Date: Tue, 30 Apr 2013 13:19:10 -0700 (PDT)
From: Joe Hunter <hunterjoe45@yahoo.com>
Subject: Baseball Diamond Tails - 8I

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 - 8I
(copyright 2013, Joe Hunter)

::::::::::::::::::::::
 Center Field: Part I
     (Conclusion)
::::::::::::::::::::::

At Monday's practice, as soon as Casey's mom dropped him off, I made sure
we were hooked up for Saturday.

"Just two more weeks to the playoffs," I told him, giving his shoulders a
hug.  "We'll get in a little more time at the batting cage after the game,
and then we can..."

With a sly smile, Casey nodded.  After a glance around to be sure no one
was looking, he groped my crotch, squeezing the hard lump he found there.

We had a great practice that day.  The boys from the fishing trip recounted
their adventures, our whole team was excited about the upcoming games, and
Dink in particular summed up the mood when he remarked, "Everyone thought
we was gonna suck this year.  But we can win the Championship!"

His older brother Lance was helpful, as always, and the practice ended with
a lightning round of batting drills that had the boys all fired up.  I
should have been pleased, but as I watched Casey and Dink climb into
Lance's old Land Rover for their drive home, all I could think of was that
if I were giving Casey rides home, he and I would be staying late for fun
and games in my SUV.

"Maybe that old heap will break down," I muttered to myself as the battered
Land Rover headed down the service road.  It was an unworthy thought, but I
definitely had it.

I counted the days that week to Saturday.  Because we were nearing the end
of the regular season, heading for the playoffs, I tried to make every
practice different and entertaining by introducing new drills and holding
surprise mock scrimmages with lots of sandlot action.  Every day's session
ended with some contest: Home Run Derby, Base Running Relay, Wiffle Ball
Madness, Strike Out the Coach... There was always something where I could
award prizes like candy bars, arcade tokens, or Dairy Queen
coupons--usually arranging things so the kids who had missed the fishing
trip got the awards.  Casey won a big DQ sunday when he hit the longest
ball in Home Run Derby, and Dink left practice on Wednesday evening glowing
with pride when he won a pitching contest against all the other 11-year-old
rookies.

Thursday night we had a game against South Hardware, a team we had beaten
easily at the beginning of the season; but since then they, like us, had
improved.  We were saving Bryce and JJ, our two best pitchers, for the
Saturday game, so I started Cowboy on the mound with Kelly, Slick, and
Wheels in reserve should they be needed.  As it turned out, they were.
South Hardware gave us a tough battle, plus, as happens sometimes, our bats
went cold and the hits we needed proved hard to get.  We came to bat at the
top of the fourth inning down by a run.  Lance exchanged a worried look
with me before going into the dugout to get the lineup organized.

Our first batter was Casey.  I whispered, "Get one for me, Tiger!" before
sending him to the plate with a pat on his perfect butt.  My rangy
centerfielder was a stunning sight that evening under the lights.  I knew
he was wearing the thong because his tight baseball pants might have been
painted on, all the perfection of his hips and thighs revealed without a
sign of anything underneath.  In the hot humid night air my boy's equally
snug uniform shirt was plastered to his body like a second skin.  He stood
at the plate in all his young defined beauty, just as though he were posing
for my camera.  I had to bend over, crouching a little in my coaching box
at third base to hide the sudden hardness that bulged in my shorts.

The South Hardware pitcher was erratic, which had thrown off the timing of
our batters and was probably the reason for our poor hitting.  Only a few
of our boys made good contact that night.  Casey was one of them.  He let a
few balls that were out of the strike zone go by.  Then a pitch finally
sailed in over the plate.  He turned on it.

It was a classic swing, a perfect beautiful swing; a swing that momentarily
brought every muscle of Casey's wrestler hard body into relief.  There was
a loud, "TANG!"  Aluminum striking horsehide!  As Casey held his pose,
twisted around in a finishing stance, the baseball arced out into the
night, visible for a moment in the lights... and then gone.

"Oh..." I whispered, my eyes following it.  And I wasn't the only one.
There was a sort of collective gasp from the spectators.  Then they came to
their feet, clapping, cheering, whistling, even stomping on the aluminum
bleachers.

Of course it was a home run.  Everyone knew the ball was gone at the sound
of Casey's bat hitting it.  My lovely centerfielder rounded the bases in an
easy lope, giving me a happy smile when we slapped palms as he went past
third.  Our team, led by Bryce, was at home plate to greet him and provide
escort to the dugout.  With the score tied, our boys appeared to regain
their confidence and we got another run in the fifth inning to take the
lead.  But South Hardware was still full of fight.  They were the home team
that night and they came to bat in the bottom of the sixth and final inning
just as determined to win as we were.  Left-handed Kelly had worked part of
the fourth and all of the fifth inning, so I put Slick on the mound for a
fresh arm and told him to pour on the gas.

Responding with a grim nod, my 11-year-old righty went to work.  Just as he
had been coached to do, he threw nothing tricky, only hard consistent
strikes letting the natural action he put on the ball do the work.  Now and
then he mixed in the changeup that we had taught him.  It was as nice a job
as I could have wanted.  There were no walks, and Slick even got one kid to
strike out.  But South Hardware was fired up that night.  Every one of
their batters was coming to the plate ready to swing, ready to make
contact, ready to take his chances!  A blistering ground ball ate up Cowboy
at third, putting a South Hardware runner on base.  Then, another
ground-hugging missile shot past Wheels at second.  Casey was behind him,
backing up, so there was no big advance by the runners, but South Hardware
now had boys on first and second with their big hitters due up and only one
out.

Slick glanced over to where I was crouched by the end of the dugout and I
nodded to him.  He was a tough kid and I had confidence he could handle the
situation.  With a nod back to me, he looked in at Tiny behind the plate,
wound up, and fired another nice fastball.  Stevie, the South Hardware
batter, a kid I knew well from football, took a big cut at it, got a piece,
and sent a bouncer to first.  Bo was playing there.  He back-stepped,
snagged it... and then nearly dropped it!  Somehow he still managed to get
over to the bag before Stevie's foot touched.  The other two runners
advanced to second and third, but now there were two outs.

I stood up, clapping to get Bo's attention, and grinned at him, giving the
boy a little fist pump.  He smiled back.  Bo would never be an All-Star,
but he was a nice kid, very reliable, and a hard worker in practice.  It
always gave me a good feeling to see him make a play.

Next up for South Hardware was a tall rangy kid, whose real name was
Anthony, but for reasons I never learned he had been nicknamed Billy Dee.
He was a 12-year-old I would've been glad to have on our team.  As he
stepped into the batter's box Slick glanced over at me again.

"Rock and fire!" I yelled out to him, clapping my hands.  "Give him the
good stuff!"

This was our code, telling the pitcher to use more changeups.  Slick nodded
back to me.

Well, I thought, here we go.  Roll the dice!  A good 11-year-old pitcher
against a good 12-year-old batter.  Anything could happen!

Slick's first offering to Billy Dee was a changeup, but it missed for a
ball.  The next pitch was Slick's heater.  It whizzed in and Billy turned
on it.

"WANG!"

It was a good hit, a low fly ball out toward the gap between center and
left.  "Uh-oh!" I muttered.  "That's the ballgame!"

But racing toward the ball, charging to his right in a blur of speed, was
Casey!  One moment it seemed impossible that he would get there in time--
Then his graceful form was stretched out parallel to the ground, as if
magically suspended in the field lights.  Boy and ball reached the same
spot simultaneously.  Casey slid across the grass like an airplane landing
on its belly.  He rolled to his back, holding up his glove... The ball a
white blur safely caught in its webbing!

"Yeah!" I whooped, pumping my fist.  "Caseyyyyyy!"

I wasn't the only one yelling.  All the spectators were on their feet
making noises, and our kids were jumping around, shrieking like wild
Indians.  Young Slick, followed closely by Bryce and Cowboy, went running
out to congratulate Casey, and then the entire team was around him,
celebrating.

"Web Gem!" I shouted, grinning as Casey came to me, surrounded by his
teammates.  We hugged, I patted his back, and whispered to him, "Saturday!"

"Saturday!" He whispered back, looking up at me, happy, smiling, his eyes
sparkling.

The South Hardware coach, disappointed but handling it well, shook hands
with me and together we cleaned up the field.  As I was turning the lights
off I was thinking about Casey's mother, Ruth.  She hadn't been there to
see Casey's home run, or his great catch.  Cody's team was playing, so she
had gone to that game instead.  In fact, she very rarely came to any of
Casey's games and I thought it was a shame.  But it never seemed to bother
Casey.

Ruth was missing for Saturday's game as well.  We had the one o'clock game
and I had saved my two best pitchers, Bryce and JJ, because I expected it
to me against a tough opponent.  But just as South Hardware had surprised
us Thursday night, giving us a closer game than we expected, so this team
surprised us by being unexpectedly easy.

"I got three kids missing," their coach complained to me.  "Off at a
wedding or something.  They're like my best players!"

Those missing kids made a big difference.  By the third inning we were up
by six runs.  I took Bryce out, skipped JJ to rest his arm, and put in all
the 11-year-olds to play the rest of the game using Dink and Wheels on the
mound.  Although Dink was an excellent pitcher, it was not his favorite
thing, so after one inning I switched him to center field, where he had
told me he wanted to play, and let Wheels have the final two innings of the
game.  Wheels loved to pitch and he had a blast, enjoying every moment as
the center of attention, a huge bulge of Big League Chew in his cheek in
imitation of his favorite Major League pitching star.  He threw well,
giving up only one walk, and finished in a blaze of glory by striking out
the last two batters.

As we went out to join the line for the team handshake, I whispered to
Casey, "You all set?"  He nodded at me, eyes shining.

There was the usual swirl of activity while the crowd of parents,
onlookers, and boys headed for the parking lot.  Bryce, JJ, Bo, and Cowboy
took off in a truck driven by one of Cowboy's uncles.  Wheels, after
seeking me out for a big hug, ran off to find his father and brother.  I
saw Evan, Pee-wee, Tiny, Kelly and Slick all leaving in cars with their
parents.  Finally it was just Dink, Casey, Lance, and me.

"We'll help you, Coach."

Dink started shoving our team bats into one of the heavy canvas equipment
bags, while Casey gathered up the catcher's gear.  Lance got a broom from
the snack bar to sweep the dugout clean of candy wrappers, Big League Chew
foil packets, and sunflower seed husks.

"Playoffs are a week after next, right Coach?" he asked.

Nodding a 'Yes', I held open a plastic trash bag for him and then added,
"All-Stars after that.  I can't believe how fast this summer's going."  The
words made me smile, because it seemed I said that every summer.

Dink was helping Casey stuff batting helmets into the bags.  "We're gonna
win the Championship," he announced without looking up.  There was total
determination in his voice.

I nodded again.  "You guys can do it.  Playoffs are always tougher than the
regular season, but I know you guys can battle through.  What you wanna bet
we play Big Mike's team for the trophy?"

"Uh-huh!"  Dink turned to look at me, his eyes gleaming.  "We're gonna beat
'em, too!"

Lance and the boys put the big equipment bags into my SUV while I locked up
the snack bar and made a final check of the field, making sure everything
was secure.  Before I finished, Lance joined me and we walked back to our
vehicles together.

"Listen," I told him.  "If we win the Championship, I'll coach the All Star
team again.  But even if we don't, they'll almost certainly ask me to be an
assistant.  You want me to get you in on it, too?  As an assistant, I mean?
You've done a terrific job for us this season.  I know you'd be a big
help."

But the handsome teen was shaking his head.  The afternoon sunlight
glinting on his thick raven dark hair, was like sparks being struck off
flint.  "I can't, Coach.  All my big summer swim meets are gonna be then."

"Oh yeah.  That's right.  Well..." Although I was hearing his words, I was
having trouble processing them.  Up close to Lance it was hard not to be
distracted.  I was aware of his scent, the smooth swimmer's body, glossy
tanned skin, lean chiseled features...  If you were only five years younger
I was thinking, reaching out to give his arm a light tap.  It seemed almost
like sacrilege to touch such unearthly beauty...

"Your swim meets absolutely have to come first!  Better believe it!  You
tear 'em up, Lance.  Win everything you can.  I just wanted you to know
that... You've been such a big help...  I just wanted... Well you know..."

"I know, Coach."  Lance flashed a smile at me so brilliant it nearly made
me flinch.

"Hey, listen," I said.  "You're gonna wrestle all this winter, right?  For
High School and with the rec team?"

My handsome assistant nodded again.  "Uh-huh.  An' Dink will be, too."

I smiled back and it was all I could do to keep from touching him again.
Lance was much older then what usually attracted me, but in the presence of
such perfection it was difficult to register that.  "That'll be great," I
assured him."  And you let me know when some of those meets are.  I'd like
to try and make a few."

We had reached the cars.  Casey and Dink were beside mine, having a
whispered conversation, which they broke off as Lance and I approached.
With a gesture at his younger brother, Lance strode toward his Land Rover,
Casey came over to me, and Dink, after giving the two of us what seemed a
knowing look, followed his brother.  They got into the old vehicle and
drove off with Dink smiling at us through the back window.

The moment they were out of sight, Casey put his arms around me, offering
his mouth for a kiss.  I took a final glance around to be certain we were
alone before taking him in a long deep embrace.  Then the boy opened the
rear door of my SUV and began unsnapping and unzipping his baseball pants.

"Right here?" I asked, glancing about nervously.  Our playing fields were
at the end of a dirt road, screened by trees, and the closest house was
over a block away, but it was not as secluded as the location where we
practiced.

"Come on, Coach!" Pants down around his ankles, tiny homemade thong pushed
down as well, Casey flopped back onto the rear seat, opening his thighs.
Jutting from his smooth groin was his rigid boner, the blunt circumcised
tip glistening wetly.  Panting with eagerness, Casey tugged at his uniform
shirt, pushing it up as far as he could to be virtually naked.  I took
another fast look around, then leaned over the boy, taking his perfect four
inches of quivering boy stick into my mouth.

Instantly, even before I could start my tongue working, Casey was holding
my head in place, humping my mouth, gasping in passion,
"Uh... Uh... Uh... Uh... Coach... Coach... Uhhhhhhhhhh..."

He came almost at once, tiny dribbles of warmth I could taste.  It was so
fast that I wondered what he and Dink had been doing while Lance and I had
talked.  I started to lift my head, but Casey moaned, "Noooooooooo..."
Pulling me down, his hips lifted to begin humping my mouth again.  I
sucked, curling my tongue around the slick rigid shaft, licking at his
blunt tip.  "Oh... Uhh... Oh... Oh..." Casey gasped.  "Oooooo..."

Bucking, jerking, the boy came again... again... and finally a fourth time,
holding his breath, arching his hips up, arms thrown back... a shuddering,
quivering dry climax that left him sprawled, gasping for air on the seat.

"Ohhh... Ohhh..." Casey panted as I lifted my head off him.  The boy was
still so hard his boner was jumping with the rapid beat of his heart.  He
reached for me, struggling to get his knees up, hampered by the clothing
around his ankles and the confined space.  "Bone me, Coach," he pleaded.
"Bone me... Do me... Go in me... I want it!"

Fending him off, trying to calm the pleading boy, I backed out of the car
door.  "Not now, Casey.  Not now.  Wait a bit..."

But he was sitting up, squirming in an attempt to get his feet free of his
pants.  He slid off the edge of the seat, bare knees on the rough surface
of the parking lot, tugging at my pants, trying to get my fly opened.  "No,
now, Coach.  Do me... I want it..."

Praying that there was no one in the nearby woods watching, I coaxed Casey
back into the seat and with gentle insistence made him pull, first his
thong, and then the baseball pants back up.  "As soon as we get home," I
kept promising the desperate boy.  "As soon as we get home.  This isn't the
place.  Now come on.  The sooner your pants are up, the sooner we can get
going."

He wouldn't let me zip him up, but scurried as fast as he could into the
front seat to have his pants pushed back down again by the time I had
circled around to slide behind the wheel.  Pushing the thong aside, Casey
fumbled at his rigid boy stick while I started the engine, then as we
turned out of the parking lot he was pulling my hand down to his groin.
"Rub, Coach," he pleaded.  "Bring me off!"

As soon as my fingers were moving on him, Casey leaned toward me, began
working on my zipper, got it down, and fumbled with my hard manhood until
it was exposed.  I was so rigid it was painful.  Eagerly the boy took me
into his mouth, sucking and licking while I got the SUV out onto the paved
road and we headed across town.

It was mid-afternoon, well past lunchtime, but I thought Casey might be
hungry so I asked, "You want anything to eat?"

"Mmpfff..." Without letting me go he shook his head.  There was no sense in
asking if he wanted to go to the batting cages, so I drove directly to my
house.

There, once we had the SUV in the garage, it was necessary for Casey to
pull his pants up again so we could go outside and climb the stairs to my
apartment.  We got the job done more or less, but Casey escaped past me and
without waiting to zip his fly or do anything else, ran up the stairs.  He
was waiting impatiently at my door when I arrived with the key.  The
instant we were inside with the door locked behind us he was in my arms,
squirming to rub his hard boner against my thigh, pleading, "Strip me,
Coach!  Strip me naked!"

I pulled his shirt up and the boy removed his ball cap, holding it while I
slipped the shirt all the way off him, bearing the lovely smoothness of his
defined upper body.  Casey was beautiful, not in the classic way that Lance
was, but with the elegant slender loveliness of a young adolescent, his
hard wrestler's muscles lending a dramatic quality to his form.  I wanted
to take more pictures, but Casey kept shaking his head, begging, "Strip me,
Coach."  He kicked his baseball shoes off, then stood while I peeled down
the skintight uniform pants, lifting his socked feet one by one to get them
free.  I reached for the high socks as well but Casey pushed my hands away
then carefully removed his homemade thong.  He stood before me, wearing
only ballcap and high socks, smooth bare skin shiny in the light pouring
through the glass balcony doors, a glistening wetness at the tip of
quivering jutting boy stick.

Again I started for the camera, but Casey took my arm, tugging me toward
the hallway."  Bone me... You promised, Coach.  We gotta do it now!"

In the dim light diffusing through lowered blinds in my bedroom, the
aroused boy took me in his arms, mouth seeking mine, warm hard smoothness
writhing against me as my tongue slid into him.  First stroking with his
palms, then tugging, pushing, unbuttoning, Casey undressed me while our
breaths mingled, our lips never breaking apart.  I kicked off my Nikes,
helped pull down my fly, let my shorts drop so I could step out of
them... Casey was already pulling at my boxer briefs, their front wet with
pre-cum.  While he reached eagerly for my rock hard manhood I wriggled out
of the briefs, letting them fall onto my shorts.

The boy's hands were all over me, insistent, demanding.  One warm little
palm slid stroked the muscles of my upper arm, my shoulder, around my neck.
The other pumped my engorged shaft, the fingers dancing lightly on the
slick skin, brushing up and over my sensitive tip and then sliding all the
way back down to the base.  There was artistry in the movements, the
uncanny skill of a boy prodigy playing an instrument with total mastery.
The intense pleasure of it, the squirming of the boy, the thrill of holding
so much beauty in my arms, sent erotic shocks lancing through me.  I
jerked, spurting a gush of warmth over Casey's pumping fingers before
squeezing as hard as I could to rein in.

Our kiss broke.  I took my hands off the inpatient boy.  "Wait," I panted
in a voice thick with passion.  "... My shirt."

Casey was already tugging at it, nearly ripping the cloth as I dragged the
tee shirt up and off.  The moment I was naked, his lips were on mine again
and he was pulling me toward the bed.  We fell onto it wrapped in each
other's arms, bodies writhing together, breathing each other's breaths, and
then Casey was pushing at my shoulders, breaking our kiss, guiding my head
down toward his crotch.

"Suck me," he pleaded.  "Suck me, Coach..." Arching to stretch back on the
bed, he pulled his knees up, spreading his silken thighs.

I wanted to tease a bit, sucking on his hard little nipples first and then
licking my way down the flawless sheath of smooth muscle in his tummy,
circling the base of his rigid boyhood with my tongue before taking it in
my mouth.  But Casey would allow no delay.  At the first brush of my tongue
on his chest he pushed my head down farther moaning, "Now...  Suck me,
Coach!  Suck me...  I want it now!"  Pushing on me even harder he guided my
head to where his rampant boner was jutting upward, rigid and quivering.
The moment it into my mouth Casey was arching to lift his hips, humping my
mouth, holding my head in place to keep his stiff four inches sliding
through my lips.  The boy moaned with pleasure,
"Uh... Uh... Uh... Uh... Oh... Ohhh... Oooooooo..."

Only seconds later throbs were pulsing in his shaft, the boy's hips
jerking.  A dribble of warmth from his slit was sweet on my tongue.  Then
the boy was thrusting again, pushing at my head, drawing his knees even
further up toward his chest.  "Ohhhhhh..." He groaned.  "With your tongue,
Coach... Do me with your tongue..."

Obediently I gave his throbbing boy stick a final lick, gave the tight
little nut sack beneath it a brief suck hard enough to bring another little
moan from Casey, then slid my tongue down further to swirl it around the
clenched dimple of his opening.

"In... Push it in..." Casey pleaded, and then gasped, "Uhhhhhhhhh..." as my
tongue thrust past his muscular ring, penetrating to the warmth beyond.

"Oooo... Oooo... Oooo..." Squirming, writhing, Casey tugged at his knees,
straining to open himself further.  I swirled my tongue in him, then
reached for the KY and bottle of Hawaiian Tropic oil that were on the stand
by the bed.

"Ah... Ah..." Casey panted.  Smearing oil on my fingers, then taking a big
glob of KY, I rammed in two fingers, pushing up as far as I could, sliding
them both back and forth on his tiny nub.

"Ahhhhhhhhhh..."  Casey's head strained back as he bore down to open
himself.  "Ohhhhhhh...  Oh, Coach..."

I massaged the firm nub bringing the boy to another shuddering, heaving dry
climax, and then he was panting, pleading, "Bone me, Coach...  Do it
now..."

I needed no encouragement.  Already I was so close to release I was afraid
just the sensation of entering the boy would have me losing it.  Smearing
on the KY nearly brought me off.  I slapped my hard rod several times,
letting the sting back me away from the edge and then leaned over Casey,
who grabbed at me desperately pleading, "Bone me...  Bone me...  Make it
last..."

Using one hand to support my weight and the other to guide my man rod, I
positioned my blunt tip on the boy's greased hole.  Then with one slow
smooth thrust I went up into his hot sweetness.

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..."

Casey groaned, arched, tugged at his knees, straining to open himself
fully.  He shuddered in passion, moaning "Uhh...  Oh...  Oh...  So hard...
Makes me so hard...  Ooooooo..." I began to move within him, grinding my
hips, thrusting, stretching up into the boy as far as possible.  Clutching
at me, panting in eagerness, Casey locked his slender legs around my chest,
groaning, "Bone me...  Bone me...  Uhhhhhh!  Don't stop...  Harder...  Do
it harder...  Up more...  Up in me...  Oh...  Ohhhhhhhh..."

Suddenly the boy was jerking, heaving up against me, his hands clawing at
my back.  I felt his rigid boy rod throbbing against my stomach, spurting a
dribble of warmth as pulsing contractions in his loins squeezed my upthrust
shaft.  Casey was holding his breath, eyes wide and staring, every muscle
in his perfect body in tension as he hugged, trying to merge us into one
form.  Then, as the spasm passed he writhed, ball cap falling away onto the
pillow as his head turned from side to side.

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhh..." Groaning again, he hugged tight, his socked legs
squeezing around my chest.  "More...  Don't stop...  Don't stop...  Bone
me, bone me, bone me...  Uhhhhhh..." This last moan came as I began to
slide in him once more, my shaft pistoning through his tight opening.  I
wanted to look down to see it sliding back and forth, but Casey had such a
hold of me there was no way I could; plus it was taking all my
concentration to squeeze back my own release.

"Uh... Uh... Uh... Uh..."

My beautiful centerfielder moved beneath me, writhing and shuddering.  Then
he was heaving again, arms and legs in a lock around me, trying to lift,
meeting my thrusts.  His head arched back.  I could tell he was holding his
breath.  Every muscle in the boy quivered in tension...  Then in sudden
spasm he was jerking, hips bucking in a frenzy, more throbs inside him
pulsing around my impaling rod like squeezing fingers.

"Ah... Ah... Ah... Ah..."  Casey shuddered in my arms, his rigid bone
pulsing against my stomach, hard like a warm metal spike.
"Ooo... Ooo... Ooo... The boy's hands slid all over my shoulders and back,
clutching, tugging, stroking... "More," he panted breathlessly, "More...
Harder...  Do it harder... I want it... I want it all...  Oooooo..." As I
began to move in him again, Casey arched to meet the thrusts, squeezing
with his arms and legs to pull me in as deep as possible.  "Ooo...  I'm so
hard...  So hard...  Uh... Uh...  Do it more...  Don't stop...  Bone me...
Bone me..."

My entire consciousness narrowed to holding myself back and pleasuring the
boy in the way he so desperately wanted.  I lost track of time.  I lost
track of the number of Casey's dry climaxes.  Feeling him move in passion
beneath me, holding his smooth young warmth in my arms, was so incredibly
thrilling that it took everything I had to hold back.  Every time the boy
heaved in spasm I went to the brink and was forced to squeeze harder and
harder to stop until at last it was impossible to contain any longer.  With
a rush I felt it all go, a huge tide right over me, so powerful nothing in
the world could have resisted.  Thrusting my hips, ramming into the boy
again and again, I pounded his stretched ass while Casey clung tight, head
flung back, eyes wide and staring, urging an even faster rhythm, half
screaming, "Ah... Ah... Ah...  Harder...  Harder...  Harder...  Harder...
Eiiiiiiiiiiiiiii..."

In a final heaving frenzy, the boy jerked, bucking frantically, his rigid
boy stick pulsing warmth against my belly.  I stretched up into him, my
head arched back, straining for all the penetration I could make... and
then in massive jerking contractions I exploded, spurting jet after jet of
hot cream into the boy with a release that seemed to go on forever.  By the
time it ended my shaft was aching painfully.  I half-collapsed onto Casey,
who continued to thrust his hips beneath me, clutching, clawing at my back
and shoulders, begging for, "More...  Don't stop!  Do it more...  Harder...
Do it harder!"

But I was totally spent.  I let my weight sag onto Casey, hugging him while
he continued to writhe, moaning and gasping.  Finally, as my softening
member slipped out of him, the boy's movements became more purposeful.  He
was still rigidly hard.  Pushing at my head he tried to position me for
more sucking and licking of his quivering boy stick, but I was too far gone
be able to do it.  Restraining him with more hugs, I kissed him, driving my
tongue deep into his mouth, and Casey clung with arms and legs, squirming
as if to weld our two bodies into one.  Gradually the pounding of our
hearts slowed and at last the boy was content to like cuddled against me,
exchanging limpid wet kisses, our breaths mingling.

"More, Coach," Casey pleaded, staring up at me.  The boy's gray eyes were
like two great pools.  I wanted to dive into them and remain forever.

"Soon," I promised, stroking his hair.  "I gotta rest first."

Impatiently, Casey squirmed and reached a hand down to fondle my limp
member.  "Why you gotta rest?"

"Cause that's how it is after you shoot," I explained, grimacing as his
fingers rubbed my sensitive tip.  "It'll be like that for you, too, pretty
soon.  When you begin to shoot."

"I don't wanna shoot," Casey said stubbornly.  He let go of my soft worm
and fondled his own stiff boner.  "I wanna be like stiff always!"

With patient coaxing I got the boy into the shower where, once the hot
water had revived me a bit, I knelt in front of Casey and pleasured him
with my mouth, bringing him to several more of his boy climaxes while he
leaned back against the tiled wall.

"Now bone me again," he begged as I dried him off, but I shook my head.

"We gotta get you home," I told him.  "It's getting late."  That was partly
true, but if I had thought I could fill his request, I would have tried.
As it was I was fairly certain I was out of action for a while.  With much
coaxing I got Casey dressed and we headed for the garage.  "Tomorrow," I
promised.  "Let's hook up tomorrow."

Casey nodded eagerly, eyes gleaming as he reached to give me one more kiss
before we got into the vehicle.  All the way out to his house he remained
leaning against me, rubbing my crotch, hoping to see a bulge in response.

The next day, Sunday, I woke early expecting the phone to ring at any
moment.  But no call came.  By 10 I decided to try calling myself, but I
got no response after twenty rings.  It was a nice day so I killed time by
washing and waxing the SUV, then tried calling again.  There was still no
answer.  On the way to the supermarket to buy supplies I contemplated
driving out to Casey's house on some pretext or other, but it seemed forced
and I didn't want Ruth getting any ideas.  Mentally I ran down a list of
other possibilities.  Nothing could be done with Will or Matty without
having the other along.  The same went for Wheels--anything I did with him
would have to include Rainman.  There was no way to be with him alone.  I
thought about Cowboy and rejected it as to uncertain.  Besides, having set
myself up with Casey, I wasn't really interested in making the considerable
effort of arranging things with anyone else.

"Damn," I muttered to myself, after trying another call and still getting
no answer.  It turned out to be a long frustrating day.

* * * * *

Suddenly, the way it always seemed to arrive, it was time for the
Championship Playoffs.

"Single elimination," I told the boys on Monday.  "You could get knocked
out the very first day - or we could go all the way.  It's up to us."  I
looked around at my players who were sitting on the hillside next to our
practice field, listening to me.  "Every team starts fresh," I went on.
"Every team gets the same chance.  It's like a whole new season that only
lasts one week.  Those teams you guys beat during the regular season?
Watch out!  They'll be lookin' to get you.  This is their chance for
payback!"

It was a beautiful afternoon and we had a wonderful practice.  Nothing
strenuous; I wanted the kids fresh for the first playoff game the next day.
It started with infield drills, every boy rotating to every position, and
then we did a lightning round batting practice where I kept track of the
number of 'hits' for each kid and awarded a Dairy Queen coupon to Cowboy
who got the most.

We finished with one of the boys' favorites, 'Strike Out the Coach'.  Every
single boy took a turn pitching to me, with all the rest gathered behind
the backstop, helping Lance call the balls and strikes.  Any foul ball by
me was a strike, any solid hit ended that boy's turn.  All season we had
played the game with none of them ever getting me 'out', and it was the
same this time.  But when it was the turn of little Evan, the last boy to
try throwing to me, I deliberately let the count go full, three balls and
two strikes.  Then on the very next pitch (which would have been another
ball, ending Evan's turn) I swung as hard as I could, making sure my bat
met nothing but air.

"Oh man!" I yelled, tossing the bat aside, "Evan, you got me!"

With a grin, I turned to the rest of the team crowded behind the backstop.
"Guys, we have a winner!"

Evan was beside himself with happy excitement.  He ran to me, wiggling like
a puppy when I picked him up for a hug.  "Got you!"  He kept shouting.
"Gotcha, Coach!"

All the other boys crowded around us while I awarded Evan the big
prize--passes for himself and three friends at the local skating rink.
Bryce, Casey, and all the rest of my 12-year-old veterans, especially Bo,
had knowing smiles on their faces because they had seen me rig this contest
the year before when I let Bo win.  The 11-year-old rookies watched
enviously as Evan got his free passes.  Dink, gave me a suspicious look and
accused, "Coach, you let him win!"

"Ha!  Listen to you!"  I pulled Dink up for a big hug before he could dodge
away.  "Sounds like jealousy to me!  You're just pissed 'cause you couldn't
get me!"

To my surprise, Dink, who ordinarily did not like being touched or handled,
giggled and hugged me back.  As always at practice he was shirtless and I
allowed my palms to circle briefly on his smooth hard body before setting
him back on his feet.  He looked up at me, smiling in a sly way, his raven
dark curls shining in the afternoon sunlight.  Then, surprising me again,
he gave me a wink.

I held out a fist and the boys crowded around to put their fists in with
it.  Every one of them was shirtless, so I was closely surrounded by taut,
lean half-naked bodies, all with the wonderful scent of boy.  "This is our
last practice together," I told them; trying to keep the sadness those
words brought me from showing.  "You guys are a great team.  We've had a
terrific season..."

"Yeah!"  Cowboy grinned up at me.  "We surprised 'em, didn't we Coach!"

I pulled my tough little third baseman into a quick hug, and once again,
just as he had done on the fishing trip, he surprised me by hugging back.
"Damn right you did!" I told him, patting his sturdy back.  "You were
wonderful!"  I looked around.  All my boys were smiling.  "Everyone of
you," I assured them.  "You showed them all what can be done by teamwork
and determination!  Coaching you guys has just been so..."

I felt my eyes tearing up, and I didn't want the boys seeing that, so with
a final caress I let go of Cowboy, who looked up at me, his eyes shining.
We slapped palms and then I picked up Evan, holding him out at arms length
while he giggled and squirmed happily.  "Evan?  Wouldn't it be great if
baseball and summer went on forever?"

"Yeah!"  The boy shouted out his answer with a big grin, and there was a
general chorus of "Yeah... Uh-huh!" from all the rest.

"If only," I told them, putting Evan down.  I put my fist out again and
they all crowded in to add theirs.  "First playoff game tomorrow against
Don's Pizza.  We have the field at noon.  And remember, win or lose, we got
our team awards party a week from Wednesday.  Don't forget!  Team, on
three!  One, two, three!"

"TEAM!" the boys all shouted.  Then they were putting on their shirts,
getting their gloves, running off to where parents and cars were waiting to
take them home.  I had hoped that Casey, Dink, and Lance would stay to help
gather up the equipment, but they were among the first to leave.  It was
Carol and Evan who stayed, Carol running over things with me on the awards
dinner, while Evan gathered the batting helmets.  Then they too were gone
and I was alone.

It was a golden late afternoon.  High summer.  Getting close to the Fourth.
In the west, mountain peaks glowed in the lowering sun, a giant wall flung
across the horizon.  I loaded the equipment bags into my SUV and then sat
for a time on the embankment by the sagging wooden backstop, looking out at
the vast panorama.

Another season nearly gone.  They went by so fast!  Like the boys
themselves, the spring and summer days were there for a moment... then
suddenly gone, slipped past in the blink of an eye.  During the season,
amidst the exciting swirl of practice and games, with the boys around me
nearly every day, it all seemed so real and permanent!  As if, as I had
told Evan, the days of summer and baseball would be endless, the boys
always with me, happy faces looking up, young shirtless bodies glistening.
But it was an illusion.  Boyhood is so very fleeting; here and then gone,
like a flash of summer lightning or the blink of a firefly's tail.  All too
soon I would look for them, and they would be gone.

So many wonderful sun drenched days!  Flitting past one by one like the
ticking of some giant invisible clock.  Where were they now, my precious
boys of summer seasons past?  In my mind I could hear their laughter, see
their faces... so clearly!  But their lovely warmth had gone beyond my
reach.

I got up slowly, staring out at the mountain, reminding myself that the
summer was only half done, that plenty of baseball remained.  We still had
the playoffs, and then the All-Star season... Time enough for many more
wonderful memories.  And yet, as I turned away, walking to my SUV, I could
almost hear behind me the laughter and the young voices of my past,
calling...

* * * * *

In the playoffs it came down to pitching, just as it always did.  Our
league had strict pitch count rules about the number of pitches a boy could
throw and the number of days he needed to be rested before he could pitch
again.  These were rules designed to protect the boys from injury, laid
down by Big Mike, me, and coaches who had been before us.  They were
excellent rules that worked well.  But in the Championship Tournament,
where a team was playing every day, these restrictions meant that a coach
needed plenty of pitching arms to call on!  Fortunately I had them: Bryce,
JJ, and Cowboy were my first-string 12-year-old aces, then for backup there
were the 11-year-olds; Kelly, Slick, and Wheels.

It was a good thing we had so many pitchers, because we used all of them.
In our first game that Tuesday, Don's Pizza started their ace against us.
They knew they had little chance of reaching the final Championship Game on
Saturday, so they shot the works in an attempt to knock us off and win at
least one playoff game.  I started Wheels on the mound, since we were
trying to save our best arms for later, but in the third inning I had to
call on Cowboy for some relief work to hold the two run lead we had.  It
was a tough game, but we got through it with a victory.  Then it was on to
Wednesday for a close win against South Hardware followed by another
triumph Thursday in a one run victory over White's Oil.  In that one, Dink
and Kelly pitched their hearts out for us.

"You guys were awesome!"  I told my excited players as they gathered around
me afterwards.  With a big grin I held out a fist to Casey who had shut
down a last-minute White's rally with another good play in center field.
Casey smiled shyly and touched my fist with his own.

"Nobody figured we'd get this far!" Dink said with a satisfied smirk.  He
touched fists with Casey as well.

"Are we gonna play for the Championship, Coach?" little Evan asked
excitedly.

I caressed his shoulder.  "You sure are.  Saturday at One against Big
Mike's kids.  They won their bracket."  I looked around at the boys' eager
faces.  "Rest up tomorrow.  I'll see you guys on Saturday.  Try to get here
around noon so you can do some warm-ups before we start the game.  And then
-" I grinned at them.  "Then, let's kick butt!"

"Yeah!"  The kids all shouted back at me.  They took turns slapping a palm
I held out and then broke away toward waiting parents and friends.  But I
took Casey's elbow before he turned away.  "Let's hook up after the game,
Saturday.  Okay?"  I whispered.

To my surprise he hesitated.  Eyes downcast he whispered back.  "I'll try,
Coach.  My mom might want me to go someplace with her."

"Okay," I said disappointed.  "Okay, well try to get away if you can."

My slender centerfielder nodded.  "Uh-huh."  A moment later he went
trotting off to where Lance and Dink were waiting for him.  I watched them
go, suddenly wishing I had asked him to stay late with me so we could
celebrate the good play he had made.  Then I could have driven him home
instead of Lance.  It was too late.  He was already gone.

Friday was one of those days in the summer I hated.  No baseball, no kids
around, nothing to do, and no one to call.  I got through it by working
late on a new project I had started at the office, then went home to work
on my lineups for the game the next day.  My pitching resources were
depleted, Dink and Kelly would not be available for any mound work, but by
pitching so well for us in that last game, they had saved Bryce, JJ, and
Cowboy for me, plus Slick and Wheels could still be used in relief.  I was
in good shape, but Big Mike was, too.  His team had cruised through their
bracket and I knew all his best 12-year-old pitchers were ready to go
against us.  For a few hours after a late supper I kept juggling lineups,
trying to anticipate various situations, until at last I forced myself to
put the notes aside and get some sleep.

Saturday, Championship Game day, dawned bright and hot.  By arrangement,
Big Mike and I were both at the field as the sun came up, checking the
irrigation, raking the base paths and then helping each other line the
batter's boxes, coaching boxes and foul lines.  It was something we liked
doing together whether our teams were playing or not.

"Good luck today, you big lug," I told him as we shook hands.

"Same to you, horse face," he said with a grin, half crushing my hand in
his huge grip.  "I don't know how you pulled it off this year, but here we
are again."

I grinned back.  "Pure coaching talent."

"Bullshit!"  Mike said, laughing.  "It's all those tricks you pull in the
draft every year.  But don't worry.  Your secrets are safe with me."  He
winked.  "Steak dinner on the game, right?"

I nodded back.  "Just like always.  But have a great game."

"Damn right."  Mike clasped my shoulder.  "We got some wonderful kids this
year.  They deserve nothin' but the best."

I passed the rest of the morning cleaning all my team equipment and
polishing the batting helmets until they sparkled.  Then, finally, it was
game time.

First to arrive from my team was Tiny.  The big husky boy clambered
excitedly out of his mother's car and ran over to me, looking resplendent
in a spotless uniform, obviously freshly laundered.  "Ready to get that
pretty uniform dirty?"  I asked him with a smile and he grinned back.  "You
bet, Coach!"

Tiny helped me carry the equipment bags to the field and then pulled out
the catcher's equipment and started putting it on.  "Remember the beginning
of the season?" I asked, watching him.  "How you didn't want to catch?"

Tiny grinned at me again.  "That's 'cause I was a dummy then, Coach.
Catcher's like the most important position!"

Kelly and Slick came next, followed by Bryce, JJ, Cowboy, and Bo.  Then
Lance was there with Casey and Dink.  I gave Casey a questioning look, but
he just nodded and ran out to begin warm-up tosses.  Soon all the rest of
my team was there, every boy in his tight baseball pants, clean uniform
shirt, and brightly colored ballcap.  It was a sight I never tired of.

Big Mike's team had been arriving as well, players wearing their Skyline
Gas uniforms: white baseball pants, bright purple shirts and caps.  Since
all the boys were friends they mingled together, playing catch--with plenty
of good-natured teasing going back and forth along with the baseballs.
Then big Mike pulled up in his truck, bringing the two high school kids who
were umpiring the game for us.  We exchanged lineups, a coin toss assigned
Mike as the visiting team, and I got my kids out of the way so he could
have the field first for his formal warm-up drill.

After placing our team equipment in the third-base dugout, I gathered the
boys around me and gave them the starting assignments.  "Bryce, you're
pitching.  Tiny's at catcher.  JJ, you're on first base.  Peewee, you take
second, ..."

I went with all six of my 12-year-olds, assigning Cowboy to shortstop,
Rainman to third, Bo left field, and Casey at center.  Three 11-year-olds
completed the roster: Tiny at catcher, Peewee at second, and Dink in right
field.

It could've been done differently.  At that point, the end of the season,
it was true that my 11-year-old lacrosse players, Kelly and Slick, had
passed both Rainman and Bo in ability.  I could've started them instead,
but there was no way I would have done it.  Rainman and Bo were both
hard-working, dedicated and loyal boys who had done everything I had ever
asked.  Neither one would make the All-Star team, so this game would be
their very last as 12-year-olds.  Nothing could have induced me to hurt
them by not letting them start.

Joining Kelly and Slick on the bench as substitutes were Evan and Wheels.
Either one could have started at second base, but they had both been given
lots of playing time in the earlier playoff contests and I wanted Wheels'
cousin Peewee to have his share of good memories too; so he had gotten my
nod for this final game.  As my four 11-year-old subs stood by the dugout
with me and Lance, watching our starting nine go through the choreographed
drills I had taught them at the beginning of the season, I gave each boy's
shoulder a pat and assured them, "You'll all have a chance to get in the
game.  Nobody gets left out."

In center field, Casey was exchanging tosses with Bo in left and Dink in
right.  When Bo threw one high, Casey jumped for it, glove reaching upward.
To me he seemed a beautiful sight.  Because he always wore his tiny thong
instead of a jock, Casey's tight uniform pants fit smoothly on him like a
second skin, emphasizing his slender grace.  Jumping up in the sunlight to
catch the high throw brought out the hard definition of his wrestler's body
and in that moment I regretted not having brought a camera to record my
centerfielder's beauty.

There was a little sound, like a quick in-drawing of breath.  Lance was
standing right next to me.  I glanced and saw that he was watching Casey as
well.

With the ball in his glove, Casey whirled to fire it at Dink waiting in
right field, and once more I regretted not having brought my camera,
because, like Casey, here was another stunning sight.  Dink moved with the
same natural athletic grace as my two rangy young lacrosse players, Kelly
and Slick.  But he was even better proportioned, with a hard compact
muscular build that reminded me of Cody, Casey's older brother, at that
age.  Dink's uniform fit just as tight as Casey's, and as I watched him
move, the Sun striking glints from the mop of dark curls under his ballcap,
I was struck again by what perfection the boy possessed.  The Greek Ideal
of proportion and grace.

"Balls in!"

Our young umpire's voice brought my eyes back to the infield.  Standing
beside the umpire at home plate, Tiny yelled in his high 11-year-old tones,
"Coming down!"  He crouched, Bryce fired in a pitch that hit, "Pop!", in
Tiny's glove.  He straightened up, threw to second base where Cowboy,
backed up by Pee-wee, caught the ball, simulated making a tag on a runner,
then whirled and fired over to third.  Rainman took the throw and relayed
it back across the diamond to JJ at first base.  Rainman's arm was not the
greatest, his throw was a little off, but JJ stretched and made the catch.
Even if he had missed, there would've been no problem, because Dink had
moved in from right field to back him up.  JJ trotted with the ball over to
Bryce on the mound and presented it to him with a grin.  Big Mike sent his
first batter to the plate--and our Championship Game was underway!

It was an exciting contest, not quite as action-packed as our two previous
meetings since it turned into more of a pitching duel, but a thrilling game
nonetheless.  The score remained close, which was an achievement for my
boys because the odds were unequal.  Big Mike had the better team.  His
12-year-old pitchers were all as good as Bryce or better, and he had more
depth of talent.  The only edge we had was our 11-year-old substitutes, who
were better than Big Mike's.  Every one of ours, including Evan, did a
little something to help us out.  Tiny was a wall behind home plate, only
allowing two passed balls.  Kelly and Slick both singled, and Slick scored
a run.  Peewee made a nice play at second base, Wheels stole two bases,
Evan got on base with a beautiful bunt, and Dink - Dink was a hero.  Dink
smashed a double to the fence, driving in a run for us, plus he made a nice
running catch on a foul ball in right field.

My pitchers, Bryce, JJ, and Cowboy never looked better.  All through the
game they kept a lid on Big Mike's tough 12-year-old sluggers, never
letting them have a big inning, only giving up a run here and there.  But
we had just as much trouble hitting against the top talent Big Mike threw
against us.  Our boys battled hard.  Dink wasn't the only extra-base
hitter.  Bryce and Casey hit doubles too, and nearly all our boys got on
base with a single or a walk, but runs were hard to come by.  We were down
by one going into the bottom of the fifth inning--and that was when Big
Mike put his son Jimmy up on the mound to pitch.

Jimmy, who had the height and weight of a 15-year-old at 12, was one of the
best pitchers his age in the state.  Poor little Evan, the number nine
hitter in my lineup, led off for us that inning and had to face this huge
fastballer first.  I gave his shoulders a hug, told him to stand in and
remember what he had been taught, and with a determined nod at me the
youngster went up to do his best.

He got hit by the very first pitch.  There was no way Jimmy had done it on
purpose, it was just one of those things.  He had thrown his warm-up
pitches before starting the inning, but he really was not grooved in yet.
The fastball he tried to put over in Evan's tiny strike zone came too far
inside and smashed into my little second baseman's helmet was a loud,
"BANG!"  Evan got knocked to the ground, everyone in the bleachers stood up
with an "Oh!"  As I ran to home plate from my third-base coaching box I
knew that somewhere Carol was having a heart attack.

But, of course, Evan was fine.  The batting helmets were super sturdy and
this one had done its job perfectly.  My tough little batter got up, dusted
himself off with some help from me, and went trotting up to first base,
hanging onto his helmet with one hand to keep it from falling off.

"All's well that ends well," I muttered to myself, going back to my
coaching spot.  Jimmy ran over to shake Evan's hand and apologize, and the
inning resumed.  We had a man on first with nobody out and the top of our
order coming up.  Things could be worse, I thought.

Things rapidly did get worse.  Shaking off the hit batsman, Jimmy proceeded
to strike out my next three top hitters- Bryce, JJ, and Cowboy - one, two,
three.

"Kinda like facin' Mariano Rivera," I told Cowboy, our pitcher for the
sixth inning, as he came out to start his warm-up tosses.

"Geez!  I'll say," the boy replied, rolling his eyes.

We needed to hold Big Mike and his players in the final inning if we were
going to have any chance of pulling a winning comeback in our last at bat.
Cowboy was doing his best for me.  He was about half Jimmy's size, but my
rodeo star was a strong youngster and his fastball had some zip.  Even so,
that line up we were up against was nothing nice.  The leadoff man fouled
off some pitches and then walked when Cowboy missed on the inside corner.
My tough pitcher battled back, striking out the next batter.  A sizzling
grounder that was hit up the first base line by the following batter turned
into an out when JJ made a nice play on the ball.  The runner went to
second, but now there were two outs.

Jimmy came to the plate, looking bigger than Barry Bonds and twice as
strong.  "Rock and fire!" I yelled out to cowboy, clapping my hands.
"Bring the heat!"

This was our code for, "Whatever you do, don't give him anything good to
hit!"  Cowboy nodded to me and started work.  He did a good job of keeping
his pitches down and away, but big Jimmy got a piece of one anyway, sending
a ball spinning out to Bryce at shortstop.  The thing nearly ran up Bryce's
arm and he was unable to get the out, but at least limited the damage by
not allowing any advance by the runner at second.

Two outs, men on first and second.  Let's get out of this inning with a
nice ground ball out, I was thinking.  No such luck.  Cowboy walked the
next batter, which loaded the bases.  My tough rodeo boy was glaring at the
home plate umpire, so I made a mound visit to settle him down.

"Don't let it get to you," I told him.  "You're pitching great.  Just stay
focused."

"Yeah."  Cowboy was looking down, kicking at the dirt with his Nikes.  I
could tell he was seething.  "Hey," I said, "What did the boy tell his
mother after a train ran over his arms?"

Cowboy, who after two seasons with me had become accustomed to my style on
these trips to the mound, gave me an exasperated look.  "C'mon Coach.  Cut
it out."

"He said, 'Look ma!  No hands!'"

There was a muffled sound like a sputter as my sturdy little righthander
suppressed a giggle.  He shook his head.  "Coach, that is so corny!"

I grinned.  "Bet you don't have the sac to throw your next fastball right
at that umpire's head."

This earned me another look, but I saw a smile tugging at the boy's mouth.

"Just rear back and throw your good stuff, Hot Shot," I told him, taking
care not to pat Cowboy's shoulder or make any other physical contact since
he did not ever want that in public.  "You're doin' great.  I'm so proud of
you!  And Bryce, and JJ!  I wouldn't take a million bucks for any one of
you!"  With that I turned away, pretended to hesitate, then looked back
over my shoulder.  "Two million maybe.  But not one million!"  I winked at
Cowboy, then trotted over to the dugout.

This seemed to do the trick, because my scrappy pitcher went back to
blazing away with his fastballs, getting two quick strikes on one of Big
Mike's better sluggers that came up next.  The count went full, three and
two, and I clapped my hands to encourage Cowboy, calling out, "Lookin'
good, Hot Shot.  You're lookin' good."

He nodded back and then, following my advice, reared back and sent another
excellent fastball sizzling toward the plate.

WANG!

"Uh-oh!"  I thought as the batter came around on it.  "That's trouble!"

The ball soared out toward dead center field, where Casey was racing back
toward the fence, watching the flight of the ball over his shoulder.

"Yeah!"  I shouted, watching him.  Casey would never have the natural
ability of Cody, his older brother, but his graceful athletic build and the
strength his training had given him were still big advantages.  He tracked
that fly ball to the fence.  For an instant I was sure he wouldn't make it
in time, but he did.  At the last possible second he leaped into the air,
glove extended out over the fence, and snatched that fly ball, saving a
grand slam home run and getting us out of the inning, all in one fabulous
sunlit play that I knew I would keep in my memory forever.

Of course everyone in the bleachers came to their feet.  Casey trotted in,
holding the ball to the sounds of cheering, with his teammates all around
and Cowboy pounding him on the back.  I did a quick check of the stands,
looking for Ruth.  But I already knew she wasn't there.  She had only come
to one of Casey's games.

"Okay, guys!"  I yelled, slapping all their palms as they went by.  "Now
let's get some runs and win this thing!"

We came close.  We came really close.  Jimmy was still up on the mound for
Big Mike, pitching his hardest stuff to protect that one run lead, but
Casey led off with a beautiful single for us and got a hug from Lance who
was coaching over at first.  Wheels, substituting for Dink, came up next
and hit into a fielder's choice that erased Casey, but we still had Wheels
on first with one out.  I flashed the steal sign and Wheels motored over to
second while Jimmy was pitching to Rainman.  Rainman made good contact on
one offering, but sent it foul.  Then he went down swinging on a third
strike.  "Way to hang in there," I told him as he came back looking glum,
and my bit of encouragement cheered him up.

Bo came to the plate next.  My sturdy reliable player connected with one of
Jimmy's pitches, sending a rocket to the right side of the infield.  Their
second baseman made a nice play on it, threw Bo out at first for the second
out, but Wheels flew over to third and we had the tying run 60 feet away!

"Okay!  Here we go!" I yelled to Tiny, up next.

My Husky 11-year-old catcher was a classic power hitter.  Hit the ball like
Tiger Woods off the tee, or else strike out--that had been Tiny all season.
Accustomed to catching fastball pitchers, and protected by his own layer of
padding, big Jimmy's hard throwing didn't faze Tiny one bit.  He got right
up on the dish, even crowding in a little, waggling his bat, challenging
the big 12-year-old on the mound.

Jimmy checked Wheels over at third, wound up, fired in - and Tiny unloaded!

TANG!  There was that wonderful sound of aluminum meeting horsehide!  "Go!"
I yelled at Wheels, who streaked for home plate.

Then, checking behind me, my heart sank.  Tiny's shot, a beautiful line
drive, had gone straight at the left fielder.  The boy never even had to
move.  Holding up his glove, he let the ball smack into it, trapped it with
his other hand for a secure catch - and just like that, the ballgame, and
our season, was over.

There was a collective "Oh!" from the spectators, then the parents and
rooters for Big Mike's team were celebrating, so were the players on the
field, and Tiny along with all the rest of my boys were gathering around
me, their faces glum.

"Shit!" I heard Dink mutter.

I held up my hand.  With an arm around my disappointed catcher I told the
boys, "You all played a great game!  And so did they.  This thing could
have gone either way.  They got the breaks and we didn't.  That's all there
is to it.  Now line up, and let's go shake their hands!"

The boys got into line, and since they were all friends with the kids on
Skyline Gas, there were lots of smiles and not too much sadness.  I gave
Jimmy a hug and then shook Big Mike's hand.  "Steak's on me," I told him
with a grin.  "How 'bout tomorrow night?  We can work on All-Star picks for
the coaches meeting on Monday."

"Yum!" Mike said, making lip-smacking noises.  "Sounds great!"  Then his
expression turned serious.  After looking around to be sure he wouldn't be
overheard, he said, "Listen, Coach.  You know I'd rather have you as my
number one assistant for All-Stars over anyone.  But I got these
fathers..."

"Stop worrying," I assured him, keeping my voice low as well.  "I'll do
whatever you want me to do.  Be equipment manager if you want.  And I'll do
the fundraising like always.  I've already got sponsors lined up so we can
have our All-Star games broadcast.  Count on me for help with
transportation, too."

Big Mike took my hand in a tight grip.  "Knew I could depend on you.  I'd
do the same for you.  You know that.  So?  Dinner tomorrow night, right?"

"Yeah.  I'll call you."  My large buddy started to turn away and I yelled
out, "Hey!"  When he looked back I grinned and said, "Wait till next year!"

Mike threw his head back, laughed, nodded, and then walked away.  We both
had lots of parents we needed to talk with.

I made the rounds, congratulating my players on a great season, shaking
hands with parents, reminding everyone of our team awards dinner the
following week, and checking the preparations for that dinner with Carol.
One of the people in particular I wanted to shake hands with and thank was
Lance, who had done such a terrific job as my assistant all through the
season and playoffs.  I kept an eye out for him in between taking care of
all my other public relations chores, but never spotted him.  "He and Dink
probably took off already," I thought as people begin leaving.  "I'll call
him later."

By then I was looking for Casey, too, planning where I would take him for a
snack before we went to my apartment.  Walking toward the dugout I saw
movement inside.  Someone in our team uniform was packing up the equipment
for me.

"Thanks Casey!" I said, ducking in through the low opening.  "You want to
grab something to eat before we..."

I stopped in mid-sentence, because the boy stuffing an open equipment bag
with our team bats was Dink, not Casey.

"I almost get this done, Coach," he told me over his shoulder.

"Thanks..." I looked around.  "You seen Casey?  He's around someplace.  And
where's your brother?  I need to thank him..."

Once again I stopped in mid-sentence because Dink was shaking his head.
"They left."

"Huh?"  The depth of disappointment I felt surprised me.  I had really been
counting on being with Casey for the rest of the day.  "What do you mean?
Did Casey's mom come to pick him up?  I never saw her."

"He left with my brother," Dink said, closing up the equipment bag.  He
turned to look at me.  "He and Lance took off."

"Huh?"  It was the most peculiar sensation, like stepping onto a step that
wasn't there.  I blinked and the kaleidoscope pieces of the world shifted,
freezing into a new pattern.  I remembered how Casey had ridden home with
Lance day after day from practice, how he spent weekends with Lance when I
wasn't around, how close the two had seemed lately, how vague Casey had
been about staying after the game...

Dink handed the full equipment bag to me and picked up the other one
himself.  "Let's get these to your SUV, Coach."

"Hey, wait a sec," I told him.  "If Lance and Casey took off, what about
you?  Did they forget about you?"

Dink was shaking his head again.  "Uh-uh.  I'm goin' with you, Coach."

I was feeling a bit too stunned to say anything, so we walked to my SUV in
silence.  Once the equipment bags were loaded I got behind the wheel and
Dink slipped in on the passenger side.

"So how does this work?" I asked.

My 11-year-old star shrugged.  "I told Lance last week if he was hookin' up
with Casey, he wasn't doin' me no more.  I got a lock on my door.  I told
him if he tried I'd tell our mom."  He turned to look at me.  "Where we
goin', Coach?  Can we like go to your house?"

I thought about it while getting the engine started.  Perhaps it had been
inevitable.  Casey had played well for us, but his performance did not rise
to the level of an All-Star selection.  Bryce, JJ, and possibly Cowboy
would represent our team.  Probably I would be so busy helping Big Mike I
might not have been able to see much of Casey anyway.

"Look," I said to Dink.  "I'm gonna be pretty busy for the rest of the
summer, with the All-Star team.  I might not be around much."

But once again Dink was shaking his head.  "Lance has got swim practice
early every morning," he explained.  "All the rest of the summer.  I'm
comin' in with him.  I'll hang at the pool and then meet you at the
All-Star practice in the afternoon.  I'll help you.  Maybe you can like get
me in on the practices some way.  An' I wanna go with you like to the
games."

"Well..." I started to say.

Dink slid over to lean against me.  "When school starts I wanna be on your
football team.  An' this winter I'm gonna wrestle.  I'll come right after
school.  You can ride me home at night, Coach.  You know you can."

"Got this all figured out, huh?" I said, putting an arm around the boy.
Dink's hard compact body felt like warm polished marble under his thin
uniform shirt.  I rubbed his upper arm and the boy pulled his head back to
stare up at me.

"I can like fuck way better than Casey, Coach."

He fumbled at the waist of his baseball pants, unsnapped, unbuttoned, and
then lifted his hips so he could peel off the tight fabric down past his
knees and leggings.  The boy's rounded muscled legs were beautifully
proportioned, silky smooth.  I slid a palm over the glossy warmth.

"They call me 'Dinky'," he said, pushing his jock down as well.  "But I
ain't, see?"

Jutting straight up was a rigid circumcised boner easily 6 inches long.  I
stared and Dink pulled my hand onto it, letting me feel the long throbbing
hardness.  Then he leaned over and eagerly began pulling down the zipper of
my shorts.

"Next year, Coach," he proudly declared.  "I'm your centerfielder!"

 [ 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 - Right Field:

His name was Jamie, and he joined the team late.

The way it was supposed to work, boys registered for our baseball league in
April, tryouts were held a few weeks later and the teams were all filled by
May so practice could start as soon as the snow was off the fields.
Theoretically, if a boy missed the registration deadline he was out of
luck; a restriction designed to prevent coaches from circumventing the
draft process and stacking their teams with favored players.

But in reality, just as it is in all systems, if you knew the right people,
exceptions could be made.

We were in the midst of the second preseason week, with ten more days to
the first game, when Jamie turned up at practice one afternoon.  He was
accompanied by my starting shortstop and top right-handed pitcher, a short
red haired 12-year-old named Carl.

"Coach, this is my cousin.  Can he practice with us today?"

I looked at the boy standing shyly behind Carl.  He was dressed in a dirty
white T-shirt and baggy faded blue shorts that only came half way down his
thighs.  They looked like someone's cast-off swim trunks.  He was an
athletic looking young kid; thick hair the color of summer wheat, nice
features; and since he was half an inch taller than his cousin I assumed
they were the same age.  I was surprised that I had never seen the kid
before, because I prided myself on knowing all the draftable boys in the
area.

"Sure, he can work with us," I told Carl.  "Show him the warm-up drill.
What's his name?"

"Jamie," Carl said.  He led his slightly taller charge off, calling back
over his shoulder to me, "Thanks, Coach."  Then I heard him tell the other
boy, "See?  I told you he wouldn't mind."

Carl knew me pretty well.  It was his second year playing for me, and he
was aware that I never turned any boy away from practice.  Our team worked
every day, and since most other teams didn't, my players often had friends
accompany them to practice when their squads were off.  We even had
brothers from the 9 and 10 coach-pitch league with us on certain days--and
sometimes 13/14-year-old Colt Leaguers too.  If a boy wanted to play and
was interested in learning something, I never said no.

I kept an eye on Jamie as we started the warm ups and gradually worked into
the fielding drills.  He was so completely different from Carl that I
wondered how they could be related.  Not only did they look totally
different, their ability to play ball was light years apart.

Despite his runty build, Carl was my best athlete.  His play at shortstop
was sometimes uncanny.  He was like a little vacuum cleaner; nothing got
past him.  Plus he was the ace pitcher of the team.  I had another pitcher
that could throw harder, a tall rangy 12-year-old who also played center
field.  But for accuracy, consistency, and overall hurling ability, Carl
was the man.

Aside from his baseball talent, to my mind Carl's most valuable qualities
were his fierce competitiveness and his leadership ability.  Carl was the
undisputed Captain of the team.  He had been, even as an 11-year-old.  In
practice and in games it was Carl who called the shots and kept the team
fired up; he was all pep and hustle regardless of the situation or the
score.  Sometimes he was even a little too competitive.  On one memorable
occasion in the dugout I had to drag him off another kid that Carl thought
had dropped a fly ball through carelessness.  My tough little red haired
Captain was a fairly good hitter as well.  What he lacked in size and
strength, he more than made up for in determination and calculating
patience at the plate.  He was rarely fooled by bad pitches.  I could
always depend on him to make contact and put the ball in play somewhere.
Occasionally he would even stroke a long one, uncoiling his awkward looking
wiry body in a sudden blast of power.

His cousin was a puzzling contrast.  Physically Jamie was a fraction of an
inch taller than Carl, and of the two, he was the more athletic looking.
He had unusual breath of shoulders for a youngster his age, and in marked
difference with Carl's skinny posterior, the blonde boy's muscular butt
jutted out in back, forcing his worn shorts to ride high on his hips.
Those shorts, much too big for him in their baggy looseness, ballooned like
sails around his firm well formed legs when he ran.

Jamie moved nicely with a graceful, loping stride.  In the fielding drill,
he positioned himself well and got to the ground balls quickly.  Yet I saw
right away that he was a poor fielder.  Everything would go well until it
was time for him to get his glove on the ball and then it would all fall
apart.  Somehow glove and ball never intersected.  But the grounders were
not getting by the boy.  Time after time I watched Jamie stop the ball with
his body, then pick up the white sphere and throw to the base.  It was as
if he was using his entire body as a glove.

At first I thought he was just showing me determined gutsy play, but it
happened again and again.  After he stopped one hot grounder that hopped up
on him by letting it hit him in the face, I became alarmed.  From then on
during the drill I eased up on the balls I hit to him so he would not get
hurt.

Jamie's throwing was odd, too.  His movement was good, he always had the
ball on line; but he was almost always too short or too long.  Max, the boy
I had covering first, usually had to step up or jump to get Jamie's tosses.

The whole effect was exceedingly peculiar.  It was as if I was watching a
beautifully designed racecar that was pouring smoke and stuttering on the
track.  Jamie moved with all the grace of a natural athlete, yet every ball
I hit to him was fielded awkwardly.  But every one of them got stopped.
Nothing went past him.

I decided that I must be in the presence of a raw, completely undeveloped
talent.  I began to coach the boy, calling out things I wanted him to do to
get his glove on the ball.  Surprisingly, whatever I suggested only made
Jamie's fielding worse.  Now, in addition to playing awkwardly, the boy
became more and more nervous, his face taking on a grim desperate look.  It
was at this point that he stopped the grounder I hit to him with his face.
I swiftly revised my tactics.  Giving him much easier balls to field, I
delivered a constant stream of praise:

"Way to go, way to go!  Nice stop.  That's the way to get down on it.  Good
job!"  Over and over I kept the positive encouragement coming.  Jamie
relaxed a little, but his face never lost that determined look and he did
not smile.

Batting practice was an eye-opener, too.  Jamie had a beautiful swing, but
he rarely made contact with the ball.  Over it, under it, ahead of it,
behind--but almost never on.  It was eerie.  There was nothing I could
point to in his swing that was causing him to miss; it was purely a matter
of timing and misjudgment.  By now I was very leery of offering any
coaching, so I delivered more praise, reassuring the boy about how
nice-looking his mechanics were.  I was finally rewarded by a towering fly
that went so far over the heads of the boys in the outfield they had to
scramble through the weeds all the way to the other end of the field to
retrieve it.

"That's the way, Jamie!" I told him encouragingly.  "That's the way to get
hold of it!  See, I told you that swing of yours was good."

I stepped over to the boy so I could hug his shoulders.  Jamie looked up
gratefully and gave me an uncertain little smile.  It had to be just a
question of practice and confidence I thought to myself.  The boy certainly
had the strength to hit well.  I could feel the breadth in his chest and
shoulders when I put my arm around him.

Right after practice Carl came over to me with Jamie tagging behind.
"Coach, can you fix it so Jamie can be on our team?"

My Field Captain put this in his usual self-confident way, so that it was
half a question and half a command.  I looked down at him and smiled.  I
was very, very fond of Carl.  "I don't know.  I'd have to try and get it by
the League President.  Why didn't Jamie register last month and try out?"

"How could he, Coach?"  Carl looked indignant, as if I ought to know.  "He
only came to live with us this week.  He was in another State.  He had to
wait until school was over.  And nobody knew he was coming.  But he wants
to play, Coach."

Carl delivered this last as if it ought to justify everything--and in a way
I had to agree.

"Is that right, Jamie?"  I asked.  "Would you like to play?"

The young, blonde haired boy glanced up at me and then dropped his eyes.
He nodded.  "Yes," he answered shyly.  Then he glanced up hopefully again.

"Have you played before?"

Jamie nodded.  "Last year.  Where I used to live."

So much for my theory of a raw undeveloped talent, I thought.  The coaching
he had gotten must've been poor.  And yet--someone had taught him that nice
swing.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Eleven."

This surprised me.  I had been assuming he was twelve.  I looked at him
curiously.  "When's your birthday?"

Carl answered for him.  "Not until September, Coach.  He counts as an
11-year-old."

As always, my little Captain was ahead of me.  If Jamie's birthday had been
any time before September First, he would have been considered a
12-year-old by the league-and it was much harder to add a 12-year-old to a
team after registration than an 11-year-old.  Extra 12-year-old players on
a team were considered an advantage.  But adding extra 11-year-olds was a
different story.  Coaches usually tried to avoid getting stuck with
additional 11-year-old rookies, and putting one on a team after the draft
generally did not cause too much fuss.  Carl was aware of all this.

I considered the problem.  I only had a dozen players.  Adding a thirteenth
would not complicate things too badly.  "Let me see what I can do," I told
the two boys.  "I don't want to guarantee anything, but I think I can
probably get it done.  I'll call you tonight.  You have the registration
fee money, Jamie?"

The sturdy blonde youngster looked down, embarrassed, and scuffed his cheap
basketball shoes on the dirt.  Carl stared up, meeting my eyes.  "He
doesn't Coach.  And... Well... You know...."

I did indeed know.  In the crowded trailer where Carl lived, his cousin was
presumably now making it even more crowded.  Carl's single mother worked
two jobs to make ends meet.  Carl shoveled driveways in the winter and did
odd jobs every spring to earn his basketball and baseball registration
fees.

"Look, Coach," Carl told me.  "If you'll fix it up for Jamie to be on the
team, he'll work it off.  I'll help him.  We'll take care of the equipment
all the time and we'll wash your truck every weekend during the season."

"And wax it," I told him.

The boy nodded.  "Okay, deal."

"I'll see what I can arrange."

When I called the League President that evening, I had some difficulty
talking him into letting Jamie play.

"I'm trying to discourage this kind of thing, Coach," he grumbled.  "These
late sign-ups cause all kinds of hard feelings.  I get it from the parents
and the coaches both."

"I know," I told him sympathetically.  "I don't like it either.  But what's
the poor kid supposed to do?  There was no way he could've signed up.  But
here he is now, and he wants to play.  It's not like he's so good that he's
gonna make any difference.  In fact, he's actually not so hot.  You can
come to my practice tomorrow and see for yourself.  And he's only 11.  I've
got room for him on my team.  I don't mind taking him.  Give the kid a
break."

I heard the old man sigh into the phone.  "Oh, hell," he said resignedly,
"It's not like we haven't done it plenty of times before.  Every year in
fact.  I'll drop off the papers at your practice tomorrow.  Tell the kid he
can play."

"Thanks.  I owe you one.  I'll name my firstborn son after you."

I heard a loud guffaw as the president hung up the phone.

So it was arranged.  I paid Jamie's registration fee and he joined our
team.  After Saturday practice that weekend, he and Carl helped me bag up
all the equipment, and then I took the boys home with me to my apartment
where they got started on cleaning the truck.

 [ 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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Hunter, listed under the J's (for Joe) in the prolific authors list.  To
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then select 'Prolific Authors'.  I hope you will read and enjoy!

All the Best.  Joe