Date: Fri, 16 Sep 2011 06:34:32 -0700 (PDT) From: Joe Hunter Subject: Baseball Diamond Tails - 3A All the usual disclaimers apply: +This story is a work of fiction. If you think it is real, you have a very active imagination. +Do not read this story if you live in an area where it is illegal to do so. +Scenes of sexual activity between an adult male and a young boy are represented. Do not read further if this offends you. +Please do not imitate the actions portrayed herein - the author cannot accept responsibility for any actions promoted by this story. If you would like to get in touch, please e-mail me at: hunterjoe45@yahoo.com I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Support Nifty! Joe ____________________________ BASEBALL DIAMOND TAILS - 3A (copyright 2011, 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 on ragged diamonds by young boys 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... ::::::::::::::::::::: First Base: Part A ::::::::::::::::::::: "I'll tell you who you absolutely have to draft. And I know he's signing up for baseball this year," the man was telling me. I was at a party in someone's backyard, talking to one of my 'spies'. Every spring, before baseball season, I asked teachers and coaches I knew to give me scouting reports on kids who would be in the draft and the man I was with now was one of my better sources. He and his wife were fifth grade teachers and I had never seen him so enthusiastic before. "This kid's the best athlete," he told me eagerly. "You ought to see him. We've been having the kids play some ball during recess. He plays first like he was born to it!" "What's his name?" The man told me and I shook my head. I had never heard it before. "Sounds French," I said. "How come he didn't play in coach-pitch?" Coach-pitch was the instructional league for the nine and ten year olds. "He and his mother only moved here from Canada last fall. They live with her father." My informant lowered his voice. "Word is she married some ski bum up there who ran out and left her with the kid. The boy's French all right. I think she named him after that famous French skier in the Olympics." "Jean-Claude Kelly." The teacher nodded. "That's him. Only the kids don't call him that. They call him 'JC'." "But..." I was puzzled. "If this boy's from Canada, how does he know how to play baseball?" "That's the incredible thing!" My friend was pressing my arm in his eagerness. "This kid's a natural athlete. He can play anything! We taught all the kids baseball this spring as part of phys. ed. and you ought to see this boy! He fell in love with it! I never saw anything like it!" I shook my head doubtfully. "If he's from Canada he'll probably want to play soccer this summer, not baseball." "No, no!" My friend insisted. "You don't understand. God knows, he would tear up any league in soccer. You should see him! But the kid is nuts about baseball. I know he's going to play. We handed out the league forms last week and he brought his back all filled out, signed, and with the registration money. I'm telling you, he's going to be in the draft and you should try to get him!" I nodded thoughtfully. "You say he lives with his mother and grandfather?" "Yeah." He lowered his voice. "Watch out for the mother by the way. She's supposed to be a lush. The family has tons of money, though." "Who's his grandfather?" He gave me the name and I blinked. "That's the guy who owns the company that sponsors our team!" "Hey!" My friend slapped me on the back. "You may luck out! His grandfather will probably want the boy assigned to your team. You might not even have to draft him." He paused and then added, "I hope you do get him. I know you'd like coaching him. He's really exceptional - the kind of kid you see maybe once in a lifetime." "Smart?" "Oh God, yes." He laughed. "We're just wasting our time trying to teach him anything in the fifth grade. He reads at a high school level. He already knows algebra and trig." "Wow..." The conversation made an impression on me and I put the name 'JC' at the top of my mental prospect list, but as it turned out, I got JC on my team just as my friend predicted. He was assigned. When I came to the field on tryout day the league president handed me my roster and I checked to be sure all my returning veterans were on it. At the bottom I noticed JC's name. "Who's this?" I asked innocently. The league president looked a bit embarrassed. "That's a new player I've assigned you." He cleared his throat and then went on, sounding defensive, "Look, I know it's kind of... I mean, the kid's never played ball before. But his grandfather's company is your sponsor and the old man wants his grandson to be on your team." "That's perfectly understandable," I said, adopting a magnanimous tone while struggling to keep my face straight. "It's no problem." Since JC was being assigned, not drafted, he wasn't at tryouts so I never saw my new player until our first practice. That first sight was a revelation. What my informant had failed to mention was the boy's incredible beauty. He had the kind of looks you see in child actors, the kind that literally dazzle you. I noticed him as I drove up, before I even parked my truck. It was a beautiful spring afternoon. Bright rays of sunshine were streaming down around fair weather clouds, and they gleamed on the long blond hair of a young boy who was standing there, waiting for me. A little breeze fluttered the loose gold T-shirt he was wearing, pushing it off one of his smooth shoulders. He stood, expectantly, with his slender body outlined against the mountains in the distance. It was like a picture in a book. When I got out of the truck he walked toward me with a friendly smile, moving with the confident grace you see in all natural athletes, almost like a dancer. I knew immediately who he was. "Hi," he said and extended his hand. "My name's JC. Are you the coach who talked to me on the phone?" I told him I was and while we shook hands I looked him over. He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen, taller than most 11-year-olds, and I could see that his slender body was very well built. Legs and butt had that look of supple power that made his body seem like a coiled spring. His face was delicately handsome with big blue eyes and long silky lashes. The grip he gave me was strong enough, but I noticed he held his hand in that artless way sensitive boys have. His clothing, although old and suitable to sports, was spotless. I quickly discovered that his athletic talent was everything my friend had said. It was uncanny how good he was, how quickly he would catch on to what ever he was coached to do. He was a left-hander and I had hopes that he would eventually learn to pitch, but since he was such a good fielder he was a natural at first base. He fit the position perfectly. With his height he could get a good stretch off the bag and his quick reflexes and catlike grace allowed him to block wild throws. He was a friendly enough boy, more intelligent, and far more sophisticated than any of the other kids on the team, but he still got along well with everyone, mixing into the mutual teasing and games. In fact, I noticed he made a point of fitting in and being liked, the way a politician might. And he was intelligent enough to know that I knew he was doing it. Now and then I would catch him saying something, or behaving in some uncharacteristic way, just to blend with the group, and he would see me smiling and his eyes would twinkle as he smiled back. We got along well that first season, but he never sought any familiarity or closeness with me. He was a little in awe of me I suppose, as all the younger players were. I knew he liked me as a coach and felt comfortable with me, but he never tried to spend extra time in my company after practice, nor did he seek me out on off days as some boys did. At the end of every practice or game his mother would always be there in the big Cadillac to pick him up and he would drive away to whatever his life was outside of baseball. He never spoke about it, so I had no idea what he his activities were off the field. He did find some kind of relationship with one of my assistant coaches. I had three that year, an unusually high number. One of them, named Peter, was between his sophomore and junior years at the State University. JC frequently worked with him in practice and I often saw them laughing and talking together. Peter sometimes referred to visits he made at JC's house. I envied him, wishing I had the close bond because I found JC so satisfying to coach. But the boy had made his choice and I told myself to be glad that he had found at least one coach to connect with. JC developed into a fine ballplayer that summer. He started at first base all season, did some pitching for us too, and whenever I told him how pleased I was with his progress it seemed to made him happy. The boy had an obvious love for the game and was justly proud of his accomplishments. I had hoped for chances to see him once the season finished, but his mother whisked him off to Canada for a long vacation after our last game and I lost track of him. I spotted him playing in a few basketball games that winter, his face lighting up when he saw I was watching, but all we did was wave at each other. That following spring, I invited him to come to the preseason practices I always held in my garage for our pitchers. When he arrived I was surprised and pleased at how he looked. JC had turned 12, grown a little and was showing the coltish, leggy look that boys of 12, 13 or 14 acquire when their bodies begin rapid development. JC was still slender and supple, but his legs were longer now and more powerful. He had lost some of the perfect symmetry of the year before, but the coltishness made him look even younger and more vulnerable. "You're really starting to grow a little, JC," I told him. "You look stronger." Most boys like to be complemented on their growth but JC glanced down at himself and grimaced. "Don't remind me, Coach. I know I look all stupid and gawky." The intense reaction surprised me and I tried to give some reassurance. "You look fine," I told him kindly. "And I wasn't trying to tease you. Lots of kids feel the same as you do about growing fast. But try to look on the good side. You'll be able to hit the ball harder and stretch farther at first base." He still didn't seem very happy, so I gave him a pat on the shoulder and said quietly, "If it makes you feel any better, JC, I think you look just great." He looked up with a little smile. "Thanks Coach." JC came to all the pitching workouts and I could see that his arm was going to help us a lot in the coming season. He never hung around afterwards, always leaving with some of the other boys when we were done, but I noticed his mother was not picking him up, as she had done the year before. During our first regular team practice JC stayed close by and at the first opportunity, when he could say something to me privately, he asked, "Coach, is Peter going to help you again this year?" I shook my head. "No, he's doing a summer internship down at State." JC looked a little disappointed, so I told him, "I can get a message to him if you want. I know he'd be interested in how you're doing. Maybe he could make it up here for some of our games." But JC shook his head. "No, that's OK. I was just wondering." He thought for a moment, and then added, "I'm glad you're here, Coach." I smiled at him. "Thanks JC. I guess you know I'm pretty glad you're here, too." He smiled and nodded. JC was one of the veterans now, so he worked with me almost all the time in practice. He seemed to be enjoying himself and I noticed that he was sticking closer to me than I could remember him doing before. I was very surprised to find him hanging around after practice, something he had never done his first year. "Thanks JC," I told him as he helped bag up all the equipment. "Where's your ride? Usually your mom's here by now." JC gave me a rueful grin. "She has a new boyfriend, Coach. And she's drinking more again. She hasn't been too reliable lately." This astonishing revelation was said so matter-of-factly that I was momentarily speechless. I tried to keep my face under control as I groped for something to say. "I hope this won't keep you from getting to practice," I finally managed. JC shook his head. "I can always get a ride coming in, it's getting home that's tough." I looked around. Everyone had gone and we were the last ones left. "Let's give her a few more minutes," I said, "Just in case. If she's not here by then I'll take you home." We sat together on the back bumper of my truck, silent for a while, just enjoying the beautiful evening. The sun was setting behind the mountains, its lingering rays gleaming on JC's tousled blonde hair and slender body. He was wearing shorts because it had not been a sliding practice and the golden light picked out the hint of downy fuzz on his bare lower legs and forearms. JC saw me looking and rubbed his arms with a little annoyed gesture. "I hate this," he said, feeling the soft hair on his skin. "JC, it looks fine," I assured him. He kept rubbing his arm for a while and said finally, "It's true what you told me. I am playing better this year. I'm stronger." "Sure," I nodded. "You're hitting and fielding are both much better. And you're pitching..." "I like pitching," he said quietly. "It's OK. But there's nothing like first base. You can do so many things there." He gave me a quick glance. "Sometimes it's hard to explain to people." "Why don't you try with me," I encouraged. "Well..." He hesitated. "Sometimes, when I really stretch to make a good catch, or when I get to a really hot grounder, or when the second baseman throws to me on a double-play and I just know I've got the runner... I get like this feeling... It's so incredible. It's like I'm in touch with my whole body. Like I could do anything!" He shook his head slowly. "It's like nothing else in the world..." I nodded. "The ecstasy of performance." He looked at me curiously. "The ecstasy of performance," I told him. "That's what you feel. All great artists get it when they perform at the height of their skill. Baseball is more of an art form than most sports, but they all have it to some degree." I looked out at the sunset for a moment and then continued, "Sometimes when I see a perfectly executed double play it makes me think of the choreography of great ballet." I turned to him. "Most kids never sense that thrill, JC. I'm very glad that you can." JC smiled gently back at me. I sighed and stood up. "I don't think your mom's going to make it today. But I don't mind taking you back. It's fun talking to you. We better get going." As things turned out, I ended up getting JC home lots of times from practice and we talked quite a lot. It seemed to me that the boy was enjoying my company and was not sorry that his mother had all but stopped picking him up. He stayed close to me in practice too, as if watching and waiting for some sign that I might give him. After one particularly good practice when he was in unusually good spirits going home he turned and said, "I really like having you as my coach." "Thank you, JC," I told him seriously. "I guess you can tell I like coaching you." He nodded and smiled. "You're kind of predictable though, Coach. I always know what you're going to say." I raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" JC nodded, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Like when I missed that ball in the drill today, when I wasn't paying attention..." "Mmmmm," I said, "I remember that!" "Now, if that had happened in a game," JC went on, ignoring me, "You would have said something like, 'That's OK, JC... You'll get the next one!' Because you never say anything bad in a game." "Oh really." "Yup." JC nodded. "And, if I had been one of the kids who goofs off a lot in practice, you would have said something like, 'JC, get your head out of your ass and pay attention out there or you can go home now!' But..." Here he took a deep breath. "Since I'm not one of those kids, and since you kind of like me, I knew you'd say exactly what you did - 'Come on, JC... You can do better than that. Let's try another one!'" With this the boy grinned at me and I smiled back. "Got me all figured out, have you?" He wiggled in his seat delightedly. "Uh-huh. Peter and I used to watch you all the time last year. Sometimes we used to imitate you." "Imitate me, huh?" "Oh yes," he said, nodding. "Peter was good at it. He said he learned a lot from watching you." JC paused thoughtfully. "Peter thought he was a good coach. He knew a lot about baseball. But he wasn't as good as he thought he was." He turned and looked at me seriously. "You really are good, Coach." "JC," I said reasonably, "I like the compliment. Don't think I don't. But I'm the only baseball coach you've ever had, except Peter. How do you know I'm good?" "Oh, I've had lots of coaches," JC said confidently. "Skiing coaches, tennis coaches, soccer coaches, all kinds - even a swim coach. You're not like any of them." He thought for a minute, and then added, "It's the way you make kids feel. The way you make everything fun - like an adventure." He shook his head. "It's hard to explain. All I know is, you're the best." I reached over and squeezed his knee. "Thanks JC." The boy put his hand on top of mine and held it on his leg. He did not let go until we got to his house. Our first game was at night against a tough team. We won without too much trouble, and I began to think seriously that we might be good enough to go all the way to the championships. A lot of the credit went to JC. A top-notch first baseman gives a big boost of confidence to an infield. They all fire quicker and harder knowing their throws will be caught even if a little off. And it helps a team to know that grounders to the right side, so often missed in youth play, will be stopped and fielded. JC had sparkled at first all night, and he was hitting well. He had grown up just enough so that his slender, well knit body could put some pop in his bat. Plus he could run the bases like a gazelle with his longer legs. I knew he was very pleased with his game as he sat in the dark stands waiting to see if his mother was going to pick him up. After locking the office, securing the snack stand and turning off the field lights I joined him and we sat quietly, looking up at the stars, which were very bright in the clear night air. "This is one of my favorite times," I told him. "All the players and the crowd gone, and the lights off. Just the field under the stars." We were silent awhile. Then I said softly, "The tumult and the shouting die..." JC stirred beside me. "The Captains and the Kings depart..." he quoted softly. He waited for a moment and then turned to look at me. "Kipling. I didn't know you read poetry, Coach." "Oh, some," I said quietly, and then chuckled. "Come to think of it, I don't know too many 12-year-old boys who can quote Kipling." "I like to read," JC said simply. "I think it's the most exciting thing in the world." "No argument," I told him. "Even more exciting than baseball." We watched the stars for a while. "We're going to have a great season, aren't we Coach?" JC said. "I really think we can." I crossed my fingers and showed them to him. "There! I don't want to jinx us by even talking about it!" I sighed a little and went on wistfully, "I'm really hoping this season will bring something I've been wanting for a long time." "A championship?" JC asked. "Oh, of course I want that," I said. "But I've won those before. No, this time I want something even better." JC thought for a while. "I know!" He said suddenly. "I know what it is! You want a perf..." I shushed him. "Quiet!" I cautioned. "You'll jinx it." JC smiled at me. "I won't say anything, Coach." He put his little hand on my arm. "Coach, I'll do everything I can to try to get you that." I took his hand and squeezed it. "Thanks JC," I whispered. The boy looked up for a moment, and then said softly, "I want something very special this season, too." "What's that, JC?" The boy shook his head. "Well, I hope you get it." He sighed. "All I know is, if I don't get it this season, maybe I'll miss my chance forever." JC sounded a little desperate so I reached over and squeezed his leg. "I'm going to wish real hard that you get what you want. Come on, I don't think she's coming. I'll take you home." As we went to the truck, suddenly, across the vast dome of the night sky, a shooting star flashed. We both saw it. "Quick!" I whispered to JC, taking him by his sturdy little shoulders. "Close your eyes and make a wish!" We both closed our eyes. "Did you wish?" I asked him. The boy nodded. "So did I," I whispered. "Now let's hope we've got the good luck with us." JC was unusually silent on the way home, not saying a word until I was stopping the truck at his driveway. "Do you like to swim, coach?" "Sure. I wish I could go more often." "If you come over after practice Saturday we can go in my pool." He seemed tense as he waited for my reply. "Well, I don't know, JC," I said doubtfully. "I mean, I don't know your grandfather that well - or your mother at all for that matter..." "They won't be there. My grandfather's away all this week, and my mother won't be home this weekend either." JC paused, and then added, "I'd like it if you'd come, Coach. Swimming's more fun with another person." "What about your friends?" I asked. "Sometimes I get pretty bored with them." I felt a little sorry for the boy and I saw no reason to disappoint him when he so obviously wanted my company. "Sure, I'll come," I told him. "In fact, I'd love to. Thanks." So we arranged it. I remember that Saturday was a beautiful clear, hot day. When I started team practice in the morning the temperature was pleasant enough, but by the time we finished, almost three hours later, the sun was beating down. I gave the boys some fast, hard fielding drills to get things going and then we did several hours of batting practice. The kids loved to hit and the long Saturday practices were a good opportunity to do extra batting, which is time consuming. The drills were full of spirit and intensity. We were into the season, had won our first game and the boys had seen enough of the other teams to get the heady feeling that we might be lining up a championship. There can be no better spur to team morale. My players were like young racehorses: taut, eager and high-spirited. I only had the kids wear long pants on base sliding days so they were all in T-shirts and shorts, and by the time we finished practice with a contest of Home-Run Derby, shirts were off, and I was surrounded by young healthy bodies oiled with sweat, flashing in the sunlight. JC moved among them, his grace and dazzling beauty setting him off from the rest. He was wearing orange-red knee length shorts, the bright color a perfect compliment to his tan and blonde hair. The boy's waist was small, almost delicate, yet surprisingly taut and muscular, and the thin satiny material of the shorts clung to his hips, outlining a firm butt and rounded thigh muscles. Slender and lithe, JC had just enough breadth in chest and shoulders to show a hint of power and when he took his swings in the Home-Run Derby all the angles and curves of his body would, for an instant, take on stark definition, revealing the compact strength in his young sturdy form. The boys all left practice that day bubbling with high spirits and I was in a wonderful mood myself as I packed up all the equipment with JC's help. The noon sun beat down on us so we were both hot and sweaty, but the sky was clear and bright, the view of the mountains breathtaking, and the heat did not seem to matter. JC had kept his shirt off and as he gazed into the distance, at the vast ridgeline stretching north and south on the horizon, he gleamed in the sunlight, a glorious being. His beauty almost stopped my heart and it came to me that I was witness to a moment in JC's life, a point of physical perfection, which could never occur in the same way again. He was on the brink of change and no matter what lay ahead, he would never be quite like this again. When I moved to his side and put an arm around his shoulders JC leaned comfortably against me. He never allowed any contact if others were present, but I had found that in private, with me at least, he wanted to be touched. We both stood in the hot sunshine, staring out at the view. "It's beautiful, isn't it," he murmured. "I never get tired of it," I told him softly. "Did you ever have days when you just knew there was nothing you couldn't do?" His question made me smile. "Sometimes." "I feel like I could ride the wind and race the clouds... Like I could hit a home run every time I came to bat, and play first base in Yankee Stadium..." I hugged him a little and he looked up at me suddenly, his eyes shining. "Coach, have you ever read 'The Secret Garden'?" "Yes, I've read it." JC looked back at the mountains and said passionately, "When Colin says, 'I will live forever', I know just how he was feeling." "Moments like that are very precious," I told him and hugged him again. We stood for a while longer and then I said quietly, "Come on, I'll buy you some lunch." We got in the truck and he leaned back, closing his eyes. "Tired?" I asked him, putting my key in the ignition but not starting the engine yet. He nodded. "You worked us pretty hard today." After looking down and rubbing his thighs he said, "Coach, sometimes I get pains in my legs at night in bed. Last night it ached so much I couldn't get to sleep for a long time." "Yeah," I told him, nodding in understanding. "Growing pains... That's what people call them. Lots of boys get them, JC. Especially active ones like you. Your bones are soft and growing right now. If you run and play hard all day then your legs ache at night." "I hate growing," he said sadly. "I know." I shook my head. "Change and growth is all part of life, JC. But, sometimes I hate it, too." Reaching over, I put my hand on his thigh and the boy leaned back with a sigh. Then he slid toward me on the seat. Gently, I began to massage the rounded, supple muscle, rubbing my hand back and forth as the satin cloth of the boy's orange shorts slipped smoothly over the skin beneath. I stroked and massaged the full length of his firm thigh and then moved my hand to his other leg, stroking and massaging there as well. When I put my hand between his legs and slid my palm over the taut inner muscles, JC spread his legs apart so my hand could push all the way up into his groin. The satin fabric of his shorts whispered as it moved over the silky skin on the inside of his thighs. JC was naked under his shorts; he was not even wearing a jock. And he was rock hard. The edge of my palm pressed against a throbbing rigid shaft as I stroked up into the crease of his leg. I kept massaging both legs for a while, finding ways to rub the boy's straining shaft through the satin of his shorts, using my palm or the edge of my hand. Finally I withdrew. JC sat quietly for a moment and then he said, "Thanks Coach, that felt good." He put his hands just below the waistband of his shorts and rubbed the tops of his thighs. "Still aches a little there?" I asked. He nodded. I reached over and plucked at the elastic of his shorts. "Lift this a little," I told him. JC leaned back, pulled the waist of his shorts up a bit and I put my hand on the bare skin of his lean silky waist and slipped under the elastic onto the crease of his groin. Stroking and pressing gently, I let my hand slide over until the edge of my little finger pressed against the rigid hardness of his stiff erection. JC's rigid boner was slightly thickened and around its base my fingers found a wisp of sparse, downy pubic hair. The boy trembled slightly as the edge of my palm rubbed against his hardness and I felt the shaft swell as he tightened his butt. Withdrawing my hand I moved to his other side and, pushing beneath the elastic again, I massaged along the crease, and then let his engorged shaft slip into the space between my thumb and index finger. I pressed gently and JC stirred, spreading his legs and squeezing his butt. I rubbed my fingers back and forth, pressed gently one more time and then withdrew my hand. JC lowered the waist of his shorts back down and sighed. "Better?" I asked. "Uh-huh... That was nice." "Growing pains are no fun, JC," I told him. "I wish you had told me sooner that you were having them." He nodded and smiled. "Me too." I was going to take him to McDonald's, but he put his nose up at the idea. "I can't eat that stuff, Coach!" "You're quite right," I told him apologetically. "Let me see if I can do a little better." We went to a large supermarket with a deli department and there JC nodded his approval as I picked out two gourmet subs, a Greek salad with feta cheese and some Snapple. He was still shirtless and as we went through the checkout line, I saw people turn to stare at the half naked boy. He was that good looking. We ate our subs in the truck, sharing the salad, and JC munched happily, apparently quite content. I noticed that he was dainty with his food, taking small bites, careful of crumbs. When he was finished he wrapped up all our trash and took it to a waste can. "I can't believe they don't recycle here," he grumbled as he got back in. While I got the truck started he settled comfortably in his seat and then suddenly turned to me with a dazzling smile. "This is nice, Coach, isn't it? Aren't you glad now that you came?" "I'm very glad, JC," I told him. The boy stretched his arms. "It's going to be a perfect day for swimming." JC's house was up on an elevated tableland outside of town. It was a neighborhood of big homes, all set far enough apart amid wide lawns and landscaping so each place was screened from the others. I pulled into JC's long gravel drive. The big white house at the end of the driveway was a rambling, two-story colonial that looked odd in that setting. My truck was the only vehicle in sight and when we got out the sound of our doors closing seemed un-naturally loud. The big house and wide lawn sat in absolute silence under the blazing sun. "Come on," JC invited. Trotting over to the front stoop he took a key from the mailbox and opened the door. I followed him into the cool, dim hallway. "Wait a sec," JC called to me. "I'm just going to drop off my stuff." He disappeared up the stairs. While he was gone, I looked around. The big downstairs rooms were formal, elegantly furnished, and had the appearance of pictures in a magazine. They did not seem like rooms anyone lived in. One of the rooms had some bookshelves, but the spaces were filled with vases of flowers and knickknacks. There was only one shelf with actual volumes; a collection of Readers Digest Condensed Books from the last ten years. I pulled one out and looked at it. The binding was stiff, as if it had never been opened before. I heard the toilet flush somewhere in the house and then the patter of JC's feet on the stairs. I went back into the hall. The boy had taken off his Nikes and his feet were bare. "Come on," he said eagerly. "I'll show you where you can change." He led me through to a huge kitchen, spotless like the rest of the house, and we went out the back door, emerging into the dazzling noon heat. There was a beautifully manicured lawn and beyond s few screening bushes an Olympic-sized pool sparkled under the sun. Reflections off the clear water had me squinting as we approached. There was a faint hint of moisture in the air and a whiff of chlorine. I shielded my eyes to look around and JC pointed to a large cabana at the deep end. "There's a place to change in there, Coach." I started toward it and then stopped. "Aren't you going to change?" He smiled mischievously, put his thumbs inside the waist of his satin shorts and wiggled, pushing the shorts down. I caught my breath - and then started breathing again when I saw he was wearing a bright red and gold Speedo underneath. There had been nothing beneath those shorts before so I knew he must have changed while he had been upstairs. JC stepped out of the shorts, put them on a chair and then posed when he saw I was staring at him. Sunshine pouring down gleamed on golden hair and silky skin, the red and gold of the brief setting off his smooth tan. The boy's incredible beauty was so stunning all I could form were vague impressions: sculpted shoulders and chest, lean narrow stomach etched in faint lines of definition, taut waist, slender hips and the sturdy legs, a bit too long for his body but otherwise perfectly proportioned - hard rounded thighs, dainty knees and the elegant curve of firm calves. The tiny Speedo concealed almost nothing. Its shinny cloth stretched tightly over the twin mounds of JC's butt and in front a bulge outlined a hard little shaft that was quite obviously erect. The boy was a living work of art, and I stood transfixed by the sight, heart pounding in my chest. Suddenly, as our eyes locked together, I was very sure JC knew the effect he was creating, that it was calculated, and that he was gauging my response. Unable to speak I remained silent until he broke the spell by looking down at himself and then flashing me a devilish smile. "Come on, Coach. Hurry up and change. I want to get in the water." I entered the cabana and stripped hurriedly. My own Speedo was in my pocket and I got it out, but then had trouble pulling it on because I was so damn hard. [ To Be Continued In Parts B,C,D and E ] *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* 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