Date: Fri, 29 Mar 2013 05:33:49 -0700 (PDT)
From: Joe Hunter <hunterjoe45@yahoo.com>
Subject: Baseball Diamond Tails - 8D

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

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

____________________________

BASEBALL DIAMOND TAILS - 8D
(copyright 2013, Joe Hunter)

:::::::::::::::::::::::
 Center Field:  Part D
:::::::::::::::::::::::

Next morning, Sunday, my phone rang while I was cleaning up after a late
breakfast.  I dried my hands and picked up.

"Coach?"

It was Ruth's voice.  Butterflies fluttered in my stomach.  What had she
found out?  Then relief washed over me as she went on, "Coach, did you tell
Casey you were taking him to the batting cage today?  That's what he told
me this morning."

"Sure," I answered, thinking quickly.  Something was up.  Casey must be
trying some maneuver.  "I told him if he was around we could do some
hitting after I got a few chores done."

"Well, if you wouldn't mind..." Ruth started to say.

"Sure.  I don't mind at all.  Working with Casey's a pleasure.  He's really
doing well at practice you know."

"Oh, good."  Ruth sounded as if she were in a hurry.  "You see, Cody's team
is doing more of that car wash today.  I had expected Casey to help, but he
kept insisting that you..."

"Wanted to get in some hitting," I finished for her, the whole picture now
clear in my mind.  Good thinking, Casey, I told myself, grinning.  "He's
right.  You want me to pick him up or will you bring him?"

"I'll bring him.  Oh -- and Coach.  If you don't mind, can you take Dink,
too?  He was over here last evening and spent the night.  He wants to know
if he can come."

"Uh... Sure."

There was no way I could refuse, and my spirits were a bit dampened.  Dink
had never given any indication that he might be interested in the kind of
relationship Casey and I shared.  And with him along, there would be no
chance for Casey and me to be alone.  But there it was.  To not take Dink
would invite suspicion, so I had to agree.  Besides... Who knew what might
happen...?

After hanging up, I gave some thought to possible activities for the day.
My SUV needed washing.  But if we took it to Cody's team car wash, instinct
told me Cody and his friends would find ways of teasing Casey and Dink.
Instead, with the boys helping, I could get it done right in the driveway
before we went to the batting cage.  Then after that...

Turning possibilities over in my mind I went downstairs, backed the SUV out
of the garage, and while I was collecting hose, soap, bucket, and sponges,
Ruth pulled up at the curb with my two ballplayers.

"Hi, Coach!"  Dink was his usual exuberant self, hopping out of the car
almost before Ruth stopped it, then bounding up to me with Casey following
behind looked more subdued.  I knew the reason for that.

"Thanks for taking them, Coach," Ruth told me through the open window of
her well used, full-sized Blazer.  I gave her a big grin, pointing at my
SUV.  "No problem.  Before we go to the cage, we'll have our own car wash.
What time do you want them back?"

"Can you keep them until at least four?"  Ruth looked at me hopefully.  I
could tell she was in a hurry to get away.

I nodded.  "Yeah.  Sure.  Tell you what.  I'll bring them over to your car
wash around then and we'll see how you're doing.  Tell Cody I said to rake
in the dough!  You guys are gonna need it when you send an All-Star team to
State!  The more money they make now, the more fun they'll have later!"

Ruth nodded and with a wave drove off.  Behind me Dink already had the hose
going and Casey was pouring soap in the bucket.  "Can we like take our
shirts off, Coach?" Dink yelled over to me.

"Absolutely, Hot Shot."

Moments later both boys were shirtless, their smooth bare skin shiny in the
sunlight.  Dink's sturdy compact body was an interesting contrast to
Casey's taller, wrestler-hard leanness.  Both boys were wearing cutoff
jeans ending above the knee.  Worn thin by countless washings, already
skintight, once the old faded denims get wet they clung even more to young
thighs, hips and butts.  While I went to work on the high parts of the SUV,
the boys crouched down to scrub sides and wheels with the result that two
perfect boy tails strained the fabric of those old cutoffs.  I found myself
wishing that my vehicle was bigger so it would take longer to wash.

"Too bad we got stuck with Dink," I muttered to Casey at one point when we
were close together.  He nodded and made a little gesture meaning, "What
could I do?"

"There'll be other times," I whispered back.

Once the SUV was rinsed off, I gave each boy a chamois and they dried while
I got the camera to take pictures.  At least I'll get something out of
this, I thought.  Then I showed them how to apply wax.  "Neat!" Dink
exclaimed when he saw how he could wipe a spot that had dried to a haze and
make it shine.  "This is great, Coach!"

I gave his firm butt a pat.  "It's a lot more fun with you guys helping."
Dink grinned up at me, his black curly hair glinting in the sun.

Half an hour later the SUV was gleaming like brand-new.  I handed my
personal wooden bat to Casey to hold while I drove and we set off for the
Pitch N'Putt out by the highway with Dink sitting beside me in the middle
and Casey riding shotgun by the window.  Both boys still had their shirts
off.  If I'd been alone with Casey my hands would've been all over him, but
in the circumstances I had to refrain.

"Coach, what's this?"  Dink reached over to touch my big wooden bat that
Casey was holding between his knees.

I grinned, answering without taking my eyes off the road, "It's a baseball
bat."

"But it's like all wood!" Dink protested, his fingertips rubbing the black
friction tape wrapped on the bat's handle.  "A bat's gotta be metal!"

"Baloney!" I snorted, which made Casey giggle because he had heard my rant
on the subject before.  "Real baseball bats have always been wood!  They're
supposed to be!  In the Major Leagues, they still are.  You can't use a
metal bat in the majors -- only wood!"

"For real?"  Dink looked up, startled.

"Of course for real!  Metal bats are an abomination!  If I had my way, none
of you kids would be allowed to use 'em!"

Casey giggled again, and quoted, "No metal bats, no artificial turf, no
designated hitter.  Coach hates all that.  It's from some movie."

"Crash Davis in 'Bull Durum'," I grumbled, wanting badly to reach over and
pat Casey's thigh.  But with Dink there I couldn't.

"What's 'artificial turf'?" the curly-haired boy asked, obviously having no
idea what we were talking about.  Then, without waiting for an answer, he
went on, "I got a nice aluminum bat.  It's one Lance used when he played.
We take care of it.  It looks almost new.  It's an Easton!" he added
proudly.

"Humpf!" I muttered under my breath.  "Softball bat!"  But I was careful
not to let Dink hear.  Long since, I had learned that fussing about
aluminum bats was tilting at windmills.

Dink was rubbing the taped handle of my bat again.  "Whadya' gonna do with
this?"

"You'll see," Casey told him mysteriously.  He had been to the cages with
the rest of the team the year before.

Dink kept rubbing the handle.  "It's big."

"Not really."  I turned onto the state road.  Beyond, a half-mile in front
of us, just past Pizza Hut, the big Pitch N'Putt sign was visible.  "Babe
Ruth swung one a lot bigger."

"Who's Babe Ruth?"  Dink was looking up at me again.

"That's some other movie Coach likes," Casey explained.

I was too busy getting into the parking lot and finding a place for the SUV
to comment - which was probably just as well.

"Warm-up's first," I shouted to the boys as they raced for the cages to
find a bat they liked.  Both wanted to start right away in one of the fast
lanes.  "Aw, this is baby stuff," Dink protested when I shoved him into the
forty mile an hour cage.  But I was firm, insisting, "One round of
warm-up!"

Under the hot sun the shirtless boys were soon glistening with sweat, their
lean young bodies shiny as polished marble.  I loved watching them swing,
especially Casey.  The muscles of his smooth, elegant form stood out in
definition every time he came through the ball.  Dink's smaller compact
form was equally well defined, a study in classical proportion.  His sturdy
breath of shoulders and upper body were exactly matched to hips and legs
not yet stretched by the onset of rapid growth.  Like Casey, Dink had a
bubble-butt.  Pert rounded mounds strained the tight denim cutoffs they
were both wearing.  Despite the revealing way their blue jeans clung, any
clothing seemed a desecration on such perfection.

Once they were warmed up, first Casey, followed by Dink, moved to the
faster lanes.  Taking turns doing rounds of twenty pitches each, "Ting
... Tonk ... Bang ..." my two young players swung away, filling the air
with the sound of metal bats hitting pitching machine balls.  Finally, when
Dink emerged from his second round, smiling happily, dripping with sweat,
both he and Casey were ready for a break.

"You do it now, Coach," the curly-haired boy suggested.  His tone was half
curiosity, half challenge.

Next to him, Casey grinned and touched his fist to mine when I held it out.
Dink watched us and then as I took my wooden bat into the cage that he had
just left, he protested, "Ain't you gotta warm-up, Coach?"

"That is warm-up for him," I think is what Casey responded, but I was no
longer listening.  Hitting a baseball required total concentration and
already I was starting to focus.

Putting my quarters in, I took twenty pitches, swinging easily, not caring
too much about the contact, just getting into the rhythm of the swing.
Gradually I felt my body loosen until I was shifting my weight, uncoiling
with full power on the ball.  Then without saying anything to the watching
boys, I moved over to the cage at the far end of the line, where the
pitching machine was the fastest.

By then I was in the zone.  Dropping in quarters, barely aware of anything
except the spot where the ball would appear in the arm of the machine, I
waited at the plate.

The first pitch came... I stepped into it...

THWAAAAKA!

I thought then, and always have thought, that the sound of a wooden bat
hitting a ball was the most wonderful, magical sound in the world.  As a
youth baseball coach I had learned to appreciate the solid "Tonk" an
aluminum bat makes when a ball was well hit, but for me nothing would ever
replace the deeper, more resonant, "Thwack" of wood.  It was louder, more
magnificent -- a sound of exploding power.

"Thwack ... Thwack ... Thwack ..." The pitches rocketed in, coming so fast
the balls hummed as they approached, each at exactly the same height and
location, so I could groove my swing, unloading with full power on every
one.  This is the disadvantage of machine pitching.  Too predictable.  A
human pitcher is far more difficult to hit.  But those were "coaching"
thoughts, and in the cage I was beyond thought, caught up in the sheer
physical exhilaration of unleashing my power, meeting the ball with the
sweet spot of the bat so there was no sense of impact, only the perfection
of flight as the ball soared off into the netting surrounding the cages.

"Thwack ... Thwack ... Thwack ..."

The sound, so much lovelier than the "Tink" of a metal bat, echoed around
the area.  I was gone, lost in the pure thrill... then the lights on the
machine flicked to red and no more balls came.  I stood a few moments
longer, ready at the plate, before regretfully straightening up.

Casey was grinning when I stepped out of the cage.  Dink was staring up,
wide-eyed.  "Geez!!  You are good!!"

"Told ya'," Casey said, smugly.

"That is good, Coach!" Dink exclaimed again when I ruffled his damp black
curls.  But I shook my head.  "Not really.  Major League pitchers throw
much faster and harder than that.  Any good college pitcher could get me
out.  But I can still hit cage balls."  Giving both boys pats on their
bubble butts I led them back to their lane.  "Now, let's get you two going
again.  Casey, you first..."

The boys went three more rounds apiece, but they did not swing at all the
pitches because now I interrupted them frequently with coaching
instructions, letting wasted balls from the machine crash into the wire
fence while we worked on their form.  Casey listened to everything I said
with a solemn expression, always taking a few practice swings before
resuming at the plate.  Dink listened, too, in his own way, but whenever I
was talking, his eyes would flick to the pitches he was missing, counting
them, eager to return to the plate and hack away.

After we finished, I bought my two ballplayers sandwiches, chips, and a
drink at Subway, then let them play arcade games before taking them to the
municipal pool.  Neither one had to change, as their cutoffs worked fine as
swim shorts.  They fidgeted impatiently, waiting for me to get into a pair
of swim trunks that I had brought along; then they dashed out to the
sunshine, launching themselves with cannonballs into the water.

They both loved to be thrown.  We did it in the shallow end where I could
take hold of their smooth wet bodies and toss them up in the air while they
squealed, hugging their knees, coming down with a splash.  I was careful to
select a spot away from other swimmers to avoid collisions, but even so I
suspect the two lifeguards on duty might have said something if I had not
known them.  They were both High School boys, veterans of the wrestling
team as well as competitive swimmers - sports I helped coach in the winter
- so with a smile and wave to me I was given leave to continue.

Loving the feel of my hands on him, taking every opportunity to squirm and
rub against me, Casey was instantly hard, his four inches bulging in the
tight restriction of skintight cutoffs.  Then, to my surprise, I discovered
that Dink was stiff, too.  The younger boy obviously loved being tossed.
Eager as a puppy, he kept paddling back to me, jumping around, tugging,
leaning against me, begging, "Again, Coach.  Do me, again!"  Positioned in
front of me where I could lift him by his hips, my hand would occasionally
brush across the front of his shorts, and after a few times I had no doubt.
Beneath the stretched denim was a jutting bulge.  And that wasn't all.  The
first few times the brush of my palm was accidental.  After that, whenever
I started to take hold of him, Dink would half turn, as if readying
himself, moving his hips in a way that brought my hand onto his bulge.
There was no doubt it was purposeful, yet Dink gave no other indication and
without that I did not want to risk going further.  But my hand made more
than enough explorations to confirm that beneath the cutoffs, something was
straining to be hard.

Casey, on the other hand, left no doubt that he wanted more.  Not content
with me rubbing his bulging crotch each time I handled him, he soon had his
cutoffs unbuttoned, the zipper down, and I suspect if he had thought he
could get away with it, his stiff boy pole would've been sticking right
out.  As it was, I could slide my hand down in his tight cutoffs to rub,
tickle and otherwise pleasure my erect centerfielder.  We did it while Dink
was recovering from being tossed, paddling back to the surface, blowing
bubbles, rubbing the water out of his eyes.

"Wish it was just us," I told Casey several times, and he nodded fervently.

Later on, after I had taken the boys over to Ruth at Cody's car wash, Casey
whispered to me, "Coach, next Saturday..."

"Yeah," I whispered back.  "Opening Day.  Lemme see if I can work something
out..."

* * * * *

That week during our baseball practices, word got around about Casey and
Dink's excursion to the batting cages, and this resulted in a general
clamor from all the rest to be given a chance to go there as well.

"Win you're first game and we'll see," I told them.

There were groans from my 12-year-old veterans.  "Geez, Coach," JJ whined.
"How we gonna' do that?  It's against Skyline Gas.  They got Big Jimmy an'
Terry Pate, an' all those other good guys!"

"Whoa!  Hold on..." I put an arm around JJ's shoulder.  "So they got Jimmy
and Terry.  You don't even know if they'll be pitching.  You..."

"Terry says he is," Bryce interrupted.

"Yeah," Casey said, "he told us at school."

"And so what if he is?"  I gave JJ's back a pat.  "You guys beat Skyline
Gas twice last year."

"That was last year, Coach," Bryce was shaking his head.

"Yeah," JJ said morosely.  "We had all those good guys - like Cody and
them."

"Well, now we got you."  I gave his shoulders another squeeze and looked
from face to face in the group around me.  "We got you and Bryce.  And
Casey, Cowboy, Adam, Bo....  This is your time, fellas.  Now's when you
gotta step up.  You're good, every one of you.  Better than you think.
Plus..." I turned to grin at all the 11-year-olds who were gathered around
listening.  "Plus we got the best rookies in the league!"

"Yeah!" Peewee shouted, grinning back at me.

"They ain't tried to hit against Terry Pate yet," Cowboy grumbled.

"Oh, man!  Listen to you!"  I let go of JJ and picked Cowboy up, tickling
him until he laughed.  "You're beat before you even start!  Where's all
that comin' from?  Is that the way you think before you climb up on a steer
and ride 'em?"

"No," admitted the laughing boy.

"Well then..." Putting Cowboy down I held my fist out so each of the
12-year-olds could touch it with their own.  "You guys just go out there
and do your best.  The score will take care of itself.  We had a great
season last year -- and we're gonna have another one this year, too.  We
might not go undefeated -- that doesn't happen all the time.  But..."

"We're still gonna do good!"

Everyone turned to look at Casey in surprise, because he so rarely said
anything at practice.

"Darn right!" I told them all, giving Casey's shoulders a hug.  Then I
gestured for everyone to put a fist in, the 11-year-olds as well, and they
all gave a cheer.

Monday and Tuesday I had wanted to catch Ruth when she came to pick up
Casey after practice, so I could try to set up something for Saturday, but
each time I had been distracted, talking to other parents, and she had left
before I could talk to her.  Then, on Wednesday, she was late.  One by one
the rest of the kids took off, Dink in the front seat of Lance's old Land
Rover, others with their mothers or in carpools.  I chatted for a while
with Carol about arrangements for the taking of team pictures before
Saturday's opening game, then she too drove off with Evan, Kelly, and Slick
on the backseat waving.  Casey and I were left alone.

"Did your mom say she might be late today?"  I asked as we loaded the
equipment bags into my SUV.

"Uh-uh."  Casey had taken off his practice shirt at the beginning of our
drills and now he stood, resplendent in the golden afternoon sunlight,
glints flashing from his dark hair, bare upper body shiny with sweat.
Wednesdays were always "sliding practice" days so all the boys had been
wearing blue jeans.  Casey's were skintight on him, the thin worn denim
molded to slender hips and firm rounded butt.  I badly wanted to pull those
jeans off him to reveal his full beauty - but Ruth's car might appear at
any moment.  Even so, one part of me was saying, "Go for it... Go for
it..."

Casey stepped close, eyes lifted to mine, offering his lips.  A rush of
passion swept all thoughts of caution aside.  I took the boy in my arms,
crushing him to me, our lips meeting in a long deep kiss.

"Uhhhh..." Casey groaned as we broke for air.  He was fumbling at the
jeans, unzipping and pulling them down.  "Do me... Do me,
Coach... Please..."

There was nothing to say, nothing to even think about.  I wanted the boy so
much nothing else mattered.  Throwing caution to the winds I helped Casey
pull his pants down, the skintight jeans peeling off taking his underwear
briefs with them.  The boy was stone hard, his four inch boner jutting out
in quivering rigidity, the stretched skin on the slick shaft thin as
cellophane.  We opened the rear door of my SUV, Casey stretched out on the
seat and I went down on him, stiff boy pole sliding into my mouth.  My
aroused centerfielder gave a moan of passion, his hips lifting to thrust.

My longing for the boy, the thrill of his response as he gave himself, sent
a shock wave of passion sweeping through me.  My own hips bucked as a gush
of wetness filled my boxers.  My palms swept over the boy, stroking the
sweet silkiness covering young hard muscle, rubbing up and down glossy
flanks, the hollow of his tight waist, velvety softness of delicate
armpits.  With my tongue curled around his throbbing shaft, I bobbed my
head, sliding my lips on the slick hardness, feeling it swell in my mouth.

"Ohhhhh...  Oh, Coach..."

Arching in tension, squeezing to hold back, Casey lifted his hips and held
his breath.  I slid his rigid boyhood faster in my mouth.  The first
throbbing pulse hit, jerking him... Then he was bucking in a frenzy,
humping my mouth, holding my head down on his groin, panting and crying
out, "Uh... Uh... Uh... Uh... Uh... Oh... Oh... Oh, Coach...
Uh... Ahhhhhhhhhh..."

My tongue slid over the tip of Casey's pulsating boy rod, tasting sweetness
pouring from the slit.  The thrill of having brought him so quickly to a
peak sent me spinning into a release of my own.  Bucking and thrusting my
hips I shot a full load into my pants, then for awhile the two of us lay
there, Casey stretched panting on the seat, half in and half out of the
SUV, with me kneeling on the ground, trying to get my breath.

If Ruth had appeared then....  But our luck held and she did not.  However
as passion ebbed I was fast realizing how compromised we must appear.
Still breathing hard I got to my feet.  "Pull your pants back on," I urged
Casey.  "Your mom..."

Anxiously the boy sat up, then slid out to where I could help him.
Together we got his blue jeans back on, then I went around to get behind
the wheel.  A big dark area of wetness was visible in my crotch.  Casey got
in on the passenger side and slid over next to me.  After checking quickly
to be sure there were still no sign of his mother, I kissed him, the boy
hugging tight around my neck as our tongues went into each other's mouths.
We groped each other, my hand finding the bulge in Casey's groin where his
boner was still hard.  The boy's hand exploring me found only wet goo.

"You shot stuff, Coach," he told me when our lips finally parted.

"Better believe I did."  My fingers stayed busy, rubbing him through the
denim.  "You did, too."

"Yeah, but only like a little.  Not like you.  Bet you do way more than
Cody does."

"Yeah."

"When am I like...?"

"Real soon.  Bet it'll be by the end of summer.  Bet we can... Uh-oh."  I
had been about to kiss him again, but the sight of Ruth's car turning onto
the dirt track by the field stopped me.  "Better get your shirt on," I told
Casey.  "Here comes your mom."

With that big wet spot in my crotch I was not about to get out of the SUV.
Instead I just waved when Ruth drove up.  She waved back, opening the door
for Casey who trotted over to get in.

"Sorry to be late, Coach," she called through her window.  "Cody's practice
is going long."

"No problem," I called back.  "Hey, on Saturday you want me to take Casey
for you.  I can get him home and you..."

"Oh, would you, Coach?"  She didn't even wait for me to finish.  "That
would really be good.  I was so worried about getting over to your field to
pick him up.  I don't know when Cody's game will finish.  And once you're
in the parking lot over there you can't get out, and..."

"No problem," I shouted back.  "I'll take care of him.  Leave it to me."

With that she drove off.  Casey waved to me as the car bumped over the dirt
road.

* * * * *

Opening Day that year was warm, sunny, and free of any of the usual
last-minute complications -- a tribute to Carol's Team Mother Efficiency.
As the defending League Champions, we had the first game and it happened to
be against Skyline Gas, the team coached by Mike, my buddy and big rival.
Just as we had been the team to beat the previous season, this year
everyone expected Skyline Gas to be top dogs.  I was going with my best
lineup and for a starting pitcher I had Bryce up on the mound.

"You get the honor, Top Gun," I had told him the afternoon before at the
end of our final preseason practice.  "JJ and Cowboy will be ready for
relief, but you start us off."

With a grin, Bryce had touched fists with his friend Bo.  Then Cowboy, my
irrepressible third baseman, had piped up, "Better make it good, Top.
Coach don't wanna' lose a steak dinner!"

There had been titters from all the 12-year-olds at this, except for Bryce
who looked stern and determined.  I directed a look of my own toward Cowboy
whose mischievous grin got wider.  Next to him, JJ was grinning slyly too
as he said, "Coach.  Like everyone knows you an' Big Mike bet a steak on
our games."

"Nonsense," I had blustered.  "Coaches don't bet.  We..."

The boys' laughter had stopped me.  Even the 11-year-olds had been
grinning.  I looked around at them, my wonderful young ballplayers,
standing there in the afternoon sunshine, half naked bodies gleaming....  A
lump rising in my throat had to be swallowed before I could say, "You guys
just do your best tomorrow.  You're all winners as far as I'm concerned.
Every one of you.  Win or lose, I'm proud to be your coach.  Just play your
best..." I had held my fist out and the boys had all crowded in to put
theirs on it.  "Team, on three," I had shouted.  "One... Two... Three!"

Sure enough, my buddy Mike reminded me of our standing steak dinner bet on
Saturday while they were taking the team pictures.  "Mmmmm..." he said,
patting his stomach.  "I can taste it already.  Medium rare with all the
trimmings.  Plus a big stein of beer.  It's gonna be great!"

"My, aren't we confident," I teased back.  But we both knew he had every
reason to be.  My stud players from the previous year had moved up and now
it was my buddy who had the best shortstop in our league -- plus several
good pitchers and a lineup of good hitters to go with him.  His was going
to be the team to beat in the coming season and after buying me dinner for
several years in a row, he was looking forward to payback.

I was preparing my lineup card for our game, and blessing Carol's
efficiency because for once the team picture taking had gone without the
usual emergencies (things like "Coach, I forgot my cap!" or "Coach, my
uniform's too big.  My mom didn't fix it!") when Evan came running up,
looking incredibly cute in his tight uniform shirt and pants.  But by the
look on his face I knew some crisis loomed.

"Coach!  Tiny locked himself in the bathroom and he won't come out!"

Tiny?  I thought.  Tiny?  The last kid I expected trouble from.  Now what?
"Okay," I told my little ballplayer, giving his pert rear end a pat.
"Let's go see what's up."

We had two restrooms built into the end of a cinderblock structure that
housed our snack bar, a facility which served both the 11 and 12 field and
the adjacent 9 and 10 coach pitch league field.  It was a big improvement
over the wooden shack/porta potty combination that we had been stuck with
before.  Two of my ballplayers, Peewee and Flick, plus some boys from other
teams, were gathered outside one of the restroom doors.  They all turned to
me as I walked up.

"Coach!  Coach, Tiny's locked himself in," Flick announced.  "He won't come
out!"

"Yeah, an' I gotta pee!!"  This came from Brody, second baseman on Allison
Grocery, a team getting ready for the opener over on the 9 and 10 field.
Brody was a sandy haired little mite who the other kids called 'Bingo', a
nickname resulting from some long ago incident in first grade.

"Problem solved, Bingo," I said, guiding the youngster toward the open door
of the other restroom.  "Get in there and let fly!"

"Coach!" wailed the boy.  "That's a girls' bathroom!"

I shoved him all the way in.  "Any port in a storm, Tiger.  I'll stand
right here and keep the girls out.  You do your thing."

"Bingo's gotta find it first," Flick yelled.  All the boys giggled as I
closed the door.

"Okay, guys," I told them.  "Go find a ball and get your arms loose.  Me
an' Tiny are gonna talk."

Grinning, the group broke up still giggling among themselves as they headed
off.

"Tiny?"  I knocked on the locked door.  "Tiny, it's Coach.  What's up big
guy?  Talk to me."

Silence.  I waited a moment, then knocked again.  "C'mon Sport.  It's okay.
Whatever it is you can tell me.  I can't help fix it unless I know what's
wrong."

More silence.  In the women's restroom a toilet flushed, then Brody
appeared.  "Hang on, Tiger," I told him, seeing that the front of his
baseball pants was all unbuttoned.  "Let's get you squared away."

"Coach?"  The boy asked as I buttoned up his fly.  He was wearing Batman
underpants and my fingers were brushing over an inviting little bulge
there.  "Coach, you're gonna' be like coachin' 11 and 12 next year, ain't
you?"

"You bet," I assured him, finishing the last button and buckling the waist
belt.

Brody took a breath, then blurted, "Coach, I wanna' be on your team!"

Reaching around to give the youngster a pat on his butt I grinned and
winked at him.  "Sounds good to me.  I'll see what I can do.  You playin'
football when school starts?"

"Uh-huh!  But that ain't for a long time, Coach.  Not till after summer
vacation's over!"

"When baseball season's done, you come see me and we'll start gettin' you
ready," I told him.  "It's never too early to start throwin' the pigskin
around."

"Yeah!"  Brody's face split into a wide grin.

"Go get 'em, Tiger," I said, pushing him toward the 9 and 10 field with
another pat of his firm little rear.  "You do good out there."

"I will, Coach!"  Brody shouted this over his shoulder as he ran off.

"Okay, Tiny," I said to the locked door, turning back to it.  "I'm getting
worried out here.  If you've died in there, we gotta get the body out.  I'm
gonna break down this door."

"No!  Wait Coach," came a muffled voice.  There was a click, the door
opened... and my husky catcher emerged, glancing from side to side.  "The
other kids gone?"

"Course' they are."  I gave Tiny's big shoulder a pat.  "I ran 'em off so
you and I could talk.  Now what's wrong?  Let me help."

The boy looked up at me in appeal.  "Coach, I doan' wanna' play catcher."

Oh boy, I thought.  Just when everything seemed to be going smoothly.
"Hey, it's all right," I said, hugging my chunky ballplayer.  "Nobody's
gonna make you do anything you don't wanna do.  If you don't wanna play
catcher, you don't have to.  Where would you like to play?"

"Can I play outfield?"

"Sure."  In my head I began quickly juggling lineups.  "We'll have Bo or
Rainman play catcher.  You can take right field."  A picture of Tiny
lumbering around in the outfield chasing a fly ball crossed my mind,
but... what the hell.  It was better than having him locked, miserable, in
the restroom.  I knelt on one knee next to the boy.  "So what happened with
catching?  I thought you liked it.  You did great in practice.  What
changed your mind?"

Tiny shrugged.  "It's okay in practice, Coach.  But, it's like...`like here
there's people all around watching.  If I miss a ball they'll like laugh
and say stuff..."

"Ohhh..." I hugged Tiny again around his soft tubby waist and he leaned
against me.  "I understand.  I know just what you mean.  Catcher and
pitcher are the two toughest positions.  Everybody's watchin' all the time.
But, you played catcher in 9 and 10, didn't you?  You were okay then."

"Yeah, but....  It was the coach pitchin' there.  It was easy.  But now, I
gotta like catch Bryce...."

"You can catch him.  You do it in practice all the time."

"But..." Tiny squirmed a little.  "Coach, he tol' me like I'd better not
mess up with him, cause if I did we'd lose an' he'd kick my butt, an' you'd
be like all mad too, cause you'd lose your bet with the other coach, an'
like it'd be all my fault, an' like the only reason I was catcher's cause
I'm like fat and can't run fast, and I suck an'..."

The words came tumbling out, along with a few tears.  I took the boy into
my arms to stop the flow.  "Okay, okay..." My palm stroked Tiny's back in a
soothing rhythm.  "C'mon..."

There was one more room in the end of the snack bar structure, a big space
used partly for storage and partly as a first aid station.  I propelled
Tiny into it, closed the door so we could have privacy and hugged him
tight.  "Do I get mad at you in practice, Tiny?"

"Sometimes," he blubbered.

"Yeah, but not mad mad, right?  Just like, do-it-better mad."

"Yeah."

"And you know I like you, right?"

"I guess..."

"You guess!"  My arms tightened around the boy.  I patted the ample butt
that was stretching his uniform pants, then kissed the top of his head.
"Tiny, I think you're the greatest!  I think you're one of the best
catchers I ever coached.  I love it when you and I stand at home plate
together and you help me run the drills!  You gotta know that!  Come on..."
I tickled the boy, wiggling my fingertips over his sides, "Come on... You
know it!  Don't try tellin' me you don't!  I know you do!"

Giggling, Tiny hugged me back and I bent to kiss the top of his head again.
"Better believe I like you, big guy.  I love watchin' you work behind the
plate.  You're the man!  Givin' our pitchers confidence, directing the
infield, blockin' the plate on close plays!  You're my guy!  But if you
wanna play the outfield..."

My fingertips were tickling all over the boy and Tiny was doubled up,
laughing so hard he had trouble gasping out words.  "Okay,
Coach... Okay... I'll catch..."

"That's my guy..." The chunky boy's shirt was stretched so tight over him
it was hard to get my hand beneath it, but I pushed under the cloth to
stroke a palm on Tiny's smooth bare skin.  "I knew I could count on you.
Tiny, did you know that catcher is the position I think is most important
in the whole field?  That's why I drafted you, big guy.  I knew you could
handle it."

Straightening the boy up, I started adjusting his uniform.  "Let's make
sure you're all set here.  I think playing catcher takes more guts than any
other position.  But I knew you could handle it, kid.  I could tell when I
scouted you last year."

Tiny was helping me unbutton his pants.  "You scouted me?"

"Better believe it!  I needed a good catcher.  I wanted to know who I
should draft!"

Together we pushed down his baseball pants.  Underneath Tiny wore only a
jock that held his protective cup.  The boy's pale haunches gleamed in the
fluorescent light, smooth and round, the muscle hard beneath a layer of
fat.  Although overweight, Tiny was sturdy and strong.  In Japan they would
have made him a sumo wrestler.

"Man, you're solid," I told the boy, rubbing him and giving his rear end a
pinch.  "Let's check the cup..."

He pulled it down for me.  Like most fat boys, Tiny had a small immature
package, the nut sack undescended and his little nub of a boy rod barely
visible.  But what there was stuck out hard and straight.  Tiny's little
nub was as stiff as a wooden peg.  "Looks like you're pretty solid here,
Tiger," I told him, rubbing the blunt circumcised tip with a finger.  Tiny
giggled.  Putting the cup back in place, pretending to adjust it, I ran my
palms over the boy's meaty thighs and hips.  "How 'bout playin' football
for us when school starts again, Tiny?  You gonna' sign up?"

The boy made a disgusted sound.  "I can't, Coach.  My mom won't let me."

"Well, maybe I can talk to her."  Together we pulled his pants back up and
I smoothed the tightly stretched cloth over his big butt.  "Tell you what,
though," I added while Tiny buttoned the fly.  "There's one thing I'm sure
she'll let you do and that's wrestling.  You let me talk to her.  You wanna
wrestle for me this winter?"

Tiny nodded.  "Oh, yeah, Coach!"  We pulled his shirt down to cover his
ample stomach and then to my surprise the chunky youngster hugged me around
the waist, his head pressed to my chest.

"Listen to me, big guy," I whispered, stroking him.  "Don't you worry about
missing any balls out there.  If one gets past you, there's a backstop
right behind you to help out.  Just kick that mask up and look for the
ball.  It'll be there.  And if anybody laughs or gives you grief, we'll put
Cowboy and JJ, our goon squad, on 'em!  Okay?  Go make me proud out there,
Tiger.  Don't you worry about winning or losing.  This is your time to
learn.  And next year..." I pried the boy loose, ruffling his hair while he
looked up at me.  "Next year, Tiny!  When you're 12.  You guys are gonna
own this league!  You wait and see, okay?"

"Uh-huh!"  My fat catcher nodded eagerly.

"Good!  Let's you and me get infield drill started.  We got a game to
play!"

Together we headed for the field, Tiny leading the way.

I hate losing, especially Opening Day games, and we lost that one by a
single run despite good pitching by Bryce, and then Cowboy and JJ when I
put them in as relievers.  Big Mike had the team that year and that was all
there was to it.  His star shortstop tattooed one of Bryce's fastballs for
a home run, which was the difference.

"But you guys got nothin' to be ashamed about," I told my kids afterwards.
"You all did great."

Actually, there had been plenty of rough spots, but there was no sense
telling them that.  We would work on those things in practice.  My two
lacrosse players, Kelly and Slick, had a ways to go before they mastered
all the intricacy of the game.  Bo and Rainman were still the hesitant
mediocre players at 12 they had been at 11.  The rest of my team, with the
exceptions of Tiny, Bryce, JJ and Casey were on the small side.  But there
were bright spots.  We had kept the score close.  Little Evan had made a
nice stop on a hot grounder at second base, his first ever.  And Casey had
been all over the outfield, snatching fly balls, diving for line drives,
and backing up perfectly on ground balls that got through the middle.

And then there was Dink.  Dink was a bright spot all by himself, playing
well at left field, right field, third base -- wherever I put him.  And he
could hit.  Not quite big enough at 11 to be a power hitter, Dink could
still give the ball a ride.  Completely unintimidated by Big Mike's
12-year-old fastball artists, Dink stood in and belted three hits for us,
getting on base every time he came up.

Even more than my two lacrosse players, Dink was a competitor.  While the
other boys took our loss philosophically, Dink was seething.  "Crud!" he
kept saying, glaring around fiercely.  "Shit!  We coulda beat those guys!
We shoulda!  They ain't that good!"

"Easy does it, Hot Stuff," I said, putting an arm around his shoulders.
"You'll have at least one, maybe two more shots at them."

The sturdy boy ducked from under my arm, staring up at me, shiny dark curls
spilling from beneath his cap.  "What you mean, Coach?"

"We play Skyline Gas once more during the regular season," I explained.
"Then, if we can stay alive in the playoffs, we'll probably see them
another time."

"Then we're gonna' beat 'em!" Dink vowed, smacking his glove.  "We'll get
'em then!"

He was still frowning and looking very determined when Lance, who had
arrived in time to watch the last two innings of our game, drove off with
him in the Land Rover.

[ That's it for this part, but Casey's waiting for Coach in the dugout and
they'll spend the rest of the day together!

To Be Continued In Parts E through I ]

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

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