Date: Sat, 22 Sep 2012 02:25:30 -0700 (PDT)
From: Joe Hunter <hunterjoe45@yahoo.com>
Subject: Baseball Diamond Tails - 7J

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 - 7J
(copyright 2012, Joe Hunter)

::::::::::::::::::::
 Left Field: Part J
  -= Conclusion =-
::::::::::::::::::::

When we reached the house and I had the truck put away in the garage, I
carried Andy into my room and laid him gently on the wide bed.  He awoke as
I was taking off his shorts.

"Are was home, Coach?"  He asked drowsily.

"We're home, Champ.  You're home with me."

He stretched, then smiled at me as I took him into the shower to wash all
the salt off his skin.  After drying him, I rubbed cocoa butter over his
entire body, smoothing it on with my hands.  The boy loved my touch.  He
turned, lifting his arms so I could rub the fragrant lotion everywhere, and
then hugged tight while I gently stroked his back.

"You like taking care of me, don't you Coach," he whispered happily.

"More than anything, son," I told him.

Picking him up, I carried him wrapped in towels back to my room and laid
him tenderly on the bed.  The boy pulled up his knees, opening himself in
invitation, thighs stretched so far apart the tendons in his groin stood
out like cords under his skin.  I watched his tight little boy hole gape as
he bore down.

"Fuck me, Coach," he whispered.

"I pulled the tube of KY off the nightstand, smeared slippery lubricant
around and up into the boy's opening, then used even more on my rigid man
rod that was so hard it was painful.  My slippery fingers got wiped off on
my thighs and I leaned over the boy.  Andy lay with his eyes closed, lips
parted in anticipation, straining to pull his knees to either side of his
chest.  His thick little shaft jutted upward, pointing toward his belly
button, the tip quivering with his excited heartbeats.

"In me," he pleaded.  "Fuck me..."

The blunt slippery head of my rod pushed at his gaping hole that was still
stretched from what Andy had done earlier in the day.  With only slight
resistance, it slid through, and Andy squeezed around my shaft as I pushed
up into his hot sweetness.  "Uhhhhhhhhhh..." the boy groaned softly, head
pulling back almost double.  "Uhhh, more...  Do it more..."

My slick shaft sank into the boy, impaling him, the tight hot walls of his
chute gripping my hardness, sheathing it in moist heat.  Andy writhed in
ecstasy, twisting beneath me, every muscle in his young hard body defined
as living sculpture.  When he felt my groin lock against his stretched ass,
he gripped arms and legs around me, heaving up to take me even deeper.

"Uh, Oooo, Oooo, Oooo," he panted.  "Oh, Coach... Coach..."

Holding the writhing boy I stretched up as far as I could into his hot
sweetness, tightening my butt to swell my shaft and grinding my hips.  Andy
shuddered in passion, head thrown back in ecstasy as I moved within him.
His arms tightened around my chest.  "Ohhhhhhhhhh," he moaned.  "In
me... in me...."

Slowly, gently, I began to thrust my hips.  Andy was gripping so tight I
could barely move a fraction of an inch at first, but then he arched his
muscular little body, twisting against me, and pulled his legs up off my
waist.  "Ohhhhhhhhhh..." I felt him tense and bear down, then a gush of
warmth hit my belly as his bladder let go.  His insides slid loose around
my impaling rod.  Instantly I extended my thrusts, withdrawing further each
time, hesitating and tightening my butt before sliding back.  Soon I was
driving in and out almost my full-length.

Abandoning himself to the pleasure flooding his body, Andy gave a long
moaning cry, feet twisting, lower legs jerking as I penetrated deep into
his hot passage.  Another warm gush of fluid spread on my belly.

For a long time I thrust my hips slowly, driving in and out of the boy's
writhing body.  Andy twisted beneath me in a trance of passion, frantically
gripping my chest and stroking my back with his small warm hands.  At times
he would arch up and strain, desperately lifting his hips to drive me to my
fullest penetration.  I would feel his rigid boy stick jerk against my
stomach, throbs rippling within him, squeezing my sliding shaft.

Deliberately I held back, taking Andy to peak after peak of writhing
ecstasy, wanting only more, continuing forever.  But the frantic heaving of
the boy beneath me, his panting moaning cries, the desperate clutching of
his small warm hands at my back and shoulders, combined to tip me past the
edge.  Pressure built within my loins that nothing could restrain.  With a
sudden gush warmth escaped my up thrust tip.  I squeezed, temporarily
willing myself back from release while I pumped faster, my driving urgency
bringing Andy to a new height.  He tightened his arms around me, lifted to
meet my thrusts, groaning in passion.

Faster and faster I slid in the boy, gripping him as tight as I could,
feeling myself going.  Fluid poured from the tip of my engorged shaft into
his stretched passage.  I was on the brink, hurtling forward.  Slamming
into the boy, I stretched up in him, squeezing him tight, and Andy arched
to meet me.  Suddenly jerk after jerk convulsed him.  His legs kicked and I
felt the pulsing of his rigid little shaft against my belly.  I hugged him
even tighter, and strained my hips against his ass, trying for total
penetration of his hot sweetness.  Then in a shattering throbbing pulse I
came into the boy, buck after heaving buck, my spurting seed filling him.
Over and over I jerked inside him and felt his own little member pulsing
with mine as his legs kicked.

Andy went limp in my arms when my contractions eased.  His head lolled back
and his slender arms slipped off me.  I loosened my grip on him, looked
down and found his eyes rolled back and his lips blue.  Leaning down I
kissed him, blew a puff of air into his chest and then tapped his back
firmly.  Andy gave a shuddering gasp, took a breath, and while I supported
my weight on my elbows, he gradually regained consciousness.  Wrapping his
arms weakly around me again, he kissed my neck and shoulders.

I left myself inside him until I softened, slipping out little by little as
the boy moaned softly and ran his hands over my back.  Then, very gently, I
helped him straighten his legs and rolled his limp body off the towels
protecting the bed.  I threw them to the floor, took Andy into my arms, and
held him against me as we lay side-by-side.  The boy put his arms around my
neck, pressing sweetly, then pulled a knee up over my hip while I stroked
his rounded thigh and silky mounded butt.

"Andy," I whispered.  "My wonderful boy.  My little champion.  Best kid in
the world."

After a time the boy stirred, lifted his face to mine and offered a kiss.
When his mouth opened, I slid my tongue in, thrusting deep, and the boy's
arms tightened around me as he twisted his body on mine, sliding his leg
over my hip.  For a long while we writhed together on the soft quilt,
holding and stroking each other.

At last our lips parted and Andy rested his head on my chest so he could
gaze into my eyes.  "Don't ever stop, Coach," he whispered softly.

I stroked his smooth velvety flanks and answered tenderly, "You're Coach
can never stop loving you, Champ.  Never, never, never..."

The boy sighed, hugging tight and I waited a while longer before carefully
picking him up and pulling down the covers on the big double bed.  I slid
Andy between the smooth clean sheets and got in next to him.  From the bed
stand I got a book, "Treasure Island".  The boy cuddled happily against me
as I started to read.

I woke twice that night to find Andy rolled up against me, sliding his hand
on my rigid shaft.  Each time I found a way to pleasure him, taking him to
another height of passion.  We slept very late on Sunday morning and I woke
to find him asleep in my arms, head tucked into my shoulder.  He stayed
with me all that day, wanting me in him again and begging me to keep
reading to him until we finished the book.  He was very reluctant when it
was time to take him home and he cried a little when I made him get
dressed.

On Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons we had the last practices of
the season and right to the end I racked my brains to invent as many
different batting drills for my players as I could.  Once again I was aided
by little Skipper, who came every day with some of his friends, and we had
three very upbeat sessions.  For the last one I went all out to make it fun
and exciting by breaking the boys up into teams for base stealing drills
and little contests.  Andy's friend, 14-year-old Lester, did particularly
well in one at-bat, taking a pitch deep into centerfield, well beyond our
practice area, the farthest I had ever seen him hit a ball.  I gave him a
hug around the shoulders along with a big smile as a reward and Skipper,
who was particularly devoted to both Andy and Lester, went running out
after the ball yelling excitedly, "Home run!  Home run!"

Later I saw Lester give the small boy a hug behind the backstop.  Skipper
was beaming with delight.

Andy was the star of all three practices.  On base stealing drills no one
could get him out, and when his team did the rundowns he was always in the
right position making deadly accurate throws.  At-bat in the hitting drills
he socked pitch after pitch into the outfield, his taut compact body
uncoiling like a spring.  Like all the rest of the boys his shirt was off
and now his tanned compact body was shining with sweat, every curve and
swell of well-defined developing muscle visible in the afternoon sunlight.
He knew that he was getting stronger and swinging with more power.
Confidence radiated from him like a beacon, inspiring all the other boys.

Each day, I kept Andy for an additional hour after the rest had gone,
working with the heavy bat.  The sessions were intense, with Skipper and
his friends dashing about to scoop up the wiffle balls and get them back
into my bucket as soon as they were hit.  Andy swung over and over, almost
continuously, switching sides every dozen balls.  Sweat poured from his
little body and on every swing he gave a grunt of effort.

On the last day, Wednesday, I put a catcher's mask on and tossed Andy
several dozen hard balls for his last drill.  Skipper and two of his
friends stood behind the backstop, watching wide-eyed as my little
leftfielder smashed ball after ball into the wire screen.  At last we
stopped and Andy stood smiling at me proudly, his lean sculpted body
gleaming in the sun.  I removed my mask slowly and remained kneeling in
front of him, drinking in the glorious sight.

"You're ready, Champ," I told him softly.  "You and your team are as ready
as I can make you."

Skipper and his buddies came running excitedly from behind the backstop and
started collecting all the balls.  "Andy's the best, right, Coach?"  The
small boy called to me.

I got to my feet, went over to Andy and stroked his straight black hair.
"Andy is the most wonderful boy in the world," I said softly.  "He's very,
very special."  My left fielder looked up at me with his little smile, love
shining in his eyes.

We went to Subway afterwards, where Andy had his usual big sandwich with
milk.  Then I drove slowly home to his trailer with the boy, his clothes
pushed down, stretched against me, naked.  I stroked and rubbed him for a
while, and then he turned and hugged me.

"My wonderful wonderful ballplayer," I whispered softly.

He nodded and hugged tighter.

"We had our last tests today, Coach."  His voice was a little muffled
because he had his face pushed into my chest.  I slid my palm over his
silky flanks.  "Did you do okay?"

He nodded and said, "We get report cards tomorrow to take home.  I'll bring
it to you."

I stroked him gently.  "I want to see it.  I know I'll be proud of you."

Andy was very reluctant that night to part from me and he called me twice
after I got home so he could talk.

. . . . . . . .

On that Thursday evening we had our final game.

The weather had me worried as I drove to the field.  It had been hot and
sultry all day and now I saw clouds forming off on the horizon.  It was
thunderstorm season and it looked like some were in the in the area.  There
were frequent crashes of static when I tuned the radio on the dashboard
looking for a weather report.

Andy was already at the field when I pulled in, his uniform perfect; shirt
freshly washed and baseball pants ironed.  He had cleaned his matching
Nikes so they looked brand-new and he was wearing his game cap.  Seeing him
there, standing next to his bike in the slanting gold of evening sunlight,
my throat constricted with love and I wished that the season was just
beginning instead of ending, and that I could coach him forever in a world
of endless summer.

"Hi Champ," I told him, getting out.  "All set?"

The boy nodded and smiled.  He looked very happy and he was plainly
excited.  I swung his bike into the truck and we put the locks on it.  Then
Andy gave me an envelope that he was holding.  His face was beaming.

"My report card, Coach."

The legal sized envelope was not sealed.  Andy's name was typed on the
front with the school logo and return address printed in the upper left.  I
opened the flap and pulled out the official looking paper.  It was headed
with another representation of the school logo, and under it was typed
"Final Report".  All Andy's marks from the seventh grade were carefully
printed in block capital letters.

He had been marked in seven categories, ranging from math to behavior.  I
scanned down the list.  He had received a 'B' in spelling and behavior.
Every single other mark was an 'A' or 'A+'.

My hands shook and tears filled my eyes.  I knelt down and hugged the boy
tight with one arm while I held that wonderful report card in my other
hand.  I did not care who saw us or what they thought.

"Andy!"  I whispered.  "Andy!"

I patted his back and stroked him, feeling his heart beat rapidly against
me.  Then I released him and brushed my eyes.  Andy looked at me, his face
glowing with pride and love.

"Oh Champ," I told him softly.  "I'm so proud of you."

We put the report carefully away in the glove compartment of the truck.
Then I turned to him.  "Today, I want you to go out and play the greatest
game of your life, Champ.  I want everyone to know what a wonderful boy you
are.  I know you're ready.  You the best kid in the world.  Make me so
proud of you!  Show them once and for all that it's not size that matters,
but heart and courage.  Win this one for me, Andy, and then let's go home."

The boy gazed up at me, his eyes shining.  "I will, Coach," he promised.

They were all there that evening; all of Andy's friends.  Of course our
whole team came.  Not one boy would've dreamed of missing that game!  Andy
warmed up with his fellow outfielders, Jimmy, the 13-year-old who
substituted in right field, and RayBan, my tall black centerfielder, who
had taken care of Andy when he was hurt banging into the fence.  Slender
13-year-old Benjy, who always rode with Andy to practice, substituted at
first base that night.  And Andy's steadfast friend Lester, learning how to
hit at last, sat next to him during the game in the dugout.

Cap and 2Bad came, running up excitedly and shouting, "Here we are, Andy!"
I patted them on their backs and immediately they got all the boys
organized in a fielding drill.  Their excitement was contagious and soon my
whole team was cheering and throwing confidently on the diamond.

The two high school boys had been driven over by my neighbor, Coach Ben.
"Thought I'd drop by to see how Andy plays tonight," he said, grinning as
we shook hands.  "How's he doing?"

I took him to my truck and showed him the report card.  "I'd say he's doing
pretty well."

Coach Ben held the paper, reading it wordlessly.  Then he lifted his eyes
and stared at me.  "What a magnificent kid!"  He looked around the field.
"What fools these people are that they couldn't see it!  He's one in a
million!  The boy you dream of getting on your team."  He looked back at
me.  "You saw it, though, didn't you."

I nodded.  "Yeah, right from the first day.  I could tell that there was
something there."

"And you brought it out in him," Ben told me softly.  "Somehow..." He
paused and then looked at me with a curious expression on his face.
"You're pretty good, aren't you?"

I shrugged.  "Some say so.  Come on.  We'd better get you a seat.  Looks
like we're gonna have a crowd."

Coach Ben took a worried glance up at the sky.  "I just hope you get your
game in.  I don't like the looks of it."  Then he hurriedly dug in a
pocket.  "Hey, I brought these for Andy.  They're in our school colors."
He handed me a pair of batting gloves, brand new, still in a plastic sleeve
protector. "At the end of the season there's always a few extra," Ben
explained, "I figured he might like 'em."

"Darn right he will!" I said and led Ben over to where our team parents
were sitting.  In the bustle of introducing him to everyone, the batting
gloves got stuffed into one of my pockets where I temporarily forgot about
them.

Two more of Andy's friends were waiting by the dugout when I came back.
Skipper was there, his little face lit by a big smile.  Next to him was
JayJay, the third baseman, who grinned when he saw me.  "Hi, Coach!  Can I
watch from the dugout with you?"

I hugged his shoulders and then picked up Skipper, tickling the little boy
to make him giggle.  "You both can.  Come on in."

I put Skipper to work as batboy and gave JayJay my scorebook.  "Don't miss
anything," I told him, ruffling his hair.  "I have a feeling this may be
quite a game!"

And it was.  Oh, how it was!  A game for all of us there to remember the
rest of our lives.  My old scorebook lies open in front of me, and just the
sight of it brings the whole thing back to me.  So many years ago now.  So
many years...

We were the home team and right from the first inning you could tell the
game would be close.  We had improved a lot since our last meeting, but so
had the other club.  Pete, their coach, had been working them as hard as I
had been drilling my boys.  The pitching and hitting were almost evenly
matched, with perhaps a slight advantage going to the other group.

We held them with our defense.  All my boys did well but it was Andy
especially who was the difference.  Right away, in the very first inning,
he made a spectacular play in left field.  The other team had jumped out to
a two run lead on a series of nice hits and my nervous pitcher gave up
another single, loading the bases with only one out.  The next batter was a
good-sized kid who could hit with power, so I waved all the outfielders,
Andy included, back toward the fences where they could guard against a big
extra-bases shot.  It seemed like a good strategic move.  Unfortunately,
what the big kid produced when he swung at the first pitch was a high bloop
fly ball, a Texas leaguer that was over the head and beyond the reach of
Chris at shortstop.

"Damn!" I swore in frustration.  Like a merry-go-round, all the runners
were going because Coach Pete was confident that short fly ball could not
be caught.

Then, to my amazement, I saw that Andy was already racing in from the
fence!  Something in the pitch, or the batter's swing, had made him
anticipate a short blooping fly.  He was streaking across the field, short
legs a blur in the field lights.

"He'll never get to it," I whispered.

The ball fell toward the ground.  You could see it was going to fall in
front of the small figure desperately straining toward it.  Then Andy dove,
flying forward, glove extended, his compact little body appearing to
elongate in the air.  The ball landed in the tip of his glove as he hit,
sliding, closing his hand around it, momentum tumbling him into a
somersault.  He bounced to his feet in a beautiful acrobatic move and fired
the ball without hesitation to second base.  The throw was dead on line and
just the right speed; crisp but not so overwhelming that 13-year-old Kirk,
covering the bag, could not handle it.  The runner, already more than
halfway to third, stood gaping with his mouth open.  He never had a chance.
The ball smacked into Kirk's glove with a resounding 'Whop!'  The umpire
yelled, "Yer' out!"  And the inning was over.  Andy had made a double play.

There was a split second of stunned silence.  Then the stands erupted with
cheers.  My players were all celebrating in the field and they escorted
Andy to the dugout in triumph where his friends JayJay, Cap and 2Bad were
waiting to hug and congratulate him.  I slapped his palm delightedly.  "Way
to go, Champ!"

Andy was beaming with pride.  He kept his face more or less under control,
but the little smile never left it.  I had him batting in the cleanup spot
and he came up that inning with a boy on first and belted a shot that
bounced off the top railing of the left-field fence and flew into the grass
beyond for a home run.

"Yahooooo!"  I shouted and threw my clipboard into the air at third base.
Then, "Yeah!" I slapped the palm of the baserunner coming around.  And
"Yeah!  Tie game!" I slapped Andy's palm when he came trotting around.

The stands were going wild with cheers and Andy's friends waited with the
entire team at home plate.

And that was just the first inning.

They were all incredible.  Both teams were scoring and boys on both sides
were making good plays.  My guys were hitting.  Benjy, my young right
fielder singled and scored along with others.  Lester belted a double to
the center field fence, driving in two runs, and was nearly beside himself
with happiness when he came up to me afterwards.  I gave him a quick hug,
whispering, "I'm so proud of you," so only he could hear it and he looked
up at me adoringly.

Andy kept hitting and on defense he made another great over-the-shoulder
catch in the outfield that brought the bleacher crowd to its feet cheering
and stamping feet.

The only thing that worried me was the weather.  It had already gotten so
overcast by the time we started that we had the field lights on.  Now it
was completely dark and I could see the flash of distant lightning on the
horizon.

"Please let us finish this game, and let us win!" I prayed.

The score kept changing, the lead switching back and forth.  Every pitch,
every play was exciting.  The stain is there in my old scorebook where
JayJay's Coke spilled as he jumped up to cheer for a beautiful play Andy
made, scooping a ball that ricocheted off the fence in the left field
corner and throwing it home to save a run from scoring.

We came into the top of the last inning with the score tied at eight runs
apiece.  My boys were playing beautifully and they started the inning on
defense full of confidence.  But things happen in baseball and my kids were
still just recreational players who could get rattled.  In that final
inning pressure caused mistakes and disaster nearly overwhelmed us.

With two outs, and everything seemingly going well, my pitcher suddenly
lost the plate.  It was Chris, my best 14-year-old pitcher, who had started
the game at shortstop and whose arm I had deliberately saved for the last
three innings.  He had been doing beautifully, staying at his rhythm,
throwing strikes, letting his fielders get the outs for him.  Now, with
just one more out to finish the inning, he could not throw a strike.

It might have been fatigue, but more likely it was just the pressure of the
situation getting to him.  This is when a coach has to step in and give his
young player the confidence he needs to finish the job.  I called time and
went out to the mound to talk to Chris and buck him up.

The words of encouragement seemed to help a little, but Chris still
struggled.  He walked the batter he had been pitching to on very close
throw to the outside of the plate.  Then, he seemed to settle down a bit.
He pitched better to the next boy, but the kid hit a grounder that spun off
the end of the second baseman's glove into the outfield and resulted in
runners on the corners.

I clapped my hands in encouragement.  "That's okay," I called.  "You'll get
the next one, Chris!  Settle in now!  Rock and fire!"

But he did not 'settle in'.  He was nervous again and walked the next boy
on four straight balls.  The bases were now loaded.

I trotted back out to the mound.

"I'm sorry, Coach," Chris told me miserably.

I put an arm around his shoulders.  "Forget it," I told him.  "You're
letting yourself get all tense and you're aiming the ball.  You and I both
know that won't work.  Relax!  So they get a run.  So what?  We'll get it
back!  This next kid's the bottom of their order.  He's the worst hitter on
the team.  Just put it in there.  If he hits it, you got eight guys behind
you who can get him out."

"Okay, Coach."  The boy gave me a determined look.  "I can do it."

"I know you can!"  With a confident pat of his shoulder I went back to the
dugout.

Chris squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and went back to work.  He
still was not doing as well as I would've liked, but he was able to put
some throws over for strikes.  The boy at the plate was a short weedy
looking kid with glasses--clearly not a power hitter.  But he had
determination and Coach Pete had taught him a good swing.  He came around
on one of Chris' pitches and managed to get a small piece of it.  The ball
squirted out, bouncing slowly up the first base line.

It was just like a bunt, and in youth baseball the blunt can be a
devastating weapon when the players in the field are not looking for it.
This slow roller up the first base line was the last thing my boys were
expecting, and it caused all my defensive schemes to short-circuit.

Chris, Doug our catcher, and Benjy at first base - every one of them - went
for the ball.  They all got to it... they all interfered with each other!
They had been drilled over and over to go for the out at first, no matter
what the situation, so at least I was spared the humiliation of seeing one
of them throw the ball away in a panicky heave to home plate, attempting to
get the runner from third.  But what they actually did was just as bad.
After fighting over the ball, Chris finally managed to get it away from the
other two boys.  He immediately made an off-balance throw to first, which
was so wide it would have missed even if someone had been covering the bag.
Since no one was, it did not really matter.  The ball sailed into
right-field foul territory and rolled to the fence.

All the baserunners had started moving as soon as the ball had been hit.
The boy from third scored while my three players were fighting over the
ball.  Now the runner coming from second scored, and the kid who had
started from first was motoring to third.  He rounded it, then kept on
going as Stan, our substitute right fielder, frantically tried to find the
baseball over by the fence.  Getting it at last he wound up and made a
desperate throw to home plate.

I tried to stop him by yelling, "No, hold it!"

Doug, the catcher, had run beyond first base to help Stan locate the ball
and none of the other infielders had realized that they had to cover home.
My warning yell was lost in the screaming coming from the bleachers.  I
groaned as I saw Stan make the throw.  By the time we got the ball rounded
up again every runner including the batter was going to score!

My eyes tracked the ball coming in, and suddenly my heart leaped.  A
miracle!  Standing on home plate, glove up ready to receive the throw, was
a small sturdy figure.  Andy!  Andy was there!  With his uncanny sense of
where he was needed he had run in, all the way from left field, to back up
the play at home plate!

It was an incredible moment.  The excited onlookers in the bleachers came
to their feet, screaming.  Andy caught the throw and turned to block the
plate.

He had on no catcher's equipment, the oncoming runner was twice his size.
But I knew, as well as I knew anything, that it had never crossed Andy's
mind to back away.

I stared at the play, mesmerized, unable to move.  "Look out," I yelled.
But by then it was all over.

Fortunately the big runner slid into him.  Our league rules required that
runners slide into all close plays at bases other than first.  But in the
excitement of competition, not all boys did.  If the runner in this play
had just ploughed ahead, Andy might have been seriously injured.  But Coach
Pete had drilled his players as well as I had drilled mine and the boy came
sliding feet first into the bag.  Andy applied the tag and then was tumbled
off his feet as the larger boy bowled him over.

The umpire signaled the out while the people in the bleachers behind him
went berserk, cheering the play.  The other team had scored two runs, but
this was the third out and the inning was over!

I ran down to home plate to where my little ballplayer was lying on the
ground.  I was not sure if he was moving or not.  Then, as I knelt beside
him, I saw that he was stirring.  He was trying to hold his glove up so the
umpire could see that he had the ball.

"I got him, Coach!" Andy told me as I put my arm around him and helped him
sit up.  "I got him!  He's out!  I've got the ball!"  He was a little
dazed.

"Okay, Champ," I said gently.  "Take your time.  I've got you.  I'm right
here.  You got the runner.  He's out."

The umpire knelt down next to me and then Pete came running over and got
down beside us.

"Is he okay?"

I held Andy's shoulders, stroking him gently.  "He's all right.  Just give
him a minute to kind of catch up with himself."

"He can have all the time he needs," the umpire said.  He gave Andy a very
light little pat.

"What a game this kid's having!"  Pete exclaimed to me.  "That was an
incredible play!  I couldn't figure out where he had come from.  I never
even saw them come in!"

I shook my head and whispered, more to myself than the others, "He's the
kid from left field.  The one they all forgot about.  He's the most
incredible boy in the world."

I helped Andy to his feet and the crowd in the bleachers cheered as he
stood up.  "That's for you Champ," I told him.  There were tears in my
eyes.  "They're cheering for you.  Give 'em a smile."

With a shy little smile, Andy lifted his cap and the spectators cheered him
even louder.  Then I led him up the baseline toward our third-base dugout.
I saw with concern that he was limping a little.

"You okay, Champ?"  I asked quietly.

"I'm all right, Coach."  It was the answer he always gave me.

I watched him closely and when he almost stumbled nearing the dugout I
grabbed him and held him up.

"Andy, what is it?  You're hurt, aren't you.  What's wrong?"

"Don't take me out, Coach," he pleaded.

I picked him up and carried him into the dugout where all his friends plus
the entire team crowded around trying to help.  I put him on Cap's lap.
Lester knelt down next to him.  "He's bleeding, Coach," Lester told me,
pointing to Andy's lower leg.  I looked and saw blood oozing through Andy's
leggings on his right ankle.  The joint below it was swollen.

"Shit!"  I swore fiercely.  I looked around.  It was our turn at the plate
and the umpire was calling for our first batter.

"Who's up?"  I yelled.  "Somebody get out there.  Let's get those runs
back!"

Benjy jumped to get a batting helmet.  "It's me, Coach."  He hustled out of
the dugout.

I looked back at Andy's leg.  "We gotta' take care of this!"

"Coach, don't take me out," Andy begged.  "I'm okay."

Cap patted his arm.  "I've got him, Coach," he assured me.  "You go take
care the game."  He looked at 2Bad.  "Coach first base.  I got it in here."
Then he looked at JayJay.  "Go get a first aid kit.  They must have one
here."

I hesitated and Cap smiled, "Come on, Coach," he said.  "Let's win this
thing."

Grabbing my clipboard I started out, but at the door to the dugout I turned
to look at all the boys.  Lester already had Andy's shoe off and was
pulling down the leggings.  "I wanna' hear some cheering coming out'a
here!" I told everyone.  "We're only down by two runs!  Andy's playing his
heart out to give you all a chance to win.  Don't let him down!"

With that I ducked out and went to the on-deck circle.  Benjy was there
getting ready.  I knelt down and looked at him intently.

"I'm countin' on you, Tiger.  And so's Andy.  You did it before.  Now do it
again.  Go up there and whack one for me!  It's show time!"

The boy gave me a determined little nod.  "I'm gonna' do it, Coach."

The umpire was gesturing impatiently.  "Come on, Coach," he called.  "Let's
get goin' before the weather nails us!"

I looked up.  The sky was very dark and the wind was gusting a little.  The
lightning that had been on the horizon was getting close and I could hear
thunder.  I looked at my young batter once more and smiled at him fondly.
"You're the man, Tiger.  Start us off!"  I gave his butt a pat and Benjy
walked toward the plate.

In my coaching position at third I took a deep breath.  There was nothing
to do now but pray.

Benjy had a great at-bat.  He refused to bite at the pitches that were away
from the plate and fouled off a couple that were close.  He stood in
bravely, looking very determined.  When he did finally make contact,
swinging solidly at a pitch down the middle, he drove a hard liner through
the left side of the infield.  It was the nicest job of hitting I had ever
seen him do and I let him know I appreciated it.  I called time and went
all the way over to first base to give him a high five and quick hug around
the shoulders.

The boy nodded happily.  "I did it Coach!"

"You're the best!"  I told him softly so only he could hear.

Lester was up next.  "Andy's leg's cut," he told me as I knelt beside him.
"They're putting something on it now."

I nodded.  "Listen, slugger," I told him, "You gotta get a hit for me.  We
got a man on base.  Bring him around for me.  We gotta get some runs."

The boy stared at me with an unforgettable look of love and trust.  "I
won't let you down, Coach."

He went to the plate and as he stood in I remembered how hesitant and
scared he had been at the beginning of the season compared to how confident
he looked now.  My throat tightened.  This boy had made so much progress!
I crossed my fingers and prayed he would do well for me now.

"Come on," I whispered.  "You can do it!"

Lester swung at the first pitch and made solid contact.  There was a loud
"Tang!" from his aluminum bat and the ball flew up into the dark sky, a
gleaming white dot in the lights.

I was sure it was gone, and it might have been over the fence if a sudden
gust from the advancing weather system had not gotten hold of it.  The ball
was held up just enough so that it bounced shy of the fence.  The
centerfielder made a good play holding Lester to a single, but Benjy, my
skinny first baseman, was able to scurry all the way around from first to
third.  He grinned at me excitedly.

"That's my boy!"  I told him, patting his slender butt.  "Watch for any
chance to take it home!"

I waved to Lester, who was smiling happily at me from over at first.  I
gave him the high sign and saw him nod.  His friend, 2Bad, coaching there,
leaned forward to tell him something and Lester looked down shyly, nodding
his head.

Runners on the corners and no outs!  And the top of our batting order was
coming up!  Feeling good about our chances, I glanced anxiously at the
weather and saw the umpire looking up, too.  "Just hold off until we're
finished!" I prayed.

My leadoff batter, Ronny, who had taken over at shortstop from Chris, came
up, stepping in confidently.  He was a good bunter, but he had been hitting
well and we needed more than one run so I flashed the signal to hit away.
The count went to 2-2 and then he uncorked a beautiful swing on a fastball
that jumped off his bat and hit the pitcher's glove.  The ball was
deflected to the right side.  Before any of my runners could move the first
baseman had it.  He looked Benjy back to third and threw to the pitcher who
had recovered nicely and was covering first to get the out.

"Tough luck," I told Ronny when he trotted back looking glum.  "That was a
solid hit."

There was one out, but we still had two more.  I was not overly worried.
My next batter was Doug, our catcher, a strong chunky kid who could belt
one a long way when he caught it right.  I clapped my hands.  "Give it a
ride, big guy!"

He tried.  On a count of 2-0 the pitcher threw one down the middle that my
catcher brought his bat around on.  He got under it and it flew high in the
air to foul territory on the left side.  The third baseman raced over
toward the fence.  "Drop it!"  I whispered.  But the boy made a nice catch
and all of a sudden we were down to one last out.

"Nice catch," I told the boy as he threw the ball over to his pitcher.

"Thanks, Coach."  He gave me a grateful look.  "Man!  This is a close
game!"

"Yeah, it is," I agreed.  "But they're the best kind!"

"Yeah they are!"  He said, grinning.

Our next batter was RayBan.  Andy was supposed to be after him, but I did
not see him come out of the dugout and after waiting a moment I turned back
to RayBan, clapping my hands and giving my tall rangy centerfielder an
encouraging fist pump.  "let's go slugger!  Be a hitter now!"

The pitcher for the other team was starting to tire.  This was the fifth
batter of the inning.  He pitched carefully and RayBan had a nice at-bat.
I know he was nervous.  Who wouldn't have been in that situation?  Who
wants to make the last out of the season?  But despite the tension, RayBan
hung in gamely.  He took a few good swings, fouling the pitches off.
Eventually, the pitcher tried to overpower him with a fastball, missed low,
and my lanky outfielder walked to first.

The bases were loaded.

I heard a rumble of thunder and a dust devil stirred the infield.  The
on-deck circle was still empty.

"Let's go, Coach, give me a batter!" the umpire called urgently.  He was
looking anxiously at the sky.

Andy stepped out of the dugout.  He had on a batting helmet and was
carrying his Louisville Slugger.  His legging was pulled up over a bandage
on his right ankle.

I went to him.  "Sure you can swing okay?"

"I'm alright, Coach," he said.

I looked around quickly and turned back to him.  "This is a tough
situation."  There was another dull rumble of thunder.

Andy lifted his face and gave me a look.  It was very reminiscent of the
ones he had given me at the beginning of the season, when I had first known
him - that steady appraising look.

"Don't you believe I can do it, Coach?"  He asked softly.

I smiled and gave him a little pat.  "I don't just believe you can, Champ.
I know you can!"

As Andy walked to the plate I watched him carefully.  He was not limping,
but that did not mean anything.  Andy would rather have died than let
anyone know he was hurt.  He took a couple of practice cuts and stood in.
Lightning flickered in the distance beyond the airport.  The umpire
signaled to the pitcher and pulled down his mask.

I doubt anyone who was there on that hot sultry night will ever forget
Andy's at-bat.  It seemed to go on forever.  The sweating pitcher on the
mound fired pitch after pitch, using all his wiles to get my sturdy little
leftfielder out.  Andy regarded him impassively, his expression one of
determined concentration that never changed in the lights.  The count went
full, and then Andy fouled off two good pitches that came in low in the
strike zone.  He stepped out of the batter's box to adjust his grip on his
bat.

I took a deep breath, glancing around.  The storm was coming closer.  You
could feel the tension in the air.  There were a few cheers for the pitcher
coming from the stands, probably from his family.  No one was cheering for
Andy.  No one ever did, except for me and his teammates.  His mother never
came to see him play.

I looked at the dugout.  "Come on guys, let's hear it," I yelled.  "Let's
have some noise.  An-dy!  An-dy!  An-dy!  An-dy! ..."

The boys in the dugout took it up.  "An-dy!  An-dy!  An-dy! ...."  They
began pounding on the wire front of the dugout, their high voices echoing
over the field.

Our supporters, all the kids and parents in the stands, started cheering.
Their feet stomped on the bleachers shaking the aluminum benches.  "An-dy!
An-dy!  An-dy! ...."  The noise was deafening.

Andy stood in again as the crowd chanted his name.  He was poised with the
bat cocked up over his shoulder, his lean compact body showing like
sculpture under his tight uniform.  The pitcher hurled the ball in and my
little champion uncoiled on it, bringing his Louisville Slugger through the
pitch with terrific force.

"TONK!"

The ball arched high into the night and the onlookers came to their feet.
Andy was a little under and behind the ball.  It flew up into the light
standards in foul territory off right field.  There was a shattering crash,
a loud "POP!" and one of the lights exploded, shards of glass fluttering to
the ground.

The crowd roared and my boys kept chanting, "An-dy!  An-dy!  An-dy!  An-dy!
...."  They were slamming their fists on the wooden walls of the dugout.
Over the noise came another long deep roll of thunder.

I looked around again.  The scene looked familiar.  The chanting crowd.
The men on base.  The tense infield.  The flashes of lightning on the
horizon.  Then it hit me.  "The Natural", Andy's favorite movie!  Of
course!

I straightened up suddenly, thrills making me shiver.  The situation! I
thought.

The bases were loaded, and every single runner was a boy Andy had had a
close interaction with that season.  There were two outs in the final
inning of the last, the most important game of the season.  Win or lose, it
would be Andy's last at-bat.

And there was a full count.

Everything Andy and I had done together had pointed toward this exact
moment.  It was his time!  I knew it was!  I knew it as surely as I knew my
own name.

"Time!" I yelled quickly.

The umpire held up his hand and I turned to the dugout.  "Skipper!"  The
little boy scurried out and ran to me.

Reaching into my back pocket I got out the batting gloves Coach Ben had
brought for Andy.

"Give them to Andy!" I told the boy and then caught him as he was about to
dash away.  "Tell them something for me!"  The boy stared up eagerly, eyes
shining with excitement.  "Tell him," I hesitated, "tell him his coach
thinks he's the greatest kid in the world!"

The little boy nodded and went running down the baseline to where Andy was
standing by the plate.  He gave Andy the batting gloves and Andy handed him
his bat while he pulled them on.  As he reached out to take his bat again I
saw Skipper say something to him.  Both boys stood for a moment their hands
on the bat.  Then Andy nodded.  Skipper ran back to the dugout and Andy
stood alone by the plate staring up the baseline at me.

I stood very straight in the coaching box looking back at him.  Then,
slowly and deliberately, I gave him the sign to hit away.

Andy stood a moment longer looking directly at me.  Then he reached up to
pull at the bill of his cap to show he understood.

He turned and got into the batter's box.  But before he took his stance, he
did something no one who saw it will ever forget.

He took his bat - the Louisville Slugger I had bought for him; the bat he
valued so much - and held it out with his arm outstretched, pointing to
center field.  There was absolute silence.  Everyone stared at the little
figure in the dramatic pose by the plate.  Lightning flickered near the
airport, and thunder rumbled.

Andy held that pose for the space of several heartbeats and then took his
stance waiting for the pitch.

I stood tall in the coaching box.  "Now," I whispered, "Now... Now...."

Lightning flickered again as the pitcher made his delivery.  The ball was
right over the plate and Andy unloaded on it.

The crushing sound of his bat on the ball was lost in a roll of thunder.
The field lights flickered.  Andy finished in the classic hitter's pose:
head up following the ball, bat in one hand behind his body, his feet
widely spaced.  The ball soared away into the night sky and the outfielders
never even moved.  Their heads were all raised following the flight of the
ball as it disappeared into the darkness beyond the cars parked on the
fence.

There was a stunned silence for a flicker of time - and then the stands and
dugouts erupted in a pandemonium of noise.

"Skipper!"  I shouted.  I ran to the dugout, but the little boy and JayJay
were already leaving, running around the fence to go retrieve the ball.

I looked back to the field.  Andy had tossed his bat toward the on-deck
circle and was starting his trot around the bases.  He was limping a bit
now, because he no longer had to hide it from me.  The other baserunners
were jumping into the air, leaping and dancing over the base paths.  Benjy,
Lester, RayBan - each slapped my palm as they came around third, every one
of them as ecstatically happy as if he had hit the home run himself.

Finally Andy came, trotting along, favoring his right leg.  He had that
special little smile on his face and he looked at me with his eyes flashing
as I waited for him at the base.  He nodded and I nodded back.  I gave him
a wink and a little smile of my own.  Then he slapped my palm and went down
the baseline to home plate where the entire team waited to greet him,
cheering his name.  "An-dy!  An-dy!  An-dy! ...."

My recollections of what happened after that incredible moment are very
confused.  There was a wild celebration by my boys.  In a gesture I will
always remember, Coach Pete sent his players to our dugout to congratulate
Andy and our whole team.  I recall that things got very confused because we
had to pack the equipment and close up the field quickly to avoid the
thunderstorm coming in on us.  I have a vivid recollection of Andy staying
very close to me and of person after person coming up to shake his hand,
including Coach Ben, who looked stunned and said to me, "If I hadn't seen
it with my own eyes...!"

I remember someone saying something about pizza and I drove a truck full of
yelling shouting young ballplayers to Pizza Hut a few miles from the field.
Andy sat in the middle of the front seat pressed in beside me holding my
arm tightly.  And when we went into the party, he never left my side.

I never knew who paid for that party.  I certainly didn't.  Some of the
parents must have chipped in and it was a terrific party.  Boys from our
team were running excitedly everywhere, talking, laughing, reliving the
game.  The story of Andy's home run improved with every telling until at
last it passed into myth.  As indeed, it had to, since like all truly great
accomplishments, it could never really be completely encompassed by mere
fact.

My recollections of the party are vague.  Certain things remain.  I recall
not being surprised at all when Skipper turned up, sitting first on Andy's
lap, and later on Lester's.  I remember thinking it was entirely
appropriate that he should be there.  He was part of the story - an
essential link in Andy's grand slam.

The home run ball appeared and I wrote on it carefully with a felt tip pen
the date, the teams playing and "Grand Slam Home Run."  Under that I put,
"A called shot with two outs to win the game."  I signed my name and
started it going around.

I remember Cap coming to me and shouting over the noise, "Coach, be sure
Andy comes to the camp!  He can stay with me if he wants to.  I'll be
calling you and coming over to see you.  Don't forget."

"I won't," I promised.

Parent after parent came up to thank me for coaching the team.  They all
wanted to shake Andy's hand.

Coach Ben was there suddenly.  He bent down, whispering something in Andy's
ear that made the boy smile.  Then he told me something about having to
leave so he could get his players home.  He leaned close and said,
"Unbelievable!  Just unbelievable!"

More people came by to talk.  At one point JayJay and Lester were crowded
in next to me, asking, "We can come see you this summer, can't we, Coach?"
Both boys looked at me pleadingly.

I smiled and patted both their shoulders.  "Whenever you want..."

I tried to make sure that at some point during the party I shook the hand
of every boy who had played for me.  I think I got everyone, but I could
not be sure.  It was all too confused.  It felt strange not having a last
dugout meeting of my boys.  Looking back now, I think it was the only time
I ended a season without having one.  I remember looking around, thinking I
might try to get them together in a corner of the restaurant, but there was
no way to do it.  It was too crowded, there were too many people, and some
of the boys had already left.  The season was ending... there was no way to
stop it or try to prevent it.  I simply had to go with the event.

Gradually the party broke up.  One by one people came to shake hands and
say goodbye.  Someone brought Andy his baseball, covered with signatures.
The boy took it gratefully, held it close to his chest and leaned against
me, keeping one hand on my arm.

In the end I was left sitting at the table with Andy on one side of me and
Skipper on the other.  I put an arm around both of them and gave them a
hug.  "Well guys.  I guess it's just us."

I looked around.  The restaurant was nearly empty now that our huge crowd
had gone.  The tables were littered with plates, glasses and empty pizza
trays.

"Man oh man, what a season," I said shaking my head.  I looked at Andy.
"We only won one game, Champ.  But, oh boy!  What a game it was!"

Andy gave me his little smile.

I hugged the boys again.  "Hope someone paid for all this, 'cause I ain't
got a dime on me.  How 'bout you, Skipper?"

The little boy giggled and shook his head.

"You may have to bail us out, Champ," I told Andy.  "Did you bring your
checkbook?"

Andy made a little amused sound, smiled and said, "I think some of the
parents took care of it, Coach."

"Boy, let's hope so.  What if they didn't?"

Andy looked up at me with complete trust.  "You'd think of something,
Coach."

I got up.  "Come on, guys.  Let's get outta here before they make us clean
it all up."

We went out to my truck.  Andy's bike and the two equipment bags were safe
in the back.  My clipboard and score book were sitting on the driver's side
seat.

"Andy?  You got your bat, glove and home run ball?"  I asked.

The boy nodded.

"Guess we're all set then.  Skipper, navigate me to your house and let's
drop you off."

The small boy lived in a trailer park not far from our practice field.  I
drove to the entrance, but did not go in.

"You can get home okay from here, can't you?"

The little boy nodded and all three of us got out.  The road was wet from
the rainstorm that had gone through while we were in the Pizza Hut and
there were still rumbles of thunder that could be heard in the distance.
The air was hot and close.  In the darkness, the two boys were just dim
shapes.

"Goodbye, Skipper," I told him.  "I'll be watching for you."

The little boy nodded, his face a pale blur in the dark.

"Hey Skipper," I whispered.  "Who's the best kid baseball player in the
world?"

"Andy is," the little boy answered without any hesitation at all.

Then I saw my left fielder bend close to him.  "Who's the greatest coach?"

Skipper pointed at me.  "Him."  He turned towards me and said, "I'm gonna
play for you someday."

I reached out and touched his face.  "I know you will."

There was another distant rumble.  Lightning flickered behind the cloud
above the trees.  Andy leaned closer to Skipper and whispered something to
him I could not hear.

"I will," I heard Skipper promise.  Then he ran off into the dimly lit
trailer park.

Andy and I got back into my truck.  The boy sighed and leaned against me.
I put my arm around him as we drove off.

"Well, Champ," I said quietly.  "It's just you and me.  That's kind of how
it all started out, isn't it?  Remember that note you gave me at tryouts?"

Andy nodded.  He pushed his tight uniform pants down to his knees and
pulled up his shirt.  Then he leaned back against me and drew my hand onto
his thick straining boner.  I rubbed gently.  The boy tightened his butt to
swell his slick rigid shaft under my fingers and then made a tiny sound of
contentment.  I rubbed him for a while, driving the truck slowly along the
back roads.  At last the boy stirred and said, "You knew, didn't you Coach.
You knew right from the first."

"Yeah," I told him quietly.

"About everything?"

"Yeah," I said again, smiling at him fondly.

"But how?"  Andy turned his head to look up wonderingly.  "How could you,
Coach?"

"I can always tell," I answered in a whisper.  "I see the things the others
can't."

The boy stretched his young lean body and made another soft sound.  His
hard boy stick swelled as he tightened.  "Coach, tonight was so good.  I
wish we could go to your house."

"Me, too," I told him, rubbing harder.

The boy stretched again and arched his body.  My fingers slipped over the
head of his straining little shaft, finding it slippery with moisture.  I
spread it on his quivering boy rod and moved my hand more quickly.

"Ooooooooo," Andy moaned softly.  His taut muscular body twisted on the
seat.  "Oh, Coach.  Coach.  How did you make it happen?  How... How...?"

"I didn't do anything, son.  You did it all."

The boy shook his head from side to side, groaning in passion.  He arched
up, every muscle in his body tensed.  "Ohhhh.  Ah... Ah... Coach... It was
you... It was you..."

Suddenly his hips bucked.  The engorged shaft beneath my fingers contracted
powerfully again and again.  In the dim glow of the streetlights coming
through the windshield I saw an arc of glittering fluid shoot from the tip
of Andy's rigid boyhood and spatter on his hard tummy.  I kept pumping and
Andy gasped with pleasure, jerked again and more droplets flew from his tip
to roll down over my fingers.  The boy's head arched back and he gave a
long, low moaning cry,
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh... Ooooo... Ooooo... Ooooo...."

As he sank back in the seat, I felt his spent shaft pulse rapidly.  The boy
twisted one last time and then slumped against me.  "Oh, Coach... Coach..."
Murmuring softly, he lay unmoving on the seat, trembling with ecstasy as I
stroked and caressed him until we reached his house.

I parked in front of the trailer and Andy straightened slowly, reluctantly
pulling up his pants.  I unloaded his bike and put it away for him while he
gathered bat, glove and home run ball.

"You got two home runs tonight, Champ," I said, "We should have gotten the
other ball for you."

Andy shook his head.  "This is the only one that mattered."

He looked at his trailer.  The old sedan was parked in front on the lawn.
There were lights on and I could hear the sound of the TV.

"I wish..." he said softly.

I took the boy in my arms and kissed him quickly.  "I do, too, Andy."

He lifted his face and I kissed his lips.  The boy was trembling as I held
him tight.

"When will I see you again, Coach?"  He asked desperately.

"Tomorrow night," I told him, patting his back.  "I'll be here as soon as
the All-Star selection meeting is finished to tell you what happened."

"You're gonna choose me, aren't you?"

"Yes, son," I promised.  "I can't choose anyone else."

The boy's hands were full with all his things, but he hugged me clumsily as
best he could.  As he was turning to go I said, "Wait..."

I got his report card from the glove compartment and gave it to him.  "This
was the best thing of all tonight, son," I told him.  I smiled at him
lovingly and patted his shoulder.  "Put that and your grand slam ball
together in a special place for me."

"I will, Coach," the boy promised.  He looked at me again, eyes filled with
love.  Then he gave me his little smile and turned toward the trailer.  I
made sure he was safely inside before driving off.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

On Friday afternoon at five o'clock, the All-Star selection committee - all
the coaches plus the league president - met in one of the upstairs training
rooms at a local fire station.  I brought a cup of coffee and donuts with
me and took a seat behind the others.

Even then, as a young inexperienced coach, I disliked and distrusted
All-Star teams, and in times since I've seen too many boys hurt by the
selections.  But All-Star teams are an inescapable part of youth sports.
The vast majority of players, coaches and parents insist upon them, and I
have learned that they have their place.  I always try my best to keep
things reasonable.  But in those days, in that league, I was powerless.  I
was the brand-new coach that no one knew, and my team had one of the two
worst records.  I sat, listened, and kept my mouth shut.

As the other men talked and the selection process began I discovered there
was at least one other person in the room who shared some of my misgivings
about All-Star teams.  This was Pete, the coach of the team we had played
the night before.  He was a physical education teacher at one of the local
schools and, even though his team's record was as bad as mine, the other
coaches had to listen to him because of his credentials.  When my turn came
to nominate and I gave Andy's name, there were disapproving frowns all
around the room, but Pete came to my aid.

"This boy is clearly the best player on his team," he told the others.  "He
has to nominate him."

"The kid's only 13," one of the frowning coaches said.

"And he's just a runt!"

This last came from the skinny guy whose player had deliberately ploughed
Benjy, in our first game with them.  I struggled to hide my dislike as I
said, "Size isn't everything in baseball.  There's lots of other factors."

"The only thing we care about is performance," another coach told me.
Again I had to bite my tongue.  This man had just nominated his own son for
the team despite the fact that he had other, better players.

"Listen," I said reasonably.  "Being selected for All-Stars is an honor.
It's a reward.  Why shouldn't we honor and reward heart, courage,
determination, improvement and sportsmanship.  Just as we honor pure
performance.  They're all equally important."

There was head shaking and muttering at this.

"Look, Coach, you don't know what you're talking about."  The speaker was
the coach of the top team, the one with the big ace pitcher.  "Our
All-Stars have to play in very tough competition.  I mean, those other
regions are really rough!  If we go with all this pie-in-the-sky stuff
you're talking about, we'll get killed!  Our kids and their parents will be
humiliated.  It would ruin the chances of some of our boys getting
scholarships and having exposure to Big League scouting.  Then who's been
hurt?"

He stared at me for a few moments, letting his words sink in and then
continued, "Bottom line here is that we have to be realistic.  We have to
go with the very best on the field.  Competitive kids.  Tough ones who can
succeed against the best of the other regions.  Now I'm not saying your boy
isn't a very nice little boy who tries hard.  But he's too immature.  He's
too small.  And he can't hit well enough against the kind of pitching we're
gonna face."

I stared at him.  "He hit well enough to break up your boy's no-hitter," I
told him evenly.  "And he was still fast enough, and brave enough, to steal
home on you and take away your shut out when he was hurting so badly that
he couldn't even swing his bat, and every step he took was agony for him!"

There was silence at that.

"Andy has more courage and competitiveness in his little finger than all
the rest of your boys will ever have," I said, staring around at the other
men.  "And it's guts and heart that win the tough ball games.  Not numbers
and statistics.  Baseball is intangibles more than talent.  It's like no
other sport.  You need this boy whether you know it or not."

I turned back to the coach of the top team.  "You say you want the best
performers.  You had a great record this season.  You've got a boy who
plays third base on your team who saved you time after time to get you that
record.  If he hadn't made a great defensive play, and then got a clutch
hit for you, we would've beaten you in our second game.  Again and again
that boy saved you.  But you didn't nominate him.  Why?  Wasn't he a great
performer?  Doesn't helping you win a League Championship count?"

The coach could not meet my eyes.  He waved his arms helplessly and finally
blustered, "Well....  There were several other boys....  They were all
good.  There were other considerations...."

"What could those considerations be?"  I asked him relentlessly.  "I
thought performance was all of it."

The coach shook his head angrily.  "It is!  It is.  There were other boys
who were as good or better.  We can only take the best."

The league president raised his hand for quiet before I could reply.  He
was an older man who I liked and respected.  Now he leaned toward me and
said, "Coach, the competition our All-Star team has to face is very strong.
Your boy is a fine little player.  But he is small and immature.  In the
kind of games we'll be going into, he could get hurt.  You wouldn't want
that, would you?"

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.  "Then use him as a bat boy, or
hide him in right field.  All I know is this.  Andy is the best player on
my team.  He was its heart and soul.  No one worked harder, or did as much
for us.  If you don't take him, then you're sending him a terribly wrong
message.  You'll break his heart."

My friend Pete spoke up.  "No one who was at our game last night and saw
how that kid played, and what he did, could possibly believe that he should
not be an All-Star.  I still don't believe what he did, and I was there and
saw it with my own eyes."

The league president sighed.  Then he said, "Coach, he did all that against
your team.  Don't take this the wrong way, but you know that's not the
level of competition we'll face when we go to those other regions."

Pete shook his head slowly.  "I don't think it would matter," he said
thoughtfully.  He hesitated and then added.  "I was there...."

There was another uncomfortable silence.  Finally the coach sitting next to
me cleared his throat and said, "Look, what about your centerfielder?  The
black kid.  He's 14, and he plays fairly well."

"Yeah," one of the other men said.  "What about him?  We could use another
black selection.  We don't want an all-white team, that's for sure.  We
don't want that kind of trouble!"

"He's nowhere near as good a player as Andy is," I tried to tell them.  But
they were no longer listening.  I could tell I had lost.  I could have
gotten mad and shouted at them or walked out, but what good would it have
done?  I wanted to coach in the league again next year, and I had already
alienated them enough.

The League President looked at me kindly.  "What do you say to our taking
your centerfielder, Coach?  Why don't we do that."

I gave him a rueful smile.  "I guess that would be best."

And so, Andy was not selected for the All-Star team.  RayBan's name was put
down in his place.

Pete tried to console me after the meeting.  "He's only 13.  He can make it
next year.  He'll be bigger then anyway.  It'll all work out..."

I shook my head.  "He won't understand.  This will break his heart.  It's
all he wanted.  He's going to blame me."

"You can explain," the other man said.  "He'll know it's not your fault."

I shook my head and sighed.  "He'll blame me.  He believes I can do
anything.  He'll think I let him down."

The phys. ed. teacher regarded me sadly.  I got up and turned toward the
door.  "I better go tell him.  He's waiting for me to come.  I promised
him...."

"I'm sorry, Coach," Pete whispered.

The drive over to Andy's house was awful.  I hope I never have to do
anything like it again.  I went as slowly as I could, dreading the moment.
I racked my brains for some way to break the news that would ease the
bitterness and disappointment I knew he was going to experience.  I could
not come up with anything.  My mind was numb.  I prayed that he would be
distracted in some way.  Perhaps playing with a friend, even though I knew
he did not have a single one in the area where he lived.  I should have
known there was no hope of that.  Andy was waiting for me on the steps of
his trailer.  Even before I stopped he was sprinting over to the truck.

His face fell when I got out and he saw I was not bringing him the special
cap and shirt that All-Star players received.  He looked up slowly, saw
what was in my eyes and realized...

"I didn't make it," he said.  It was a statement, not a question.

I knelt down to put an arm around him, but instead of leaning against me he
stood and stared at me without expression.

"I nominated you," I told him.

"But they wouldn't take me," the boy said bitterly.

"I argued with them, Andy.  I told them how good you are.  I told him
you're the best I've ever coached.  That you're the heart and soul of my
team."

"But they wouldn't take me," the boy repeated.

"They said you were too young."

Andy shook his head impatiently.  "But I'm your best player!"  His eyes
were glittering.  I felt him tremble.

"I told them that," I said.  "I told them over and over."

Again I tried to hug the boy and he pulled away from me.  "They have to
take one from every team," he accused.  "You said so."

I nodded.

"Who did they pick?"

I sighed and told him.  "RayBan."

Andy just stared at me and suddenly tears were spilling down his cheeks.
"It's not fair!"  All his anger and desperate longing were in his voice.
"It's not fair!"

"No," I whispered sadly.  "It's not."

Once more I tried to hug him, but the boy would not come to me.  He stood
silently with the tears on his face, staring past my shoulder.

"It's going to be okay, Champ," I pleaded.  "Even without the All-Star
team, we're going to do all sorts of wonderful things this summer.  I've
got you all signed up for the baseball camp over at the high school.  And
we'll go to the beach again, and I'll take you camping.  And in August I
got my vacation and we'll go to Atlanta for a Braves game, or maybe Disney
World.  Or Cape Kennedy to see a space shuttle launch.  We'll be doing all
sorts of things.  And next year, you'll make the All-Star team for sure.
They won't be able to keep you off it.  You'll see."

Andy looked away.  I stroked his side saying gently, "Come on, Champ.
Don't let this one thing spoil everything."

"My mom is sending me to Chicago," he announced.

I felt a chill go through me.  "Chicago!  Why?  When?"

"She wants me to go tomorrow or the next day.  It's to stay with my aunt
and uncle."

"But..." I started to say.  Then I stood up.  "I gotta talk to her.  Where
is she?"

Andy took me to the trailer and led me inside where his mother was watching
TV.  With some difficulty, I got her attention.  "Andy tells me you want to
send him to Chicago."

"That's right," she said.  "He goes every year to stay with my sister and
her husband.  I told him he was going as soon as all this baseball stuff
was finished."

"Look," I told her reasonably, "I know you want him to go, but I honestly
think it might be a mistake.  Andy has some wonderful opportunities to do
things this summer.  He'll miss out if he goes."

I told her about the baseball camp, and the coach that was recruiting him.
I even brought up the modeling job.  I told her about the trip I wanted to
take him on in August.  "Don't let him miss all that," I begged.

Nothing I said made any difference.  She had made up her mind.  "My sister
and her husband want to see him," she insisted.

"When will he be back?"  I asked desperately.  "He's coming back, isn't
he?"

"Sometime before school," she answered vaguely.

I was in shock.  I went with Andy to his room and sat with him on his bed.
I saw that he had made a special place on the box he used for a night table
to display his grand slam ball.

"This looks good here, Champ," I told him, touching it gently.

"Yeah," he said.

"Andy, you've got to write me, or call me," I said.  "Every week.  Please.
I want to know that you're okay.  You got my number, you got my address,
right?"

He nodded.

"Listen," I told him, trying to keep my voice steady, "I bet you can get
back before summer ends.  Just keep bugging them about it.  And you can
tell me when you're coming.  Call me collect.  I'll have everyone there to
meet you.  All the kids.  We'll even bring Skipper!  We'll have a big
party."

He looked up and gave me his little smile.  "Okay, Coach."

I sat next to him in silence.  Then I patted his leg.  "I'll miss you an
awful lot, Champ."

The boy put his warm little hand on top of mine.  "Me, too," he said
softly.

He got up and led me to the front door.  I knelt down and gave him a very
quick hug.  Checking first to be sure his mother wasn't looking, I patted
his butt.  I could feel the firm rounded muscle beneath the thin satin of
his shorts.

"Take care of yourself, son," I told him so only he could hear.  "Remember,
I love you."

He looked at me, eyes full of affection, and smiled.  I turned and left.
As I drove away, he stood at the door of the trailer waving.

. . . . . . . . .

That was the last time I ever saw Andy.  He never came back from Chicago.
I never even knew for certain if he ever went there.

All through that summer, as the weeks slipped by, I waited for phone calls
or letters that never came.  Again and again I called his number but no one
ever answered, and whenever I drove by no one was home.

I gave Andy's place in the summer baseball camp to Lester and also arranged
it so his friend JayJay could go too.  And Benjy.  I went to talk to his
mother, and sent him, too.  They all stayed with Cap and visited me nearly
every weekend.

The boys and Coach Ben constantly asked me about Andy.  There was not
anything I could tell them.  Despite not receiving any calls or letters I
did not give up hope at first.  I kept telling myself he would be back in
time for my vacation.

"We'll have a big party for him," I told the boys.

But August came, and I heard nothing.  Andy's trailer looked deserted when
I went by and no one answered when I knocked.

I took the boys to the beach again and we went to an Atlanta Braves game.
Then I took them camping in the Great Smoky Mountains.

I saw Coach Ben when I came back and he asked about Andy.  "We'll see him
when he comes back for school," I told him.  But Labor Day came and I heard
nothing.  The next time I went by Andy's trailer there was a strange car
parked in front, and a woman I had never seen before answered my knock.

"Oh, she moved away," the woman told me when I asked about Andy's mother.
"No, I don't know where she's gone."

Still, I did not give up hope.  I called up Benjy who went to the same
school.  "Andy isn't in our class this year, Coach," he told me.  "I
haven't seen him.  I don't know where he is."

"Okay," I said.  "Hey, you're gonna play for me next spring, right?"

"Oh yeah, Coach!"  The boy told me.  "You know I am!"

"Are you doing those exercises I showed you?"

"Every day, Coach," he assured me.

"That's the way.  Say, there's a football game at the high school next
Friday night and some kids and I are going.  You wanna come?"

"Yeah!"  He exclaimed.

"Great.  I'll come by and pick you up around 4:30.  Oh, and don't forget to
keep your eye out for good kids to draft in the seventh grade.  I'm
depending on you."

"Okay, Coach.  If you see Andy, tell him I miss him."

"I will," I answered and after hanging up I rubbed my face with a sigh.  "I
miss him, too."

I checked with Andy's school.  He was not registered there, or anywhere in
the area.  I asked if any requests had come through to transfer his
records.  They checked for me but no one knew of any.

"We don't routinely record all the requests though," the lady behind the
desk told me.

So that was that.  I came home from work that day and sat in a chair in the
living room for a long time.  I had to face the facts.  Andy was gone.  He
was not coming back.  I put my head down and cried a little for the boy I
had loved so much.

Gradually it got dark.  I got up and switched a light on.  I thought of
Andy's little baseball player nightlight and wondered where it was and what
had become of his trophies, his home run balls, and his photo album of
dreams and memories.  Had he somehow been able to get them, or had they
been casually tossed away and forgotten?

What happens when a little boy's dreams are shattered and lost?  Who can
ever find them for him to make them whole again?  I suspect that, like all
precious and fragile things, once broken they can never be again.

. . . . . . . . .

I never forgot about Andy.  I do not suppose I ever will.  For a long time
I tried to find him in the Chicago area, searching phonebooks and calling
schools.  I once made a trip there and tried searching for his name in the
rosters of junior and senior high school baseball teams.

For years I kept seeing him in crowds.  I would be in a stadium, or at a
crowded shopping mall, and I would be convinced I had caught a glimpse of
him.  I would push my way eagerly towards him, calling his name.  But he
was never there.  Once, on a trip to another state with an All-Star team, I
saw a boy standing against the fence watching us warm-up.  I stared at the
lean compact little figure and my heart leapt.

"Andy!"  I called joyfully.  I ran to him, tears coming to my eyes.

As I got close, the boy at the fence pulled away, startled.  I stared at
him.  He was a stranger.  A boy I had never seen before.

"Sorry!"  I told him, holding out my hand.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to
startle you.  Please... I'm sorry.  I thought you were someone else."

The boy came back to the fence.

"You play baseball?"  I asked.

The boy nodded.  "I was on a team this year.  I didn't make All-Stars
though."

I smiled at him kindly.  "Sometimes not all the best players make the team.
How old are you?"

"13," the boy answered.

"Don't give up," I said to him.  "I bet next year you make it."  I reached
out and the boy allowed me to touch his shoulder.

"I bet you're good," I told him quietly.  "I bet your coach is very proud
of you."

The boy's eyes widened.  He looked at me in wonder.  "How did you know,
Coach?"  His voice was a high whisper.

I stared back at him intently.  "I always know," I told him softly.  "I can
always tell."

I turned and walked back to our warm-up drill thinking to myself how
foolish I had been to think that it might have been Andy.  Andy would have
been a lot older by then and would have looked quite different.

For a long time, until each one reached adolescence and began to make his
own way, I was very close to Andy's friends.  Cap, 2Bad, JayJay, Lester,
Jimmy, Benjy, little Skipper - all of them went on with me to new
experiences and adventures.  Skipper did grow up to play for me, and
eventually I found out what it was that Andy had whispered to him on that
last incredible night so long ago.  He deserves his own story, but this is
not the place for it.  This is Andy's and it is nearly done.

Yet, in a sense, Andy's story will never be over for me.  I can never
forget him.  He will be in my thoughts the rest of my life.  I want to
believe that, somewhere, he is alive and continuing on in that determined
way of his, with that little smile on his face.  But I'll never be sure.
Andy was an affectionate boy, and I had taught him to trust - perhaps to
trust too much.  There is evil in the world and perhaps it cruelly
destroyed Andy when I could not be there to protect him.  I will never
know.  But I will never stop hoping and looking.  Whenever I read in the
papers about college or minor-league ballplayers I scan the articles
eagerly, searching for his name.

Whether the young man Andy would have become is alive or not, there is one
thing that I do know with absolute certainty.  The boy that Andy was is
gone forever.  I can never hold him or caress him again.  He exists now
only in my heart and my memories.

His time with me was so very short.  From it I have only two things.  They
are among my most precious possessions.  One is my old scorebook.  Its
rumpled pages are yellowing slightly and I have to be careful turning them.
Andy's last game is recorded there.  The names of the boys in our lineup
are printed down the side in my precise handwriting, but all the box scores
are in JayJay's boyish scrawl.  The final box, Andy's incredible last
at-bat, is only partially filled in.  As Andy's grand slam soared above the
diamond on that stormy evening, JayJay had jumped to his feet cheering with
all the rest of the boys in the dugout, the scorebook forgotten.  After
that, all the rest of the pages in the book are blank.

Inside the front cover, protected by a plastic sheet, is the only other
memento I have of Andy.  It is our team photograph taken on the opening day
of that season, the day he wrecked his bicycle coming to the field.  In the
front row, right in the center, is the boy I loved so much.  He is kneeling
to cover the rent in the knee of his uniform pants, holding his glove,
smiling proudly.

 [ The End ]

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Hope you
enjoyed it!  This baseball series has a 'long' short story for every
position around the diamond.  Look for a new chapter or two each month.
Here is a short excerpt from the next in the series - Center Field:

... The drive home was a long one.  I kept the radio off and talked to Cory
the same way I had during the tournament, chatting about whatever came into
my head.  Mainly I talked about sports, but I recall mentioning other
things as well - places I had traveled to, people I had known.  I made him
laugh at some funny incidents, but the rest of the time he just listened as
my old truck droned on quietly through the night.

I put my hand out and pulled the boy toward me.  He slid over on the seat
and leaned close.  My arm went around his slender shoulders, I gave him a
hug and the boy wiggled even closer.  I felt him tremble a little.

"Doin' OK?"  I asked.

"Uh-huh" Cory answered softly.

I related a story about a baseball team I had been on when I was his age.
The boy lifted his head, looking up at me, wide dark eyes gleaming faintly
in the light from oncoming headlights.

"Baseball starts soon, don't it, Coach?"  He asked.

"Yup.  Wrestling's over.  Baseball comes next.  The weather's already
startin' to change.  You can feel it.  I bet that snow we just had is the
last."  I looked down at him.  "You're gonna play for me, aren't you,
Cowboy?  You know I'm countin' on you."

Cory nodded.  "I'll be there, Coach."  He was silent for a few moments,
then he said with quiet pride, "I'm gonna be your centerfielder."

"You sure are."  I gave him a hug.  "I wouldn't want anyone else."  The boy
trembled again and I held him tighter.

Cory's older brother, Cody, had been a natural infielder as well as a
terrific hitter.  He had been the shortstop on my championship team the
previous year.  Cory did not have his older brother's gifts.  He could play
well enough at an infield position, but he was better suited to the
outfield where he could range freely, using his height and speed to cover
the ground.  He had learned to backup plays well and he was not afraid of
fly balls so I had used him in both left and center field as an
11-year-old.  On my teams, the centerfielder functioned as captain of the
outfield and I nearly always put a veteran 12-year-old player in that
position.

"I want you to be the top gun of my outfield this season, Cowboy," I said
to the boy nestling against me.  "And you can do some pitching too, just
like last year.  In two weeks I'm starting preseason pitching camp in my
garage.  You'll come, won't you?"

"Uh-huh."

Cory nodded again and I squeezed his shoulders.  "Man, it's gonna be a
great season."

Cory pulled his legs up onto the seat and lay down with his head on my lap.
I patted him gently.  He was wearing his flannel ranch coat.  I unfastened
one of the middle buttons and slid my hand inside, feeling the silk western
shirt I had bought him and his warm firm body beneath.  The soft thud of
Cory's heart beat against my palm.

"Tell me how it's gonna be, Coach," Cory begged.

I stroked him gently.  "It'll be so good," I told him.  "The snow 'll be
melted off the ground when we start our pitching camp.  You boys 'll get
your boots all muddy walking to my apartment from school.  We'll be
pitching into the big backstop in the garage and I'll put your arms in
shape and you're gonna be so surprised to see how much better you are now
that you're a year older.  You're gonna help me scout the kids trying out
this year and we'll have fun trying to see who we can draft.  Then we'll
have our first practice and it'll be so great to see the new kids and what
a good team we're gonna have..."

Back and forth went my palm, caressing tenderly.  I was whispering now.
"And all this time they'll be getting our league field ready for your
games.  It's there right now, Cowboy, up there at home, sleeping under the
snow tonight, dreaming of the season that's coming, waiting for us... and
soon the weather's gonna be warmer and the snow will melt off and that
field will be there for you, and you'll be out there on that green grass
and it'll be the big game and the crowd will be cheering you and you'll
hear the crack of the bat and you'll see that ball going higher and higher
into the air, and you'll race back for it, and you'll know, you'll just
know, that everyone is saying 'He'll never get to it,' but you'll know that
you can because the sun's shining so brightly and the grass is so green and
there's nothing you can't do on a summer day when you're 12 years old,
playing centerfield in the big game.  And you'll leap up in front of that
fence, going high in the air like you're floating into the sky, and you'll
reach up with your glove and that ball falls into it and you'll hear the
crowd cheering and cheering and cheering..."

With my hand resting on him inside the warmth of his coat I could feel the
boy's chest rising and falling.  He lay absolutely still on my lap as I
caressed.  He was fast asleep.  He slept all the rest of the way home.  It
had been a big day for him.

 [ To be continued... ]

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

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

			hunterjoe45@yahoo.com

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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