Date: Sun, 20 Jun 2021 22:46:41 +0000 From: encolpius1 Subject: Every Man Needs A Boy part 1 EVERY MAN NEEDS A BOY By Encolpius AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm taking the credit (or blame) for the story but would like to thank my collaborators, Gacha_Blue for the story idea and details and SkyBorn for the editing and second/third drafts. They are making it a better story than it would be otherwise. Feedback is great and greatly appreciated. Write to encolpius1@protonmail.com Donate, donate, donate! Donate, donate, donate! ONE I was two weeks on the job. I woke up late, which is not cool when you are on your first 90 days. Next to me was a big tittied woman that needed a morning pick me up to get her going. It wasn't like I was going to turn in my stud card so I did what I had to do. She didn't mind fast and furious. She was screaming when I came. When I got to work, I got called into my boss' office. I was sweating it out. My career in the minors had already taught me that I was prone to fuck up a good gig. I was expecting to be fired. But it was about baseball. I should have guessed. I'm working at a private banking/money management firm. They hired me to be good time Tyler, ass kissing the rich guys, taking their money betting on rounds of golf, sitting around at the country club talking sports. Can the Braves find some pitching? Can the Dawgs find an offense? Bullshitting with guys about sports and pussy and telling glory days stories about what I've done the last nine years bouncing around the A's organization. Whatever it takes to make them comfortable with giving us large amounts of their money to 'manage'. Yeah, they're teaching me banking. "It's called the Minor League" Burns said. "The junior level of Little League" I looked at him blankly. Minor League? I spent 4 years, mostly in the Eastern League of AA, except for a cup of coffee in the bigs at the end of the season once. That was my best year. I hit .264 with 17 homers and 69 RBI's batting clean up. I had a .334 OBP. It was down hill after that. Pro ball is tougher than college. And I made the College World Series at Vandy. Then I remembered, he has a son who is going to play this year on the company sponsored team. He mentioned it to me before. In my boss' case, it's a team of nine and ten year olds. And the season is just starting. Maybe he's talking about that. "So what is it that you want me to do?" I asked. He's my boss. I'm in the first 90 days, my trial period, and I need the job. The contract bonus money, what had been left of it, all went to the psycho bitch in the divorce. I'm still not sure exactly what my job is other than taking rich people's money and having our company manage it. But it's paying the bills. And, if he's talking about his kid's team, this is kind of important to him. "Third base coach and batting instructor. I'm the manager." Yep, he's asking me to volunteer. "Sure, why not." I said. "You have to pass a national background check but I'm sure that won't be a problem." he said. "I'll text you the address of the practice field and the schedule." "Yeah, that won't be a problem. Glad to help." Business concluded I turned and left the office. It's nine and ten year olds. It's not much of a time committment and it won't keep me from tryng to find some pussy. Shit, I'm fucking 31 years old and newly free. I wasted too many good years -prime years- on that bitch. I've got some catching up to do and I'll take just about any hole I can get at this point. I go out Friday after work and lay on the charm. She was a red haired chick, probably not natural but the cooch is shaved so who knows. It was slick and wet and the tits were nice. I got what I wanted. I guess she got what she wanted. Either way. I find myself on a miniature baseball field on a Saturday morning. I'm not hung over exactly but I wouldn't have minded staying in bed cuddling that piece, you know. But here I am. Everything is a third smaller than it should be, except the players. They are 1/3 less in height but 2/3 less in weight. They are fucking munchkins. Fucking dwarves. Burns introduces me to the other dads who volunteered to help. Bobby will be the first base coach and Jim's handling pitching. His job is to keep track of the pitch count. At this age the kids are throwing fast balls that just aren't that fast. There's no movement, no spin on the ball. You can tee off on it. There's a gob of little kids. Four footers. There's a couple of girls and a couple of bigger 10 year olds, but three of those four are fat. They're all white. And upper middle class, I'm figuring. All dressed in their clean baseball uniforms, except for one kid. A blond kid. He's scrawnier than the rest, but not by much, except for the fat kids of course. He has long hair, but more from not having a haircut than from trying to be trendy. Anyway, the blond kid has the team jersey on, the A's, which is a sick joke since I was in the A's organization for 9 long years, but he's wearing jeans that are too short for him. The jeans are too short and the shirt is too big. The pants around his little waist but they're high waters falling above his ankles. One of his shoes has the big toe worn out on it. I look around at all of them. Some of them want to be there and some don't. But, really, whatever. The boss' kid isn't completely hopeless. He's overweight and not an exceptional athlete but he's not the worst one there. But I'm thinking his being on the team might matter more to the boss than the kid. We do defensive drills first. I grab a fungo bat and hit grounders to the infielders first. None of them know the fundamentals. Well, one of them at least has a clue. The blond kid. Burns has him at first base. I move him over to short stop and tap grounders to him. He's a vacuum cleaner. I've told three kids before him to go to their knee and field the ball. This kid is the only one that got it. It was drilled into me, the fundamentals. Hit your cutoff man. Look the ball into your glove. That kind of shit. It's right because it works. Shit. Burns reminds me that he had the blond kid at first and he's the manager. "Dude, that kid's a stud. I don't know if he can hit for shit but he needs to be at short. Put a fat slow kid at first. We'll find one that won't be needing to use that hand to find his pecker." It'll only take about 2 minutes to find a new first baseman. All you need is a guy that can put a foot on the bag and catch everything thrown at him. Being able to bat is a plus. And if he takes the ocassional ball in the face, it's not like the kid was apt to be using his brain for anything anyway. But Burns just shakes his head. The boss' kid is going to be the catcher. He can squat and catch. I'm hoping they don't allow stealing at this age level because that fat tub of lard couldn't hit a fat women in the ass throwing, much less second base. I tell Burns he's crazy for not putting the blond kid at short. At first, he doesn't want to and I don't understand why. Finally he just says the kid isn't "dependable". I don't know what the fuck that means. Then we do batting practice. The boss' kid, Jared, is okay at the plate. I tell him to shorten it up and that helps. Makes his swing more compact. I want him to step into it but he won't at first. It takes me a minute to understand that it's confidence. He doesn't have it. But then he tastes a little success and he starts listening. "Listen, don't worry about a strike." I said. "You'll tote your bat back to the dug out plenty of times. Striking out is like jacking off. Everybody does it. I promise you. You know what 30% success in the bigs gets you? A spot in Cooperstown. Step into the ball and drive it." He's big enough to put some oomph on the ball. He steps into it, he drives it. The boss is happy. I'm happy. Except the boss reminds me that they are 9 and 10 years old and I ought to lay off the sexual remarks. I look at him and I guess he's right. Except I've spent 5/6ths of my life in dugouts and locker rooms. Boys talk rough. That's life. Whatever. Lesson learned. They are innocent little kids, at least as far as the adults are concerned. I scan the field and look at the munchkins. There's a huge divide in talent and none of them have really been taught how to play the game very well. But I'm hoping that the rest of the teams are struggling to understand the game, too. The blond kid is next. He didn't need a whole lot of coaching. Nice compact swing, seems like a reasonable eye, every movement is purposeful. Then he made a home run cut and swung over the ball. "Just make contact. You don't have to hit a home run every time. Look it in and make contact. Every run counts the same." I said. He looks at me with big blue eyes and nods. He has a serious look on his fair face. The next one is a weak liner down the first base line. The next kid comes and takes his turn. He just swings wildly. One of the girls comes up and she's worse. But I can't get the blond kid off my mind. When we get done, I stop him. "You!" I yell out. "I'm not done with you. Get your ass over here." "Me?" he asks in that high pitched voice that's like a girl's but isn't like a girl's. "You're taking more BP. There's something wrong with your swing." "Okay." he says. What can you say when your coach tells you to get in the box. Burns just tells me to make sure everything is put away. After about 3 swings, I see it. See it all. The kid, if he's been taught at all, has been taught badly. He starts high and finishes low. The knob of the bat is pointed toward the pitcher. I tell him what to do but he can't quite get it together. Finally, I do the tried and true. I get behind him, his body prssed against mine and I put him in the right position for a good stance. I swat him on his little behind. "And put your ass into, kid. Up through the ball." And then he got it. He hit the motherfucking cover off the ball. It was a line drive. If somone had been on second, they wouldn't ever have needed to worry about having children. The kid broke into a big toothy grin that lit up his whole face. "Ten more just like that." I said. And he did. I told him he was swinging a fat bat now. A real stud. When we were done, the blond kid got on his bike and took off. His glove was hanging on the handlebars. That glove had seen it's better days. It was well broken in, I'll say that. I had the rest of the afternoon off, so I called some of my boys but they were all busy. Wives and shit. I went out that night and ended up going back home alone again and jacking off. It was a bust. Burns is good to me on Monday. He's happy about Jared's progress after just one practice. Tuesday evening is the second practice. I'm pretty sure at this point that the team has basically 4-1/2 players. The blond kid, a stocky kid at third who moves pretty well and this Latino kid. Plus the pitching coach's little fucking abortion, the kid I call Red, for obvious reasons. Jared, the boss' kid, is the 1/2. He sets up a pretty good target behind the plate and probably will be a pretty good batter. Except it's painful to watch him huff and puff to first on a groundball. He's too slow. The rest of them are pretty mediocre. I try to remember I was 9 once. But I was the blond kid. Okay, so I wasn't actually a blond kid. I have black hair and green eyes. But you know what I mean. I was that kid. The best one on the field. Naturally, he is also pitching. Jim's kid is parked in right field sometimes, at second sometimes and he pitches, too. But Jim isn't stupid. He recognizes the blond kid has actual athletic talent. Some boys move gracefully and some don't. The blond kid does. I guess I ought to stop calling him the blond kid. I was told all of their names but I only remember the boss' kid's. Jim's kid is Jace, I think. He's the one I call Red. The rest I forget. It doesn't matter. I wasn't an actual person to any of my coachs until high school. I'm not sure why I've focused on him, the blond kid. He is the best athlete. That's for damn sure. He has wavy blond hair, kind of in need of a hair cut, and big blue eyes. Give him five or six years and that dick is going to be wet, a lot. Trust me. He's going to get pussy in high school. Probably middle school. I'm pretty sure as soon as he's able to get it hard, he'll be able to find a willing hole. Just saying. I ask Burns what the kid's name is. It's Sam. Nothing special. And when we were done, he gets on his bike and pedals away. Saturday we did it again and ran through signs. Turns out that we don't need many. The blond kid, Sam, throws a slider. I don't know. It breaks some. I guess for the no pube crowd, it breaks a lot. Anyway, one finger is Uncle Charlie. That's bread and butter. Two is a curve. I tell Jim it's a bad idea. Young arms. They can't and shouldn't try. Three is the slider. Four is stupid. They'll just tee off on a change up. For this crowd, it's just a slow pitch. You have to be young, dumb and full of cum to bite on a change of pace. These little shits, if it comes at them at 3 mph, they'll just launch it. There's not a one of them that could reliably put a change up low and on the outer part of the plate for a strike. Maybe the blond kid. Some of the time. When we are done Sam kind of holds back until everyone is gone and then acts kind of reluctant to leave. He is still in the same pair of too short jeans and has the old, tatty, repaired glove. He doesn't come out and ask to hang around. He just doesn't leave. I don't have anything better to do and I kind of like the kid. He reminds me of me at that age. I kind of hero worshipped my coach, too. "You wanna learn how to slide? A pop up slide?" I asked. He nodded eagerly. I got on first and took off for second to demonstrate. I did it perfectly. It's a skill you have for life, really. "So, lead with you right leg and then bend your left leg behind to make like a figure 4. Be leaning forward and let your momentum move you along and up when you hit the bag, okay?" He nodded. He took a flying jump off first and slide into second. Perfect. He had a big grin on his face, lighting it up. The kid is a natural. I told him there was an overthrow to second and go take third. He took off but came up gimpy and hopping, crying out briefly "Ouh!" I ran over and he had skinned his knee and tore his jeans on the left leg. "Ah, shit" I said. "Come on, I don't live that far. We'll get it cleaned up and get you home." First we had to put up the batting cage and shit but then I tossed his bike in my truck and we headed to my apartment. It's a third floor walk up and I carried the bike so it wouldn't be just sitting in the back of the truck. It's a one bedroom and even at that it takes a lot of what I bring home. The psycho bitch has the condo and I live here. But I am a better housekeeper than she ever was and I'm only having to pick up after myself. The building was built in the 1920's and there are high ceilings and hardwood floors. I have a pretty good eye for design (I think) and I picked up some bargains so the place is pretty stylish without breaking the bank. I can bring back pussy and not be ashamed, not looking like I was still some college jock, you know. Women judge you. So I tell Sam to take off his jeans while I get some rubbing alchohol and shit to disinfect it. The kid has these skinny white legs with kind of knobby knees. Little pencil legs. He's wearing white briefs that look a little big for him. I put the alcohol on his knee and he reacts to the sting, pulling back his leg. But he's trying to be brave about it. So, here's the thing. I saw the kid's dick. It's not a big deal. I mean really, it's not a big deal. Two little peanuts and a pencil nub. And so, yeah, he has a dick. I have a dick. Every guy has a dick. We all have dicks. It's not like he's using it for much, just pissing. Shit, it's not like I'm using mine that much. Except I have to rub a load every now and then to keep from going crazy. So, it's not a big deal. I saw his dick. It isn't. It's not a big deal.