Date: Fri, 10 Jun 2011 10:07:17 -0700 (PDT)
From: Joe Hunter <hunterjoe45@yahoo.com>
Subject: Baseball Diamond Tails - 1A

All the usual disclaimers apply:

+This story is a work of fiction.  If you think it is real, you have a very
active imagination.

+Do not read this story if you live in an area where it is illegal to do
so.

+Scenes of sexual activity between an adult male and a young boy are
represented.  Do not read further if this offends you.

+Please do not imitate the actions portrayed herein - the author cannot
accept responsibility for any actions promoted by this story.


If you would like to get in touch, please e-mail me at:

			hunterjoe45@yahoo.com

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

____________________________


BASEBALL DIAMOND TAILS - 1A
(copyright 2011, Joe Hunter)

Baseball - the great American Game, the national pastime...  As much myth
and legend as it is sport...  All over the country, every summer, the kids
come on bikes or get dropped off by a parent for team practice, for games
and to receive traditions handed down from coach to player.  Their
experiences are the heart of baseball.

Not all the drama and great plays are in the major leagues.  Some OF the
most exciting are done by young boys on ragged diamonds with only a handful
of spectators to witness.  Their exploits go unrecorded, yet I want to
believe that the diamonds themselves remember - the small fields and
sandlots.  What stories they could tell if only we knew how to listen!
They might speak of a little second baseman's courage taking a hot grounder
to the face and still making the play, or the fear a young boy must
overcome to stand in against fast pitching with the game on the line...
The eternal challenge of performance and competition...

I coach on the new field now; shiny aluminum stands, lights for night
games, spacious dugouts and grass kept green by a modern sprinkler system -
all the little extras.  I'm not complaining.  But on occasion, in the long
summer twilight when fireflies are dancing, I wander down to the old
baseball diamond and sit on a crumbling wooden bleacher staring out at the
pitcher's mound, the overgrown infield...  Listening for the memories...
Waiting for the voices I once knew so well to come to me again out of the
darkness...


:::::::::::::::::: Pitcher: Part A ::::::::::::::::::

Billy was a quiet boy.  His teachers called him passive, but what did they
know?  They never knew him as I knew him.  They never plumbed his depths
and fathomed his secrets.  Only I did that.

Billy was a pitcher.  There has never been a pitcher who was passive.  Calm
and contained, yes - but not passive.  And Billy was a left-handed pitcher.
Lefties are common in the major leagues, sought after and intensively
recruited, but in youth baseball they are as rare as perfect jade.  The
good ones are the gods of the small diamond; secure in their uniqueness -
confident in their power.

Billy was quiet; calm and very contained.  In adults such virtues are
developed through years of discipline and practice, but boys of twelve
going on thirteen must be born with it.  Billy's calm self-possession was
in his nature.

He had emotions (I found them all), but they ran deep, deep under the
surface.  He smiled with his eyes and only the barest twitch of his mouth.
If unhappy, the only hint might be a slight weariness in the face.  His
passions, and he had them, were never on view.  If he got a hit, he
celebrated with nothing more than a shadowy smile.  If he struck out, he
never pouted.

Physically he was an attractive boy; not pretty or handsome, but striking
enough to rate a second look.  He was slightly above average height; just
enough so you noticed.  His body was slender, with long supple muscles and
a rounded butt; more like a dancer or a swimmer than a ball player.  He had
that hint of coltishness boys his age get when their legs grow a bit faster
than their upper bodies.

Straight black hair fell across his forehead.  His eyes were large and
dark, giving him a gentle, innocent expression.  His skin was glassy
smooth, completely hairless, and you could tell by its look that he tanned
easily.  When he walked, he had the distinctive athlete's grace.

Among classmates and teammates Billy was always in the group, but not of
it; neither cool nor aloof, just slightly apart.  He was never boisterous
or demonstrative.  Whenever I saw him with other boys he was the calm
observer, detached but interested.  None of his teammates ever resented
this or commented on it.  They accepted him exactly as he was.  He was
liked by everyone.

Without any doubt Billy was competitive.  No ballplayer at any level can be
successful without that vital spark.  But Billy's competitiveness, like his
other emotions, lay hidden beneath the surface; only revealed in subtle
ways.  Billy was never noisy, aggressive or mean.  Instead there was a calm
determination to finish what had been started; a refusal ever to back away
or admit defeat.

He would be going along in a game and hit a bad streak; giving up hits or
walking several batters.  Coaches always feel they have to do something
when these little crises occur and I would trot out to the mound where
Billy would greet me politely, looking completely unperturbed.

"You ok, Billy Bee?" I would ask.  "The shoulder's not hurting, is it?"

"I'm ok."  Utter calm.

"You don't need to come out, do you?  I mean, you can get these guys,
right?"

A flash in his eyes as they met mine.  "I can get them."

"Ok."

I would give him a pat on the shoulder and trot back to the dugout,
wondering if at some level Billy was convinced his coach was an idiot for
coming all the way out to the mound to ask such dumb questions.  But if he
ever thought that, he never said so, and I now know, in fact, he had great
affection for me.

At first, Billy was so quiet he had me doubting my ability to coach him.
He never seemed to react to anything I did or said.  All coaches have a
grab bag of tricks they use to motivate athletes and keep their interest
high.  I tried all of mine.  I gave him a pet nickname - something I do
with all my kids so they feel important and cared about.  Billy appeared
not to notice.  I gave him little pats and words of praise.  Nothing.  I
tried jokes. No good.  Extra attention.  No change.

In my initial frustration I blamed him.  Like his teachers, I made the
mistake of thinking him passive and uninterested.  But I was smart enough,
and honest enough, to see that was wrong.  A boy does not keep coming to
practice if he is uninterested.  Then I doubted myself.  I seriously
considered switching Billy to another team where there might be a coach he
liked better.  Luckily, I was never stupid enough to do that.  As I was to
find out, Billy liked me just fine and it would have hurt him if I had
moved him to another team.

In the end, partly by luck, partly by persistent observation, I discovered
Billy's secret language and it dawned on me that most of the time he did
not communicate with words.  Later, in private, I found him articulate
enough when he was with someone he trusted, but in public all his talking
was done with eyes and body.  For Billy, just the way he tilted his head,
cocked an eyebrow or twitched his lip was like a paragraph of words.  Even
the way he stood could send messages.  He was like an animal in this.  He
communicated the way a dog or a cat can talk to humans it knows well.

In certain ways Billy reminded me of a cat.  Certainly not a dog because
dogs are too demonstrative, craving too much attention and Billy was never
like that.  And yet the cat thing was not quite right either.  Cats are
aloof and independent.  Billy was warmer than that.  He was somewhere in
between, but more cat-like than anything else.

Once I made this discovery my coaching problems evaporated because they had
never existed in the first place.  I found that, through no particular
talent of mine, I had been doing a good job.  From the first Billy had
liked me, had been enjoying my company and had been listening attentively
to everything I had told him.  He had even been practicing my instructions
at home.  This is such a rare thing in youth sports that if a coach finds
one little athlete that does it in a lifetime he is lucky.

Coaching Billy became a pleasure.  Like all quiet people he was an
attentive listener, so I rarely had to tell him anything twice.  As I
became adept at his language we could communicate secretly between
ourselves in the midst of the noisy practices, sharing private jokes.

And then, too, he was talented.  That always helps.  From the start he
could pitch.  I added something, too.  A good coach can always add
something, but the natural ability was there.  He was not great - there
would probably always be a few better - but he was pretty good.

The season went on and he was always around me.  Not in any obvious way,
but always somewhere nearby - like a cat in that as well.  When I was
talking to a group of boys, he would be just out of sight behind me or to
the side.  If I were showing some kid how to hit, he would be one of the
boys behind the backstop.  After practice, when I picked up the equipment,
he would be helping.  He never volunteered or said anything.  He would just
be there.

During games, he was always near me in the dugout; never sitting next to
me, but never farther than one or two boys away.

It got to the point where the only time I could be absolutely sure I would
not bump into him if I suddenly stepped back, was when he had a definite
position in a drill in front of me.

I discovered, too, that he liked to be touched.  This is a very individual
thing with boys, some do, some don't and some like to be touched in private
but not in public.  Billy was one of those who liked contact.  He never
sought it in any obvious way, but he would find subtle means to set himself
up for it.  He liked a hand on his shoulder, a quick hug, a pat on the back
or the butt - the little physical rewards of praise and affection.  For
certain boys these are more important than words.

And Billy liked the words, too.  He enjoyed being praised - not unusual, as
all kids are like that.  For any coach at youth level, constant
unconditional praise is far more effective than criticism.  I made sure
Billy got his share.

We had a good season and Billy did well.  He made the All-Star team as a
reserve pitcher - very good for his first time in the age division.  Since
I was not asked to help with All-Stars that year I lost sight of him until
the following spring when he had just turned thirteen.

I always got my pitchers together early in the spring, before the regular
season draft, and we practiced pitching in my garage using a canvas
backstop.  I found it helped young arms to get conditioned early, and the
special, pre-season meetings built team spirit as well.

I had five pitchers working with me that spring, three from my team and two
of their friends who were on other teams.  I never restricted the practices
to just my own team.  Any boy who wanted to improve his skills was welcome.
Billy was one of the five and we worked for about an hour the first day.
When we were done the boys helped pick things up for a few minutes and
then, one by one, they drifted off - all except Billy.  The two of us
picked up the last baseballs and put the net away.  Then he came over to
stand close beside me.  He seemed in no hurry to leave.

"Lookin' good today, Billy," I told him.  "More velocity than last year."

He nodded, and I could tell he was pleased.

I put my hand on his left shoulder and stroked it gently.  He was wearing a
loose T-shirt of some silky material that slipped across his smooth skin.
Beneath my cupped palm the boy's shoulder was firm and rounded.

He leaned back against me and I let my fingers trace his collarbones and
slip across his chest.  My right hand slid inside the loose neck of the
shirt to caress his bare shoulder.  Billy's skin was satin smooth, even
smoother than the silky material of his shirt.  It felt warm and glossy
under my hand.

I reached down to lift the waist of the shirt, but Billy drew up a hand to
stop me so I went back to stroking his shoulders and he relaxed, leaning
back on me, his eyes closed.

After a while I asked, "Does that shoulder hurt at all, Billy Bee?"

He gave a slight nod.

"Why don't you come in and I'll rub it for you?"

He nodded again and followed me into the house where, as soon as we came
into the living room, I saw his eyes go to the video game set up on the TV.

"Want to play while I rub your shoulders?" I asked.

We got down on the rug and he settled back against me, starting the game
while I moved my hands over his silky shirt.  The slick material slid on
the boy's skin as my palms cupped the little mounds of his shoulders,
caressed his delicate collarbones and brushed over the smooth muscles of
his chest, rubbing and massaging.  Growing bolder, I passed a hand in under
the open neck of his shirt and stroked warm, satiny bare skin.

Billy finished the game and slipped down onto the rug, lying on his back
with his eyes closed and arms up over his head.  I straddled him and gently
began stroking his upper body through the shirt, my hands sliding down over
the firm muscles of his belly and then back up the delicate rib cage to his
chest where I traced his nipples through the shinny cloth.  With each pass
my hand went through the open neck of the shirt caressing the velvety
smoothness of shoulder and armpit.

When I rolled Billy over he stretched out on his stomach with his head
turned to one side and arms over his head like a diver.  I stroked his
shoulders and slid my hands down his back tracing the tiny ridges of his
backbone to where they dove beneath the waist of the jeans stretched tight
over a firm, jutting butt.  Then I slid them across his lower back and up
his sides to return to the rounded shoulders pressed up against his neck by
his upraised arms.

Each time my hands completed this slow passage I passed one in under the
loose neck of his shirt and stroked the velvety skin over the boy's
shoulder blades.  Then I would slide my palm all the way down his naked arm
to his elbow before beginning again.

Billy stretched in contentment as I did this until at last I turned him
onto his back once more and tickled under his arms.  He laughed and held my
hands.

"How's the shoulder now?"  I asked.  "Okay?"

He nodded.

"Want to play your video game some more?"

Another nod.

I got a Coke for him and watched him play for a while.  When he finished he
leaned back against me wanting to be stroked some more, and then it was
time for him to go home.  "We're going to have a great season this year," I
assured the boy, giving him a pat on the butt as we went to the door, and
to my surprise he turned to give me a quick hug before leaving.

The following day we had no practice scheduled, but shortly after I got
home there was a knock at my door.  It was Billy.  I let him in.  When he
took off his coat I saw he had on a shirt even bigger and looser than the
one from the day before.  This one was cotton, tie-died in a wild, colorful
starburst.

"Wow, some shirt!"  I said admiring it.

Shyly, the boy looked down.  "It's...  I made it myself."  He pushed a
spill of his black hair off his forehead.  "It was like...  A scout
project."

The combination of tight jeans and the loose, billowing shirt set off
Billy's slender, lithe body.  The neck of the shirt was so large it fell
off one shoulder.

I smilled at him.  "It looks great.  You want to play some more of that
video game?"

Billy gave me a little nod.  "Uh huh."

I parked him in front of the TV, got the game started and brought him a
Coke.  Billy played for a short time, sipped his drink and then announced
in that calm way he had, "My shoulder aches a little today."

I moved behind him and he leaned against me.  Slowly and gently I began to
rub his shoulders, one hand stroking through fabric, the other caressing
the bare skin revealed by the loose open neck of his shirt.  Gradually my
hands went further, sliding across his smooth chest, brushing his tiny
nipples.  As I gently massaged, I slipped the neck of his shirt slowly back
and forth so that first one, then the other shoulder was bared.

The boy took his hands off the video controller and relaxed against me,
eyes closed and lips slightly parted as if he were asleep.  The video game,
unattended, died on the screen.

The cotton fabric of the shirt lacked the silky texture of the one he had
worn the day before.  But it was much thinner, giving the feel of velvet
smooth flesh through the cloth almost as if the boy were naked.  I cupped
the rounded shoulders, caressed the hollows of his neck and stroked across
the swell of young muscle in the chest.  Then I plunged one hand deeply
under the shirt exploring the jut of ribs and the satiny skin of belly.

Billy squirmed around slowly and, without opening his eyes, draped himself
across my knees, dragging his arms over his body before stretching them
back behind his head so that, as if by accident, the edge of his shirt was
pulled up halfway.  Gently I caressed the smooth, firmly muscled sheath of
his stomach, letting my fingertips press into the belly button.  Then with
both hands I stroked his sides, sliding the thin shirt up further, exposing
his chest.

There was a bulge under he fly of Billy's jeans and as I slid my hands down
his sides again he shifted position slightly on my lap.  I felt his
buttocks tighten and the bulge in his jeans lifted.  Over and over I
circled my hands on his sides and chest, brushing across the tiny points of
his nipples, feeling them harden.  Then I caressed his belly where the skin
was smooth and thin as watered silk, stretched over taut muscle.  Billy
tightened his butt once more and I watched the bulge swell.  We fell into a
rhythm, my hands moving while the boy squeezed, relaxed, and squeezed
again.  The bulge under his fly rose and fell.

At last I gave him a little nudge and Billy turned over, keeping his arms
extended and turning his head to one side.  The loose shirt was up around
his shoulders revealing the smooth perfection of his back that tapered
gracefully to a narrow waist and rhen disappeared under the edge of the
jeans.

As I caressed the glossy skin I let my arms brush the firm, bulging mounds
of his butt and Billy responded with slight, answering squeezes.  Using a
circling motion I massaged back and shoulders, reveling in the boy's
incredible smoothness, rubbing and pressing my arms against his butt and
feeling the rounded firmness contract when Billy tightened it.

At last I pulled the shirt back down and turned the boy so that he faced me
on his side.  Billy kept his eyes closed and remained limp, as if playing
dead.  I put my hand under his shirt and let the back of it rub gently
across his belly.

"Shoulder feel better now?"

He nodded without opening his eyes.

"Shall I do more?"

There was another nod.

Very slowly I slid the shirt back up, exposing his left side, from narrow
waist to beyond the armpit.  The folds of the shirt nearly covered his
head.

Gently I stroked up and down, and each time my hand slid into the deep
curve of Billy's waist I let my fingers drift beneath the edge of his
jeans, pushing on his tight briefs.  Then, stroking back up, my fingers
touched each little rib, glided across the incredibly delicate skin of his
armpit and out onto the firm muscles of his arm.  Again and again I
caressed the boy and every time my fingers pushed under his jeans I felt
him squeeze to tighten his butt.

I rolled Billy over to do his other side the same way and he shifted
slightly, positioning his hips to open a large gap under the waistband of
his jeans.  My hand slid deep beneath the cloth, rubbing hip and lower
belly through the thin cotton underwear while Billy squeezed his butt,
lifting the bulge in his pants.

Finally I rolled him over so that he faced me on his right side again,
picked him up and held him against me.  He kept his eyes closed and let his
arms flop loosely around my sides.

"Shoulder feel good?"  I asked.

He nodded.

"Want me to stop?"

He shook his head.

"It's getting late."

He shrugged.

I tickled him and he laughed and held my hands.

I got up, put ice in his unfinished Coke to cool it down and let him play a
few more rounds of the video game while he leaned back to be stroked.

"Comin' to practice Monday?" I asked when it was time for him to go.

Billy nodded, looking up at me.

"You can come over any other time, too," I assured him and he nodded again.

I did not see Billy over the weekend, but four boys, Billy included, came
for practice on Monday and it was a good session.  They had learned all the
drills, and their arms were beginning to get into shape.  Billy wore his
usual Wranglers along with a loose, white football jersey made of slippery
satin.  I liked the look of it, but the cloth was thick and the neck was
not very loose.

We worked on changeups for a while and then finished with some fastballs.
The hour went by quickly and at the end I showed Billy a new grip I wanted
him to try.

"Get used to this and you'll start seeing some movement as your arm gets
stronger."

The other boys waved and took off, but Billy remained to throw a few more.
We fired some pitches with the new grip and then we cleaned up, putting the
net away.

"I'm better this year," Billy told me in the quiet way he had.  It was the
first time he had spoken that afternoon.

"Bet on it," I assured him.  "It's because you're stronger.  I can see and
feel the difference in your body."

"I threw hard today," he said after a pause.

He seemed a little tense as he waited for my answer - or perhaps I imagined
it.

"Shoulder ache a little?"  I asked.

He nodded.

"Come on," I told him.  I took him inside.  I had an old bed in the living
room with a soft, cotton quilt thrown over it to make it usable as a sofa.
I sat down on it with Billy settled on my lap and began gently massaging
his slender shoulders.

Suddenly he leaned forward, took off both Nikes, removed his socks and then
leaned back against me once more.  I stroked my hands over the mounds of
his shoulders and down across his chest.  Billy closed his eyes.

"I ran a lot this weekend," he told me softly.

I kept stroking rhythmically.  "Running is good for your wind."

After a short pause he whispered, "My legs kind of ache today."

"We'll take care of that," I answered and felt him squirm as he squeezed
his butt.

I stroked across his chest with my hands a few more times.  The satin
fabric of the jersey was too thick to feel his skin so I reached down and
lifted the edge, slipping my hand beneath to rub his bare belly.  After I
had stroked a few times Billy pulled the jersey up above his waist.  Then
he turned and brought his legs and bare feet up onto the bed so he could
stretch out over my knees with his eyes closed and arms over his head.  He
left the jersey pulled up, exposing his lean belly.  My eyes followed the
line of his body to where his lean waist and belly slid under the edge of
his jeans.  There was a bulge beneath his fly.

With my left hand resting on his bare stomach I used my right to massage
the firm muscles of Billy's thigh through the thick denim of his jeans.  I
felt the leg tense briefly as I stroked it and then I moved to the other
one, letting my hand drift across his fly as I did so.  The bulge there
twitched under my palm.  Kneading and stroking I switched back and forth
between legs, finding a way to press against Billy's groin each time - and
each time the boy's hips lifted as he squeezed to press his bulge against
my palm.

Very slowly I slid my left hand down the silken skin of his flank.  Billy
sucked in his gut and my fingertips pushed under the edge of his jeans to
rest on the thin cotton briefs stretched over his lower belly.  The muscles
fluttered under my fingertips and he squeezed hard again, lifting to push
up against the palm I held on his fly.

Sliding my right hand down over his thighs I stroked and rubbed each of the
boy's knees.  The denim was thick but I could make out the outlines of the
fragile bones in the joint.  Gently I removed my left hand from under his
pants and with both hands pushed the heavy denim cloth on his left leg up
as far as I could over his calf.  Then I pressed and stroked the firm
muscle.  Billy's lower leg was as firm and smooth as his arms and
shoulders, the graceful swell of calf rounded like sculpture.  I pushed the
cloth of his right pant leg up and massaged there with both hands as well.

After some time I pulled the boy's pant legs back down and then placed both
hands on his bare waist, caressing it.  Slowly and gently, I slid my palms
up his sides pushing the satin jersey up over his shoulders and Billy
lifted his body slightly to allow the cloth to slide up off his back.  As
he lifted, the muscles of his stomach tensed into firm definition.

On his bare chest, the boy's tiny nipples were hard and he shifted slightly
as my fingertips brushed over them. I slid my hands back down to his waist
and whispered, "Stretch out as far as you can, Billy."  The boy extended
his arms, pulling his head back to arch his body.

"Point your toes," I whispered to him and saw the denim over his thighs
tighten as he extended his legs.

I rubbed the taut fabric, feeling the swell of muscle through the cloth.
Then, as my hands stroked upward, I put my thumbs over the bulge of his
fly.  "Squeeze hard," I whispered, and Billy tightened his butt making the
hard mass beneath my thumbs swell upward.

"Relax," I said softly.

My hands swept upward onto the smooth, bare skin of his upper body,
caressing and stroking the velvety satin of flanks and chest.

Over and over, I repeated the passage of my hands across the boy's
stretched form, and each time, as I pressed on the bulge in his fly, Billy
squeezed to harden it.  My palms moved in a hypnotic rhythm and when I
circled them back around his side Billy turned, facing me so I could
massage his butt through his tight jeans.

After a while I slid my hand back around the boy's hip to his stomach and
letting my fingers glide under the waistband of his pants I whispered,
"Suck in your gut as much as you can."

Billy stretched and pulled in his stomach.  The fingertips of my left hand
flicked under the elastic of his briefs and I let the backs of them rest on
the silken skin of his lower belly.  My right hand stroked up from his
knee, onto the back of his leg to cup his butt.  I felt him squeeze it
under my hand and the fingertips I had under his briefs felt the stretched
cotton cloth move.

Gently I massaged his butt, running my hand over the denim covering the
back of his leg.  Then I caressed him again from knee to shoulder before
turning him to the other side.  This time he did not wait to be told but
pulled his stomach in the moment I put my fingers there so I could push
them inside his briefs and brush the silky warmth of his lower belly while
he shifted against ne in contentment.

When I put him on his stomach and massaged the graceful taper of his back,
working down onto his jeans and the firm mounds of butt, I changed the
rhythm of my stroking so that, as my hands slid into the hollow of his
back, one would slide under the denim waistband to caress the base of his
spine.  Billy tensed his butt slightly each time I did this and then
squeezed again when I cupped the mounded cheeks.

I rolled the boy to face me once more, picked him up and held him.  He
draped his arms loosely around me and rested his head on my chest.

"Shoulder better?"  I asked.

He nodded.

"Legs too?"

He nodded again.

"Shall we stop?"  He shook his head.

"More?"  He nodded.

For another half hour I stroked and caressed him while he kept his eyes
closed, stretching in contentment, and even then he did not want to stop.
I had to make him go home.

We had one more pitching session that week and Billy stayed with me
afterwards that time, too...

[ To Be Continued In Parts B,C and D ]

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

Hope you enjoyed it!  This baseball series has a 'long' short story for
every position.  Look for a new chapter or two each month.

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

			hunterjoe45@yahoo.com

I will try to answer all serious mailings.  My on-line access is very
limited.  Rants and ravings will not get consideration.

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You can find links to all my other stories on Nifty under my name, Joe
Hunter, listed under the J's (for Joe) in the prolific authors list.  I
hope you will read and enjoy!

All the Best.  Joe