express it in words, Andy felt every single thing he had dreamt and worked for slipping away. That is a hard thing to have happen at such a young age. His project of seeking out the coaches at the tryouts and giving each one his little speech was a last desperate throw of the dice, with all his chips on the table. When I called him, telling him that he had been drafted onto an unimportant team, he knew that he had lost. And yet he came to practice. Old habits are hard to break. Despite everything he still loved the game and secretly, in his heart, he dreamed of a miracle. At his age it takes a lot before you lose all hope. Unaware of this on that sunny spring afternoon, I proceeded with our first team meeting. I asked what position each boy liked to play, who could switch-hit, who thought he could pitch... I did not have to ask Andy anything. As soon as I had picked up my clipboard and called the team over he handed me another of his slips of paper. There was his name neatly printed on the top; underneath it read, "Throws right, bat's left or right, can play any position, weak at catcher, prefers left-field, can pitch." During our short meeting, while I was jotting down notes on the other players, he stood at the front of the group calmly observing me with his dark eyes. I kept the meeting very short, not wanting to waste valuable practice time talking. As quickly as possible I put the boys out on the field and started teaching them the warm-up drills I wanted them to learn. Then we did a circulating infield drill so I could look at each boy in every position. Just because a boy tells you he likes to play first base does not mean he can. I tried to file as much information on each player I could so I could work out a tentative lineup that night. I got information, but it was not all that useful. Except for Andy I had a team of boys with average fielding skills. Only two were absolutely inept. The rest could take care of ground balls so long as they were not hit too hard and they did not have to move too far to get them. There were no standouts, no boys who fit naturally into a position. Andy could play anywhere in the infield, just as his slip of paper claimed. But his movements lacked the fluid grace of the born athlete. There was surprising quickness and agility in his tight, compact body. Andy was very well drilled, but his moves were all a bit mechanical in a way harder to describe that it was to see. His outstanding attribute was hustle. He tried harder than the other boys and it was interesting to watch him. He moved on every hit, whether the ball came to him or not. Andy was the only one who knew how to back up the other positions properly on each play. The last thing we did was a quick bat around with several of our would-be pitchers, including Andy, throwing. Every young ball player likes to hit so I saved it for last to end practice on a high note. Watching my boys swing the bats and knock balls around picked up my spirits and I began to think we might be all right. There were a few mechanical things to work on here and there, and two of the boys had major problems - one of them being a 14-year-old named Lester who wore glasses and also could not field - but there was nothing I felt could not be overcome. I was wrong, of course. The danger signs were all there, plain to see, but I was blind to them. Dumb young coach. My pitchers were average or worse, so of course my players could hit their stuff. Soon enough my eyes would be opened to the reality of pitching at the 13 and 14 level - big kids standing close, at Little League distance, throwing fastballs as hard as an adult; balls coming in so fast they hissed; real curveballs right at your head, bending at the last instant to pass with a menacing hum... The fear factor... I would learn all about it. I would learn the tactful words to use with parents: "We need to build his strength so he can get around on the fast stuff," or "He's still learning to hit curveballs..." Polite face-saving lies that meant, "Your son can't hit because he's afraid." Andy did better in his at-bat that he had done in the tryouts. He was a little more relaxed, not over-swinging, and I could tell that he was a well-drilled, disciplined little hitter. He did not swing at bad pitches and was not easily fooled. His swing was compact and level. When he did make solid contact, the ball went a respectable distance. Despite his claim, he was not a switch hitter. The swings he made from the left side of the plate were mechanically correct, but they had no power at all and he was late on any reasonably fast pitch because he lacked the strength to get the bat around quickly. But he could bunt from either side, and when I asked him to hit to the opposite field batting righty, he could do it. As a kindness, I let him hit on his good side until he put a nice little line drive over the infielders' heads and then I gave him a smile and a nod. He nodded back without smiling and moved aside for the next boy. When practice was over most of the boys were picked up by their parents. Andy, and one or two other boys who were riding their bikes, helped me pick up the batting helmets and I happened to be standing next to Andy at one point. I made some remark like, "Nice job today," and put a hand on his shoulder. The boy immediately moved out from under my touch and gave me a look. It was not angry, or unfriendly; it was merely a look, his dark eyes staring up at mine from under the straight black hair that fell over his forehead. I added something like, "For a kid who likes to play left field I thought you did fairly well on the infield positions." He nodded and we continued to pack up the equipment, and then once the bags were in my truck he went to his bike, waved to me without smiling and peddled off alone. Benjy, the kid he had arrived with from school had already left in a different direction. In the two weeks before opening day I practiced the kids every weekday afternoon plus Saturday mornings. In the evenings I worked on making lineups. Lester, the awkward glasses wearing 14-year-old was a lefty, so I put him at first base where all he had to do most of the time was catch throws from the other players. Hopefully not too many balls would be hit to him. The other weak fielder I hid behind the plate where all he had to do was stop pitches and make an occasional throw to second base. I worked with 13-year-old Benjy, who was a weak hitter, and taught him to swing properly and how to bunt. RayBan, my tall 14-year-old gangly black player, I put in center field where he could use his height to rob batters of home runs at the fence. Day after day I drilled my infielders on basic situational play, teaching them to move on every pitch and back each other up. I wanted to work with my pitchers on four and two seam grips, split finger fastballs and the changeup, but I spent most of my time on basic mechanics, getting them to throw strikes consistently. I got to know the kids; they were all nice. We began to relax together and have fun. Dumb young coach! Surrounded by signs of disaster and blissfully unaware. There I was working with 13 and 14-year-old players who were still worried about making contact with the ball instead of where they were placing it. I had well-built, athletic looking 14-year-old boys who could not hit the ball at all. My infielders, who had all played ball in instructional leagues, still had to be drilled in fundamental baseball. My pitchers were still trying to throw strikes instead of curveballs. Very, very soon I would find out that what I had was a team of mediocre recreation league players competing at a level where mediocrity was no longer tolerated. If I had been given two years instead of two weeks to get them ready, it would not have been enough. Two of my veterans quit and I never did find out exactly why. Neither one was a star player, but their loss was still something I wish I could've prevented. 14-year-olds are better than 13-year-olds, and those two players had experience we probably could have used. I had liked them both and now they were gone. Perhaps they saw how the season would end up. Or perhaps they just had other things they wanted to do. It dropped my roster to 11 players, which made my substitution problems easier. Andy was at every practice. I put him in left field, which was where he had said he wanted to play and he was good out there; there was nothing I could teach him about playing the position. He knew how to cover the ground, when to back up the infield and there were no dropped fly balls. So, except for some work I did with him on his hitting, trying to keep him from over-swinging, we did not have much direct interaction. He was a boy of very few words. I think I may have only heard five or six from him in that first week. And yet, in another sense, I saw more of him than anyone else on the team. Whenever I looked, he was always there. He was always first at practice, coming on his bike from school with his classmate, Benjy. He was always one of the last to leave, after helping me put the equipment away. Whenever he did anything, caught a ball, made a hit, threw a good pitch, he would be looking to see if I had noticed. He would turn up in unexpected places. If an infielder missed a ball, if a throw was way off line, I would turn my head and their Andy would be, backing up the play. If I was teaching a small group of players something, or just talking with them, I would look up and Andy would be there listening, watching without any expression in his dark eyes. I had the feeling that I was being appraised. It was as if I was on trial. As I did with all the boys I tried to get to know him, but it was not easy. Andy was a listener, not a talker. He deflected direct questions with a nod or a shake of the head. If I persisted, he would give me his appraising look or stare off into the distance. But he did not avoid my company. In fact, I got the feeling that he welcomed it. One late afternoon in the second week of practices I was getting ready to leave the field after checking to see that nothing had been forgotten. I looked out over the vast tract beyond our practice area. Some other teams that had been using parts of the huge space had long since left. We were always the last team to leave. Across the distant road and beyond the fields I could see an airliner turning onto the airport runway, the noise of its engines rumbling faintly as it started its takeoff run. In the trees on the side of the park opposite me some cars were moving. Our league field was there and the light standards surrounding it were visible above the trees. As I watched I saw the lights come on. I realized that someone must be having a practice game, and I decided to do some scouting. I got in my truck and bumped slowly across the big open space. As I got closer I could see players on the field and a few others in the stands. Turning onto a rutted track that the maintenance crews for the airport approach lights used I drove up past the field and parked well beyond the dilapidated snack trailer where my truck would be out of the way of foul balls. Then I walked slowly over to the bleachers behind the third-base line trying to remain inconspicuous. Nobody paid any attention to me. The one or two adults and kids in the stands were all watching the action on the field. As I came up I saw a small lone figure leaning against the fence just beyond third-base. It was Andy. He had not seen me. He was staring out at the game with a rapt expression and there was something about the way he was looking and staring that gave the impression of great longing. I came up quietly and leaned on the fence next to him. He turned, startled, and then relaxed when he saw who it was. He did not smile exactly, but he gave me a welcoming look. I could tell he was pleased to see me. I think now that I must have passed some test or met an expectation. "Who's playin'?" I asked. Andy told me; the most words I heard him string together all at one time that week. Both teams were supposed to be good so I studied them carefully. It's a funny thing about youth league teams. Until you actually play one team against another they all look pretty much alike, especially when the kids are in uniform. There is always the same mix of tall boys and short ones, skinny growing bodies and stodgy ones. Some boys are better players than others. There are leaders and followers. Superficially, the two teams I was looking at seemed no different from mine. Just a group of 13 and 14-year-olds having fun playing ball. But the differences were there if you knew what to look for. On the average, player for player, these boys were taller than mine. My tallest player, RayBan, still would have been tall on these teams. But they had several boys who were even taller. And, of course, even the very smallest player was bigger than Andy. There was a sense of purpose about these boys that none of mine except Andy possessed. They kidded and joked around the way boys do, but out on the field they were all business; completely focused. Even though this was a meaningless practice game you could sense the underlying tension of competition. There were mistakes, but not many, and if an error was made other players were backing up to make the recovery. Everyone moved with an indefinable air of confidence that my boys lacked, and their throws were all crisp and hard instead of arcing and uncertain. I was still not picking up on the differences in the pitching, but I did notice there were very few walks. Because the teams were evenly matched and neither dominated it might have been easy to miss how good they were and conclude that any other 13 and 14 team, including mine, could do as well against them. I didn't make that mistake. The differences were subtle and I was an inexperienced coach, but I knew baseball well enough to know that we were in trouble. "These guys are pretty good," I told Andy. The boy looked at me and nodded. I was reluctant to say anything else. I feared that if I said anything to Andy about the comparison between our team and the ones we were watching it would get back to the rest of my players and discourage them. It did not occur to me until later that Andy, and the other veterans, were already aware of the differences. We watched almost the whole game, which only went for five innings. Andy showed no desire to leave, and when I suggested we take a seat in the bleachers he settled quietly beside me. I had brought my clipboard with me and I made some notes. I'm not sure what good I thought they would do. Andy tried to be helpful. He knew the names of every player and he pointed to each one, telling me in a few words who they were and what they could do. Two things caught my notice. One was that Andy was not wearing his team cap. He always wore it during practice, but now he had taken it off and was holding it in his lap as if he were hiding it. The other thing was that not a single boy from either of the teams came over to talk to him. It was obvious that he knew who they were, and some of them had to be in his school. But not one acknowledged his presence by even a look. After a while I lost interest in the game. I had already seen more than I wanted to see. I pretended to keep looking, but I was really watching Andy. The action on the field continued to hold his attention. He followed every pitch with the same air of desperate longing I had picked up when I saw him leaning on the fence. He sat very close to me. Closer than I had expected he would. I think, even then, he was drawing some comfort from my presence. When the game ended I got up to leave and Andy got up with me. But he hesitated for a few moments, obviously reluctant to leave. I think he was waiting, hoping that some of the boys he knew would come talk to him, or at least notice him. But no one did. It was starting to get dark when the game finished. Andy had chained his bike to the side of the bleachers. He slipped the lock and was getting ready to mount when I stopped him. "There's no way I'm letting you ride along that highway in the dark," I told him. "Come with me. I'll give you a ride home." He looked at me with his curious, appraising look. Then he nodded and wheeled his bike, following me to my truck. I picked the bike up and looked it over before swinging it into the pickup bed. It was some nondescript trash brand in very poor repair that looked like it had been picked off a rubbish heap. The thing did not look safe and I was amazed that Andy's parents were letting him ride around the streets with it. I would have said something about it if I had not had been so preoccupied with thoughts about the game we had just witnessed. A few of the things I eventually learned about Andy were beginning to get through to me. I looked down at the sturdy little figure standing beside me in the dusk. He was staring up expectantly, the way he always did. As if he knew what I was thinking. "Those teams," I said, jerking my head back toward the field. "You'd like to be on one of them, wouldn't you." Instead of just nodding the way he usually did, Andy said, "Yeah." There was a world of expression in that one word. In that instant my heart went out to him and I knew that I wanted him. I wanted him on my team, I wanted to coach him, and I wanted him for myself. And more than anything, I wanted to find some miracle that would give the boy his dream. So I did what all the other coaches before me had done. Maybe it was the wrong thing. Probably it was. But there are times when you feel that reality has to be ignored. So, I encouraged him. "Look," I told him, "I'm glad you're not on those teams. I want you on my team! Yeah, those other teams are good. I can see that. They've been around a while and they have the good players. Probably they'll beat us when we play them. So what? Their coaches had a chance to get you and they didn't take it. I knew a good player when I saw one and I did take you. I wanted you. "Listen, Andy..." I stared down at him. "I'm telling you. I'm better than those other coaches. I'm better than they'll ever be. I can see things they can't. Okay, you're not on a good team. But stay with me. Have faith in me. I'll teach you more than you'd learn from those other guys." The boy's eyes were on mine, faint gleams in the dim light. His face remained impassive; there was no way to tell if I had made any impression on him... And then I knew that I must have, because something had changed. Without thinking, while I had been speaking to him, I had put my hand on his shoulder and Andy had not shrugged it off or moved away! I could feel the hard little muscles of his sturdy body through the thin cotton of his shirt. I removed my hand before he could object and patted him on the back gently. "From now on do me a favor," I told him softly. "Wear your team cap all the time. Don't take it off. And don't be ashamed of being on my team. I'm sure as hell not ashamed of you." "All right, Coach," Andy said. I went around and got in on the driver's side of the truck and Andy climbed into the passenger seat. As we drove off, he moved over to sit close to me. "I have no idea how to get to your house," I said. Andy moved even closer so he could give me directions. He lived several miles from the baseball fields and it struck me that it was a long way for him to go on his bike. Part of it was on a busy two-lane highway that had almost no space to the side because of the flood control ditch that ran beside the road. The idea of Andy negotiating this route on his dilapidated bike every day appalled me. We turned off onto another road that took us to a trailer park. It was not the worst one I had ever seen, but it was not the best either. We pulled up in front of a small silver trailer with a scrubby lawn. There were no lights. I got out and lifted Andy's bike out of the back for him and set it down. "See you tomorrow for practice," I told him. "Thanks for keeping me company this evening. I enjoyed it." It was quite dark by then and I could not see the boy very well, so what he did took me by surprise. He was holding his bike with one hand. With the other he reached forward and gave me a quick hug around the waist. For just an instant he pressed his cheek against me and whispered something I could not catch. Then without another word he wheeled his bike off toward the back of the trailer. I waited until I saw a light go on inside and then drove away. As I turned back onto the highway I told myself that I should have done more. I was sure there had been no one home. "I should have asked if he wanted me to come in with him," I muttered. But it had all happened too fast. The following day at practice Andy said nothing about the night before and was his usual quiet self. He worked just as hard as always, but I had the feeling that he was watching me and appraising me more closely then ever. And from that time on he was always hovering somewhere around me. On Saturday I took some members of the team to the batting cages. I announced that I was going at the end of our two-hour practice. "Anybody's welcome to come," I told them. "I'll drop you off at your house when we're done." All the boys wanted to go, but some had to leave to do things with their families. "Don't worry," I told them. "We'll be doing this again. You can go next time." A few of the parents went with me and we split up the boys who were going between us. I ended up taking seven in my truck. I was anxious to make sure that one of them was Andy, but I need not have worried. He was already over by my vehicle, waiting, along with his dilapidated bike. I picked it up and put it in the pickup bed for him while he scurried around to fight for one of the seats in the cab. Because he was the smallest he ended up in the middle, sitting jammed against me, which I think was what he had been aiming for, and I let him shift the transmission as we drove to the miniature golf center where the cages were. We stayed at the center for several hours. I bought four pizzas and let the boys eat and play video games in between their turns in the cage at bat. Andy ate some slices of pizza, but he never went to play any video games. Instead he slipped in extra turns in the batting cage, checking each time to be sure I was looking. When he was not in one of the cages batting, he was standing close by, dark eyes on me, listening as I coached. I had him swinging from the right, his good side, on his first turn, but after that I made him alternate, left than right. As always, he willingly did whatever I told him and paid close attention to my instructions, but I never made many corrections to Andy's swing. Mechanically he was very sound. The things I tried to do instead were aimed at strengthening his weaker side and preventing him from over swinging. "The pitching machines can't help your judgment," I reminded him again and again. "You need to hit against a real pitcher for that. This is to groove your mechanics and strengthen your body. Keep that same level swing each time. Don't try to force it. Don't try to pull the bat through with your arms. Use your shoulders and your body. Step into the pitch, shift your weight, hit off your back foot... See? When you get tired, you not shifting your weight. Step into it. That's right. Be ready. Step into the pitch. There you go. There it is... Nice..." Andy hit very consistently. Against the machine he always made contact. The problem for him was strength, especially on his weak side, but from time to time he would get off some very nice hits. The morning had been a little cloudy, and as the day had progressed it got grayer and grayer. By the time we were ready to leave the Golf Center there were a few drops of rain just beginning to splatter, so there was a mad scramble for places in the cab of my truck. Five boys managed to squeeze in with me: two smaller boys sitting on the laps of three of the bigger ones. One of the smaller boys was Andy, sitting on 14-year-old Lester. Benjy and another boy were not able to get in and had to huddle in the bed of the pickup. I opened the sliding rear view window and yelled, "You two okay back there?" "We're getting wet, Coach," Benjy squeaked, a reply that made the boys who were dry inside the cab all laugh. "Coach, let's go to your house," the other kid in the back yelled. "You can take us home later." There were cheers from everyone at this suggestion. None of the boys were ready to go home yet. "Okay," I told them. "Hang on." I lived several miles from the miniature golf center and with the Saturday traffic it took us a while to get there. By the time we arrived the two kids stuck in the truck bed were soaked. Every time I had to stop for a light they yelled through the back window, "Coach, we're drowning back here!" When I pulled into my driveway, I used my clicker to open the big garage door, pulled in out of the weather and the boys in the cab all tumbled out. I went around to help my two wet ballplayers climb from the back, soaked T-shirts and shorts plastered to their bodies. "Get your shirts off," I told them, "We'll put 'em in the dryer and they'll be all ready for you when I take you home." Benjy and the other boy hastily peeled off the wet shirts, their young slender forms gleaming in the dim light of the garage. I got the drier started and then we all went inside through the connecting door to the kitchen. Inside I had everyone take off their Nikes so the rugs in the rest of the house would be spared. Right away they were all fascinated by the big tanning bench in the kitchen alcove. Then, when they trooped into the living room, the boys discovered the TV and the videogame system. Instantly they were on the floor grabbing for the controllers, arguing over which game to play and once I had gotten Cokes and snacks out I settled on the floor with them to watch. Since only two boys could play on the game system at a time, the other five quickly became restless. They made comments for a while over the shoulders of the two who were playing and then began to tease each other, tickling and wrestling. Soon most of them were rolling all over the floor. I noticed that Andy had no interest in the video games. The other boys took turns but he did not. He seemed to enjoy the roughhousing more. He was the smallest boy and often ended up under the pile, but did not seem to mind. At one point he scrambled away from two other boys and hid behind me, kneeling on the floor behind my back, pleading in mock fright, "Help Coach, they're after me!" Then, when the other two tumbled away, wrestling, Andy crawled around to my front and sprawled against me. I put an arm around him and was amazed when he leaned back comfortably, making no move to pull away. It was only the second time he had ever let me touch him. Idly, I stroked his firm compact body through the thin cotton of his shirt. One of the boys wrestling in front of us was Benjy, whose wet shirt was in the dryer. Andy watched for a few moments and then turned his head to look up at me. "Coach? Can we all take our shirts off?" "Sure," I told him. Immediately, Andy leaned forward and pulled up the bottom of his loose T-shirt. I helped him get it the rest of the way off, threw it to one side and Andy leaned back against me again, letting me put my arm back around him. Now I could slide a palm over his smooth skin. It was like touching warm silk. My fingertips traced the outline of his firm tight muscles. On the boy's left side, across the lower ribs and extending down onto his flank was a jagged scar, an ugly desecration of Andy's otherwise perfect body. Before I had a chance to ask him about it, he leaned forward against my encircling arm. "I'm gonna' wrestle, Coach." I let him go and he jumped into the match going on in front of us. Once Andy took off his shirt, all the rest of the boys did, too, and soon my living room had half naked boys sprawled everywhere. Then Benjy fingered his damp shorts and grimaced. "Coach, can I put these in the dryer with my shirt? They're still all wet." "Probably a good idea," I told him. "They're not getting dry in here. Let me have them." After pulling the wet shorts off Benjy was clad in only briefs and socks. "Those socks look wet, too," I said, pointing, and he peeled them off. "I'll put it all in the dryer," I told him, starting to go out, but the other boy with damp clothes was saying, "Wait, Coach." He pulled off his shorts and socks, too. I added the wet clothes to the load in the dryer and when I came back the living room was full of almost naked boys roughhousing on the floor because several others had taken their shorts off as well. Andy was not one of them. He was wearing a pair of knee length shorts made of some satiny material and he still had them on. But he was wrestling with two other boys who kept trying to pull them down. As I got comfortable again on the floor he tried to get over to me, calling, "Help, Coach!" But one of the two boys behind him jerked his shorts down. Unlike the other kids, Andy was not wearing briefs. He had on a jock, and when the pants came down his firm naked butt was exposed. There was laughter and someone called, "Hey, look at Andy's butt!" I was afraid that Andy would take this teasing badly and even though he did not seem too upset, I intervened just to be sure. "Give Andy a break, guys," I told the boys. "He doesn't have on baby briefs like you do. It's a jock - and by the way, that's what you all should be wearing for practice and games! You're not little kids any more!" There was giggling, but no more teasing and Andy finished crawling over to me and sprawled back against my chest. He made no move to pull his shorts up, leaving them pulled down in back while he settled against me comfortably. I slipped an arm around him and gave him a little hug. My hand drifted over the small mounds of muscle in his chest, circling and sliding down onto his tight stomach. I stroked fingertips over the silky skin, feeling his hard compact body and smoothing my palm around the delicate hollow of his waist. As I caressed him, my hands passed over the ridge of scar tissue on his left side. I wanted to ask him about it, but there was too much noise and too many other boys next to us for any private conversation. Andy lay without moving, resting comfortably, while I petted him. After a few minutes he twisted around and asked, "Coach, can I try your tanning bench?" "Sure," I told him. We both got to our feet, Andy pulling his shorts up as he did so to cover his naked butt. I led him into the kitchen and handed him a small pair of plastic goggles. "Protect your eyes when you use this thing," I told him. While he was adjusting the goggles, I switched on the lamp. The tanning fixture was 6 feet long and over 3 feet wide, cantilevered over a wooden bench that had a soft mat to lie on. Andy slipped off his shorts and slid beneath the lights clad only in his jock. He stretched out on his back, slender arms up over his head and the sun lamps bathed his sturdy well-formed body in bright warm light. "This feels nice, Coach." I knelt down to admire the almost naked boy. He was short and immature, but his lower body was starting to show the first signs of growth. His thighs were hard rounded muscle and his small buttocks swelled tightly. The boy's silky smooth skin gleamed in the fluorescent rays. He was completely hairless except for the thick dark mop on his head. I reached in under the light fixture and touched one of his small delicate feet, stroking my fingers over it tenderly. Then I slid my hand up the leg and caressed the curve of muscle in his calf. Andy giggled softly. "That tickles, Coach." Slowly, I moved my hand up onto the thigh and gently massaged it. The boy tensed his leg to harden the swelling muscle. "My legs are strong," he told me proudly. "Yeah," I agreed. The pouch of Andy's jock was bulging. I reached in further to put my hand on his other thigh and while he flexed it I massaged, letting my forearm brush against the erect hardness I could feel under the cloth. The boy flexed his legs even more, stretching and then squeezing to tighten his butt. The rigid little branch in his jock pressed up against my arm. I put the tip of my forefinger on the crease of his far leg and delicately traced it into his groin. Then I did the same on the side closest to me. Andy squirmed a little, arching up slightly. The bulging pouch of his jock quivered. My palm slid up over the tight satiny skin on his tummy and Andy caught his breath, writhing the slightest bit as I pushed a finger into his belly button. I caressed his flank, letting my fingers glide into the delicate soft skin of his armpits while Andy giggled softly and squirmed. Then I stroked the stretched tight skin of his immature chest and my fingertips brushed over his tiny nipples. "Stretch out as much as you can," I murmured. He arched his head back, extending his arms, and the skin on his upper body tightened. "Good," I told him softly. "Now point your toes. Squeeze your butt as hard as you can." Andy's small sturdy legs tensed and I watched the swell of his butt flex to a tight ball. I put my hand on his lower belly and felt the hard muscular sheath underneath the silky skin. "Okay, relax," I told him and the tension in the boy's body eased. I kept rubbing his lower tummy slowly. "Good," I told him. "Now stretch, and squeeze." Andy extended again and I watched the muscles tighten. His firm tummy hardened under my stroking hand. "Yeah... Good..." I kept rubbing slowly. "OK... Now relax." I did this several times, alternately having Andy tense and relax as I rubbed gently. Then I moved my hand to his butt and made him stretch and tense again. The bulge in his jock stiffened and pressed up against my forearm as I rubbed against it while massaging his leg. "Relax," I whispered. The boy's tension eased and so did the hardness pushing against me. "Stretch," I murmured softly and the boy extended himself again, the hard little branch swelling up against my forearm. "Squeeze really hard," I whispered and Andy's buttocks tightened even more. I felt him quiver. His rigid boner strained against me as he arched so I could rub harder. "Now relax," I breathed. My hand went slowly to the top of his thigh. Then, when I told him to stretch again, I slid it over the swelling pouch of his jock. The rigid shaft under the cloth pushed up into my palm as I pressed and rubbed. Again and again I told Andy to relax and then tense his body, rubbing his stiff boyhood through the pouch of the jock while he arched, head back and lips parted. At last I moved my hand back onto Andy's taut smooth lower belly. I slid my palm over the tender silky skin and pushed my fingertips down against the waistband of the boy's jock. Andy sucked in his tummy as far as he could and my hand slid beneath the tight elastic, moving into the warmth of his groin. I felt the rigid hardness of his thick little boy stick and, taking it between thumb and forefinger, I began to rub. Andy moaned very softly, stretched and arched up against my hand as he tightened his butt. The rigid shaft swelled under my fingers. Even though the movement of my fist beneath Andy's jock was hidden by the big tanning fixture I was afraid that one of the other boys would walk in from the living room and surprise us. After a time I pulled my hand out from under the supporter and tenderly stroked Andy's taut lean waist. "Roll over," I whispered. "Let's get some tan on your back." The boy turned over reluctantly, reaching down to push his hard little rod up against his body. Pillowing his head on his arms, he squirmed a little to get comfortable. I stroked Andy's firm tapered back and shoulders, sliding my hand over velvety skin, sliding it in circles down to the hollow of his waist. The twin mounds of his naked buttocks jutted up under the light and I sampled their silky smoothness, cupping each swelling of muscle with my palm. Andy flexed proudly for me as he felt my touch. "I'm kinda' strong there," he whispered. "It's really good, Andy," I told him softly. Stroking and squeezing, my hands slid onto the backs of his rounded thighs, fingertips pushing down between his legs and the boy spread them so my palm could rub over the satiny sheen of his inner thighs. I stroked gently, moved my hand down further and caressed the swell of muscle in his calf and then slowly rubbed back up the boy's leg. When I reached his firm butt I pushed into the crease and slid a fingertip over his small opening, letting it appear to be accidental, but with a very faint moan Andy signaled me to continue by spreading his legs and lifting up against the pressure of my finger. His tight ring opened beneath my twisting fingertip. Out in the living room, I heard one of the other boys say something about getting a Coke. I got up quickly and went to the sink. When the boy came in I was washing my hands. "Oh cool, Coach," the boy said when he saw the lights of the tanning machine. "Hey, can I try that?" "Sure," I told him. I handed him a small cup of Coke and the boy knelt down by the bench. "Let me get a turn when you're done, Andy," he said. One by one all the boys tried the tanning machine and they decided that Andy's jock was 'cool' because you could get a 'butt tan.' Each boy pulled his brief down in back when he got under the lights and in no time my kitchen was full of almost naked boys flashing pale perky butts under the fluorescent lights. I noticed that several popped boners when they stretched themselves on the bench. The novelty of the tanning machine wore off quickly and soon the boys were wrestling again, but none pulled up their underwear. They rolled on the living room floor with briefs pulled down off their hips and a few, including Benjy, had them down even lower. The boys stayed for several hours with me that afternoon. Outside the rain got worse for a time, but eventually it eased off while the kids wrestled and then watched a tape of "Porky's" that I put on for them. Andy spent almost all of that time sitting with me. A few times he would get into one of the wrestling matches, but he always crawled back to lean against me and during the movie I helped him position his body so it was turned towards mine, away from the others. He was already rigidly hard and when my fingers went under his jock to slide on the slick stretched skin of his circumcised shaft he quivered, squeezed his butt and put an arm around me. At last, when I was sure the rain had stopped, I announced that it was time to break up the party and go home. There were groans and cries of, "It's too early to go home, Coach." Reluctantly, the boys got dressed. Briefs were pulled back up. Shorts and shirts were put back on. I went and got the clothes out of the dryer. Soon the boys were all in the kitchen putting on their Nikes. "Just one more week of practice before opening day," I told them. "I hope we get better weather for it than we had today!" It rained for opening day last year, Coach," Chris, one my veterans said. "But only for a while." "Yeah, and we got slaughtered in our game, too," another one named Ronny told me. "It's too bad it didn't rain hard enough to cancel whole thing!" I chuckled. "I've been in some games like that. Maybe this year it will be better." I opened the door into the garage and they all scrambled for a seat in the truck. Andy ended up on Lester's lap again. Without being obvious about it I was watching him out of the corner of my eye, admiring the way he handled himself, holding his own even though he was the smallest. Yet I could not help noticing how different from the other boys he was. Even then, I could sense his underlying competitiveness and driving purpose. I was sure that he tired of the role he was forced to play of always being the smallest. But he hid it well. I wanted to take him home last so we could have more time alone, but geography was against me and it would have been too obvious if I had tried. When we stopped at Andy's trailer I got out to lift his bike from the truck bed for him. "Doing anything tomorrow?" I asked casually. He nodded disgustedly. "My mom's makin' me go to church all day." "Okay," I said disappointed. "Well, I'll see you at practice Monday." He nodded and wheeled his bike across his lawn. As we drove away I saw a short heavy woman come out of the front door and begin to yell at the boy about something. [ To Be Continued In Parts B thru J ] *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* 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. To all you readers who enjoy these stories, please support Nifty with contributions and keep the Archive online. Check the Nifty home page for ways to make contributions. Without this Archive those of us who write for you will lose a wonderful resource to get our stories out. 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