Date: Fri, 15 Mar 2013 05:18:18 -0700 (PDT) From: Joe Hunter Subject: Baseball Diamond Tails - 8B All the usual disclaimers apply: +This story is a work of fiction. If you think it is real, you have a very active imagination. +Do not read this story if you live in an area where it is illegal to do so. +Scenes of sexual activity between an adult male and a young boy are represented. Do not read further if this offends you. +Please do not imitate the actions portrayed herein - the author cannot accept responsibility for any actions promoted by this story. If you would like to get in touch, please e-mail me at: hunterjoe45@yahoo.com To all you readers who enjoy these stories, please support Nifty with contributions and keep the Archive online. Check the Nifty home page for ways to make contributions. Without this Archive those of us who write for you will lose a wonderful resource to get our stories out. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Support Nifty! Joe ____________________________ BASEBALL DIAMOND TAILS - 8B (copyright 2012, Joe Hunter) ::::::::::::::::::::::: Center Field: Part B ::::::::::::::::::::::: In the weeks before tryouts, the draft, and the beginning of spring practices - while the last of the snow was melting off the fields - I held my usual preseason pitching drills in my garage after school. Although he was a fairly good pitcher, Cody had never attended these - and neither had Casey in his first year with me when he was 11. But now, to my surprise, he turned up with the other four boys who regularly attended; Bryce, Kit and Jamie from my team plus a 12-year-old named Kurt who was on one of our rival teams in the 11 and 12-year-old division. "How are you getting home?" I asked Casey on the first afternoon. The boy looked up at me from lowered eyes, as he so often did, and shrugged. Stifling a smile and trying to look appropriately stern, I squeezed the boy's slender shoulder. "Did you tell your mom you were coming?" This got a nod out of him. "Uh-huh." I squeezed his shoulder again. "I suppose you told her I'd bring you home?" Another nod. Casey's eyes flicked up to mine for an instant, then dropped again. "Hmmph! I should make you walk those 10 miles!" But Casey knew I wouldn't do that. We started practice, the boys taking turns throwing into a heavy canvas tarp I had slung up in a wooden frame. Even though he was less skilled a pitcher than the other boys, Casey did fairly well, following all my instructions and trying hard to please me. Afterwards, sitting next to me in the SUV as I drove him home, Casey stared out the windshield, not saying anything until we were on the county road. Then, just as I was about to complement him on the improvement of his pitching, he suddenly asked, "Coach? Are we gonna suck this year?" I glanced at him. "You mean 'cause your brother and Calvin and the others moved up?" Casey nodded. "Uh-huh." "Well..." I knew Casey could be trusted not to reveal any of my strategy for the upcoming draft. "Some of it will depend on the 11-year-olds I can get for us. But all you 12-year-olds will be back, and that's a good start." "We're not as good as Cody and the others were," Casey told me in a soft voice. "I'm not as good as Cody." "Bullshit!" Letting up on the gas I braked, pulled to the side of the road, put the gear shift in neutral, and turned to face Casey who was regarding me wide-eyed. "Now listen," I started... Then I smiled and went on in a quieter voice because I didn't want to scare the kid. "You're always putting yourself down. That stops right now. You're every bit as good as your brother. It's just that you're very different from each other, so you're both good at different things." "But..." Casey still looked scared. "But, Coach, Cody's like way better at wrestling, an..." I stopped him by holding up a hand. "Yeah. He's better at wrestling. So what? He's built different than you. You're just as quick, plus you can run faster. Don't tell me you can't. I've seen it. In school you're better at English and Social Studies. And you can build models. He can't." "But..." Casey was avoiding my eyes. "But he..." "... was a shortstop," I said, grinning. "And you know what?" Reaching over I gave Casey's shoulder a playful punch. "You're a born centerfielder, Ace! You're gonna be the captain of my outfield! And will we have a good season? Well..." Casey watched as I put the SUV in gear again. "It'll depend on what 11-year-olds I can get in the draft. We won the league last year so we'll have to choose last in the rotation. But I got some deals goin'..." Once we accelerated back up to speed, I reached over to give Casey's knee a squeeze and the boy immediately slid closer to me, asking, "Who do you think we can get, Coach?" I grinned and winked at him. "We get Flick, Adam's brother, automatically - and he's pretty good. They call him Wheels. He's fast and we can use him as a base stealer. Plus we get Gary Miller, too. You know - the kid they call `Peewee'? He's definitely good. I had Adam's mother go to the league and tell them he was their cousin an' he had to ride in the same carpool." Casey giggled. "That was sneaky, Coach!" "Yeah." I grinned again. "Wasn't it? And then I had Bryce talk to some other kids that were really good in the nine and 10 league last year. They're gonna try to look bad in tryouts so we might have a shot at `em if the other coaches don't know." "Kurt's dad will." "Yeah. I'm a little worried about that, but let's see what happens. We might get lucky." We were both silent for a few moments, then Casey wiggled even closer to me, his shoulder touching my side. "Coach?" "Uh-huh." "There's a kid you can draft. He's really good. And nobody knows about him." "Who's that?" I put an arm around Casey's sturdy shoulders and the boy snuggled against me. "Dink Zimmer. He goes to my school on the bus. He's 11, an' he's a really good baseball player. I know." "Zimmer?" My palm was rubbing back and forth, feeling the smooth rounded curve of Casey's muscular shoulder through his jacket. "He didn't play in 9 and 10 last summer. I would've known." "Uh-uh." Casey shifted over again, bringing the left side of his thigh against mine, the boy's warmth pressing on my hip and leg. "He's new, Coach. His family moved in this year. His older brother, Lance, wrestles for the high school." "Oh, okay." I squeezed Casey's shoulders and the boy put his hand on my right thigh. "Lance... Sure... He came to our wrestling practices sometimes, too. That kid's really good." "Uh-huh." Casey leaned against me, his hand rubbing on the inside of my thigh. "Dink's good at wrestling, but he didn't sign up. I don't think his family has much money." "Okay, I get it." The wrestling program was not cheap and there were always families that had trouble coming up with the fee, particularly if they had several boys. "You sure this Dink's a good ballplayer?" Casey nodded, turning his head to look up at me. "For real, Coach. He's like got trophies from this other place where they lived. Plus I've played catch with him some. He's good." "Is he gonna sign up for baseball?" "He says he's gonna." Casey's hand slid up a bit further on the inside of my thigh. I hugged his firm shoulders again. "Listen," I said. "You tell the kid to sign up. If he can't get the money for it, I'll give some to you and you pass it to him. But make sure he knows to play shitty in tryouts. Don't let anyone find out how good he is. I'll make sure I draft him." "Cool." Casey's fingers were exploring the hard curve of my thigh muscle through the thick denim jeans I was wearing. "Thanks Coach." "Don't you worry about how we'll do this summer," I assured him. "You guys'll be okay. And win or lose, I guarantee we'll have fun." Two days later, at the next pitching practice in my garage, the first thing Casey did when he was inside out of the wind, was remove his jacket. Then, to my surprise, he stripped off the long sleeve shirt he had on, baring his slender wiry body. While I watched, admiring the sculpted lines of his hard wrestler's definition, he produced from his book bag the special practice shirt he had received the summer before as a member of my baseball team. Every year I bought custom practice shirts for the team. They were half shirts (the boys called them `muscle shirts'), silk screened with our team logo and lettered with a number and name on the back. Casey pulled his on, the half-length leaving his taut lean waist bare, his `innie' belly button uncovered. The shirt was a year old and Casey had grown since he was eleven, so the cloth stretched tight over his chest, appearing to be painted on. When I told him, "I'll get you a bigger size this year," the boy smiled shyly at me, then went to work, warming up with easy throws. Taking him home in the SUV Casey still wore the half shirt and when I reached out to pat his thigh the boy slid over to lean against me. "Did you talk to that Dink kid?" I asked. "Uh-huh. He's gonna sign up." "You tell him to look bad in tryouts?" "Yeah." "Good job." I gave Casey's shoulders a hug and the boy slid down a bit, pulling his legs up onto the seat. My hand had been drifting along the hard muscle of his arm stroking gently. Casey reached to pull it down onto the bare skin of his waist. It was an awkward position for me, but I kept it there, rubbing fingertips on the silky smoothness of his tummy. It was the same physical contact Casey had wanted during the wrestling season and he seemed content with it, giving no indication of a desire to go any further. I wanted to. My fingers pushed along the waistband of his pants. Now and then I caressed Casey's firm thighs through the cloth, and even let my palm ride up `accidentally' to confirm there was a bulge in his crotch. But the ten mile ride to his house went by too quickly for much more and Casey gave no indication that he wanted it. At our very next pitching practice both Bryce and JJ also brought their practice shirts from the year before, changing into them along with Casey while Kurt looked on enviously. "Wish our coach got us stuff like that," he said, and I gave his sturdy shoulders a fond caress. Just as it seemed every year, the three weeks of preseason pitching practice flew by and the Saturday for tryouts arrived. Usually I attended accompanied by one of my 12-year-old veterans, the unofficial team captain of that year, but this was one of those rare seasons when I had no natural leader among the returning 12-year-olds. So I was by myself. Arriving early I helped my friend and mentor, the old man who had served for decades as the league president, set up the pitching machine. Then, as the 11-year-old hopefuls appeared, along with parents and siblings (both young and old) I found a place up in the bleachers where I could sit with my clipboard. Of course, I only pretended to take notes. The boys who had played 9 and 10 coach pitch the season before I already knew. For the rest, I had scouting reports from a legion of spies made up of boys already on my team, kids I coached in wrestling, and the contacts I maintained among the teachers in the elementary schools. I didn't just know every 11-year-old. I knew the name of every potential left-handed pitcher from first grade to fifth. My draft strategy for the coming season had been set months in advance. There was no real need for me to even be at the tryouts, but I always went, partly to help the League President with the equipment, and also to admire all the youngsters running around chasing baseballs in the sunlight. Often I had fun amusing myself by imagining who I would draft if I was only going by looks. I checked to be sure that the boys I was particularly after, Evan and Nate, were there. These two, known to their buddies as Kelly and Slick, were excellent athletes who had played lacrosse rather than baseball the year before. I had persuaded them to switch sports. To conceal their talent they had been instructed to deliberately play badly in the tryouts. After locating them on the field, I kept my eyes off them and crossed my fingers. With decent luck none of the other coaches would get a clue on how good they were. Then I looked for Dink, my wildcard. None of my spies had ever mentioned this kid, so I only had Casey's word to rely on. I spotted him standing with his big brother, Lance, who I knew from wrestling. Watching the boy out of the corner of my eye, I felt my heart rate quicken. Playing my game of drafting by looks, this was one I would certainly take. Dink had curly black hair, striking features, smooth tanned skin and beneath the fashionably baggy clothes he was wearing I caught glimpses of a compact athletic build. It was all there for any experienced eye to see, the way the boy stood, the way he moved. I glanced quickly around again, wondering if any of the other coaches would notice. Casey had assured me that Dink understood he was to deliberately look clumsy. But could any deception hide that kind of obvious talent? "Shit!" I muttered to myself, recognizing that I had made a serious error. The moment Casey told me about Dink, I should have taken steps to have him placed on my team automatically; using as an excuse that he needed to be in Casey's carpool for transportation to practice and games. "Damn," I muttered again under my breath, watching the young boy. Now I would have to risk losing him in the draft, because no matter how clumsy he made himself look, just the way he moved around was a dead giveaway that he was faking. It was too late to change anything. I stayed for the full duration of the tryouts, pretending to write notes, exchanging friendly greetings with the other coaches, and deliberately taking no unusual notice of any boy I was trying to draft. Just as instructed, Kelly, Slick and Dink performed badly, with Dink in particular looking absolutely hopeless as he missed every fly ball and grounder hit to him, then swung in clumsy fashion at the balls from the pitching machine, only making contact with one, which dribbled foul. I averted my eyes, wondering if his attempts to look bad weren't a little too obvious. Everything about his appearance and movements belied the way he was playing. The other coaches were bound to catch on! But there was nothing to be done about it. I kept my expression neutral and pretended to write on the clip board. Finally, when the tryouts were done, I helped clean up the field and then left. The draft was that night at the local pizza shop. The old League President ran it; all the coaches sitting around a table with pizza and a few rounds of beer making everything pleasant. The old man, who had devoted his life to the cause of kid sports, spread his notes in front of him, handed out our rosters with the names of returning veterans plus any other kids automatically assigned, and then announced, "Let's get started." We were seated in order of team finish from the previous year, last place to first place, so I was picking last. As the draft went around the table I crossed boy's names off my master list, joining in with the good-natured banter as we reacted to each coach's pick. But inwardly I was tense. Would my plans work out? There were several coaches around the table experienced enough to see through my deceptions. Would they select one of the boys I was after? Would a lucky pick by one of the novice coaches upset my schemes? Sitting right next to me was Big Mike, coach of the Skyline Gas team that had finished second to us the year before. Big Mike and I were close buddies, as well as friendly rivals. He knew all my tricks and I knew his. If anyone was going to spot something it would be him! I waited, heart thumping, until the first round came to me. None of the boys I wanted had been drafted! There was no sign my plans had been detected. Now - who to draft first! Kelly, Slick or Dink? I chose Dink, using his real name, Robert. It was a risk. Making my first pick a boy the others had probably rated as hopelessly bad was a dead giveaway that I had hidden a good player in the tryouts. When I announced Dink's name, Big Mike next to me smiled and gave me a look. He knew - and so might several others! Glancing around, I saw eyes going over lists. I was certain the thoughts were, "If he hid one good player, there may be a few more!" Heart pounding, I sweated through two more rounds, drafting Slick next and then Kelly. My deceptions had worked! After my choice of Kelly in the third round, Big Mike leaned close and whispered, "You bastard. What are you up to?" "Just picking at random, like always," I whispered back innocently. Eyes twinkling, Mike stifled a laugh and mouthed, "Bullshit!" There was one more round and I selected a boy named Ike, a kid whose nickname was `Tiny'. He was husky enough to be used as a catcher and with proper instruction I hoped to improve his hitting. At the end of that fourth round, two names remained on the master list - two boys no one had wanted. "You guys finished first and second," the League President said, looking down the table at Mike and me. "You gotta take 'em." "It'll give me thirteen players," Mike grumbled. Teams in our league normally had twelve players. No coach wanted more than that if he could help it, because of the way it complicated the already difficult substitution problem. But the old man at the head of the table just shook his head. "That's the price you pay for having such a good season last year. Which one do you want?" Mike consulted his various notes, made another grumbling noise, and then called out a name. "The other one's yours," the League President told me. It was a boy named Evan, a small timid kid with the nickname `Mouse'. I shrugged and added the name to my roster, not really minding. My teams finished high nearly every year, so I always got stuck with thirteen players. That was nothing new. Plus, I happened to know that Mouse's mother was a tireless organizer, a natural for the job of "Team Mother". She would be an asset, even if her son wasn't. I hustled around that evening, making my calls on the new additions to my team. Other coaches used the telephone, but I liked to do it in person, presenting each boy with a team cap he could wear proudly to school and his special practice shirt. My friend, the young woman who had the local T-shirt shop, had already made up a new batch for me - the "muscle shirts" that the boys liked, silk screened with our team logo. "Take it down to the shop," I told each of my new draftees, "and they'll put your name on the back, along with whatever number you want." My showing up in person, team hat and practice shirt in hand, always produced excited reactions and big smiles. Wheels and Peewee already knew they had been assigned to my team, but their eyes lit up anyway when they saw me at the door with their stuff. Kelly and Slick, my ex-lacrosse players, greeted me with grins and high-fives. Our plan had worked, and both were eager to start the season. Tiny, the husky kid I had drafted in the final round, tried his new shirt on with an air of quiet satisfaction while I had a cup of coffee with his father, a local mining company executive. But nothing equaled the reaction I got from my smallest new player, Mouse. Even before I climbed the steps to his front porch, I could hear a high young voice inside shouting excitedly, "Mom, it's Coach! I'm on the best team! I got drafted by the best team! Mom, Coach's here! Come quick!" His mother opened the door for me when I rang the bell, inviting me into the hallway beyond, while her son hid shyly behind her. He was a slight towheaded kid with a face that was all eyes big as saucers and a happy smile. Those eyes lit right up when I placed a team cap on his head and presented him with his shirt. He scampered away to try it on. "I'm Evan's mother." The slender young woman shook hands with me. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a rather severe short haircut. "I hope this is the right thing to do," she told me. "He's been after me and after me to sign him up. I just don't want him getting hurt." I suppressed my natural impulse to respond with something politically incorrect like, "I'm sure he'll be okay. Only one or two boys get killed playing baseball each year." Instead I gave her the standard bromides I used for these sorts of mothers: "Baseball's a wonderfully safe sport... No contact... The best possible equipment... Trained coaches... League dedicated to fun and safe play..." And so on and so forth. Tactfully, I refrained from asking where Evan's father was. Glancing around, I saw absolutely no evidence of masculine presence in the house. One sees more and more of this sort of thing nowadays. So-called "Single Mothers" (I have a different name for them), boy at their side, produced apparently by something akin to Immaculate Conception. It makes the entire origin of Christianity seem that much more plausible to me. With this modern young woman's safety issues out of the way, at least temporarily, I steered the conversation to our team's various administrative needs: duty roster of parents to man the snack stand at games, reliable scorekeepers, e-mail and phone networks, organization of team parties, altering or repairing players' uniforms, carpools... All the dull but necessary work that creates a successful season. As I talked, Carol took notes (as I said, a thorough organizer!), nodding from time to time. "If you and some of the other mothers could coordinate this..." I suggested hopefully. "Of course, Coach. Do you have a roster with phone numbers?" As I handed her one, Evan appeared, resplendent in new cap and practice shirt, looking very cute with his tummy and bellybutton showing. "Oh, you can't wear that!" his mother told him, frowning in disapproval. The boy's face fell, but I winked at him - and while she was gone for a few moments fetching another piece of paper for notes, I leaned over, to whisper, "Stuff that shirt in your book bag. You can change at practice. That's what the other kids do." The youngster grinned at me, we exchanged a palm slide, and that was that. Driving away from the house afterwards I was feeling cocky. Ruth, my reliable team mother for two years, would be moving up to the next level with Cody. I knew that for certain. Cody got the lion's share of attention in that family, with Casey following almost unnoticed behind. I had been worrying about replacing her. Now that problem was solved. This left Dink as the only boy remaining on my list, but him I intended to notify by phone. Like Casey, the boy lived miles out of town in a remote area with dirt roads, where I was sure to get lost in the dark. I called from my apartment, and after nearly twenty rings someone picked up. "Yeah?" There was loud music playing in the background that I could not identify. Speaking loudly I said, "Can I talk to Robert please?" "Who?" "Robert," I repeated, shouting it. Then, when there was no response, I tried again. "Dink. Let me talk to Dink!" There was a delay while whoever had answered put the phone down. For a while I was left with just the loud sounds of what I now thought was a heavy metal band blaring at high volume; then a boy's voice was in my ear saying, "Hello?" "Dink?" "Yeah." I started to explain who I was, but the boy interrupted before I could get more than a few words out. "Are you Casey's coach?" "Yes." "Am I on your team?" "Yes, I draft..." "Cool! We got practice Monday, right?" "Yes. You..." I was going to give him the times and ask if he knew where the practice field was. But in an excited voice Dink interrupted again with, "Okay, I'll be there!" And hung up. I was left holding my phone, staring at it, wondering if Casey hadn't talked me into doing something I was going to regret. But on Monday, Dink was there along with all our other new team members. He arrived with Casey in an old Land Rover driven by Lance. All three came hurrying over to me and after shaking hands with Lance I presented Dink with his team cap and practice shirt. Casey was already wearing his. In tight blue jeans and the new practice shirt I had given him the week before, I thought he looked great. But when Dink stripped, revealing a solid well-defined athletic build, and then put on the muscle shirt and cap, he made an enticing sight as well. He stood there smiling up at me, black curls shining in the afternoon sunlight. He was a head shorter than Casey, but proud and confident, his sturdy compact form set in contrast with Casey's lithe whipcord body. Standing together like that, the two boys made a stunning visual composition, and while I stared in appreciation, it was apparent that Lance was taking in the sight as well. I felt a tingle of excitement. "So, what do you like to be called?" I asked my new ballplayer, thinking that perhaps 'Dink' was not something he favored. "Your real name's 'Robert', isn't it?" Dink made a face. "Yeah, I don't like it. An' I don't like my Indian name either." This caught me by surprise. "An Indian name?" "Our mother's part Sioux," Lance explained. "She gave us both Indian names. Mine's 'Raven' and Dink's..." "Thrush," the younger boy told me, making another face. "It sucks. Lance got the good one. You can call me Dink." He looked up at me with a sly grin. "It's short for 'Dinky.' But I ain't." Both Lance and Casey burst into laughter. I was not to find out until months later what that was all about. [ To Be Continued In Parts C through I ] *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Hope you enjoyed it! This baseball series has a 'long' short story for every position. Look for a new chapter or two each month. Thanks for taking the time to read my story and if you'd like to comment, my e-mail address is: hunterjoe45@yahoo.com I will try to answer all serious mailings. My on-line access is very limited. Rants and ravings will not get consideration. 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