Date: Sun, 10 Jun 2001 03:26:58 EDT
From: Dakotajoe2000@cs.com
Subject: The Closer, first installment

	This story is copyrighted and the sole possession of the author.
No duplication is permitted without the express written consent of the
author.  It will contain graphic description of consensual male to male
activity, which may or may not include sex and may be offensive to some.
If this is not something you wish to read, please look elsewhere.  I am not
Danny Graves, nor do I know him.  I am not associated with the Cincinnati
Reds in any form.  All events in this story are purely fictional.  I do not
know the sexuality of any of the characters and can not assume such, I can
only wish based on fantasy.  Constructive email can be sent to
Dakotajoe2000@cs.com

	The Closer, chapter one.

	I'm a hilljack.  There, I've said it.  For years I've tried to deny
that fact.  I don't know that it's such a bad thing, the city life doesn't
hold a whole lot of promise anymore.  I'm sitting on the back steps of my
grandmother's porch.  Well, it used to be her porch...it belongs to me now.
I wish it was still hers, but unfortunate circumstances have placed it in
my hands for upkeep.
	She was wonderful, that much I remember.  She would sit and tell us
stories, the other half of "us" being my sister.  We would be in the
kitchen sitting at that magnificent blue table.  It was mesmerizing.  It
had these nifty silver edges and you could see your reflection in it.  We
would be eating toast, toast that had been cut perfectly into corners at an
angle.  Sometimes it had melted butter on it, and those days we would have
powdered cinnamon or strawberry preserves to go with it.  There were other
days when it was just plain toast, and I liked those days the best.  She
always was up early to feed the birds, but on special days, she would wait
until I was up and I would get to help.  We would crack the kitchen door
and sneak onto the back porch.  She would lift me high into the air and I
would pour the little half cup of seeds into the feeder.  They must not
have been hungry birds, because there were always seeds in there.  Maybe
she just got up early and gave them some without me seeing.  She was
special.
	I remember the night of the fight.  My cousins always came up from
North Sixth Street when we were in town.  It was mostly my aunt that I
always heard, but it was my cousin Arthur that I associated with most,
being closest to my age of anyone in the family.  He was still
significantly older though.  Grammy would take the adults into the kitchen.
She, my mother, my aunt Barbara and Arthur would all sit down and play
cards until early in the morning.  Sometimes they would order Wallys Pizza.
I liked those nights....Arthur would sneak me a piece into the living room
when the older folks took potty breaks.  They always had coca-cola and I
was always allowed to have a small taste before I had to go to bed.
	On warm summer nights I was allowed to stay up later, but I still
wasn't invited to play cards.  I guess I understand that now as an adult,
but I was seven and felt left out.  Dad would make it up to me by letting
me go down into the field and catch lightning bugs.  Once it got dark
though, I had to come up into the main yard.  It was still big enough to
catch bugs in and I would happily run barefoot through the prickly grass.
As dark settled in, dad would corral my sister and me and it was off to
bed.  Well, she had to go to bed anyway.  I would sit on the front porch
and wait for him.  I would slide back and forth on the wooden panels seeing
how dirty I could get my feet.  This was always after my bath, of course.
Dad would return soon after and he would sit in the big wooden swing and
listen to the radio.  I counted the big trucks that rumbled up and down old
US route 22.  Every now and then, dad would relax a little bit and some
loud guy on the radio got really excited.  He explained the excitement of
baseball to me and I was hooked.  I later found out that we were listening
to the evening broadcast of Cincinnati Reds games.
	It was really hot that night.  Sleeping was going to be next to
impossible so I just lay on top of the covers and looked up at the ceiling.
The card game ended, although I'm not sure what time it was.  There wasn't
as much laughing as I was used to hearing, but I didn't think a thing about
it...there were big bugs in the corner of the room and I was busy watching
them.  I slowly began to drift off into a peaceful sleep when I heard my
mother crying.  It never took much to get my mother to that point, but it
was unusual for her to be crying here in Cambridge.  My eyes opened and I
looked over at my sister...she was still sound asleep.  I crept to the edge
of the bedroom and looked down the hallway towards the front room.  Grammy
and my father were yelling at each other.  I don't remember what was being
said, but I know my mom was trying to get them to stop.
	Grammy went out onto the porch and slammed the screen door behind
her.  She yelled at my dad through the screen and said that this was all
his fault.  What was his fault?  I ran down the hallway and my mother
grabbed me.
	"Go back to bed sweetie," she said.
	I stood there for a moment as my dad paced around the room.  Grammy
took off down the street in just her slippers and her nightgown.  Dad went
after her and brought her back to the house.  She had rage in her eyes.
For a nine year old to see rage, you know it was intense.  Dad informed us
we were leaving, to which I promptly replied that I was staying with
grammy.  She was about to let me when dad stepped in and said that he
wasn't about to let her influence me.  I was confused, tired and scared.
We ended up going home in the morning.
	It wasn't long after that episode that I found out grammy had lung
cancer and didn't have long to live.  They had fought about whose fault it
was she had it.  She had accused my father of causing it.  Things were
patched up in the family, but I think everyone knew it had to be that way
for my sake.  I had seen too much to not be affected by all of this.  She
died in March of the next year.  It was a quick illness period and I was
told she was pain free, or virtually so for the disease's nature.  It
wasn't any comfort to me.  The house sat empty for a long time.  Mom
couldn't garner up the strength to go in and take care of business.
	Months rolled by and turned into years.  Mom and dad slowly drifted
apart and got a divorce shortly after my sister graduated.  They had always
promised us they would stay together long enough to see both of us through.
Always looking out for the kids, what good parents they must have been.  I
don't have enough paper to refute that idea but that isn't the point
anyway.  Mom was involved in a serious car accident during my sister's
freshman year of college.  She was left paralyzed and unable to perform any
daily activities.  Her motor skills were seriously hampered as well, but
mom made the best of the situation.  We took some precautionary steps and I
became the executor of my mother's financial affairs.
	I had a wonderful job in Seattle at the time.  I even had a
boyfriend that I was deeply committed to.  He was wonderful enough to
understand the situation when I was forced to move home.  We still talk and
I wonder if I'll ever have anyone as special as him.  I didn't really look
for a relationship when I got back to town, I wasn't sure that it was a
smart idea with my mother being in the shape she was.
	I took a job as a bank teller in Cambridge.  Mom still hadn't
gotten around to taking care of the old house up on Highland Avenue and it
needed to be done.  I decided that it would be a nice project to keep my
mind off of things, mostly Joshua back in Seattle.  I was still close
enough to Columbus that I could be at her place in two hours or less if she
needed me, but far enough away that we both felt we had our independence.
My sister continued school and life went on as normal.
	Normal, to a degree.  Here I was, a 22 year old guy living away
from the city for the first time ever.  I wasn't used to small town living.
The fact that I was gay made the situation that much worse.  I felt a need
to escape, so I started doing something really stupid.  I began to write
letters.  I would take a special memory from my past, usually from my
grandmother's house or Cambridge and I would put it on paper.  I always
made it personal, almost like a love letter.  I would address it in several
ways, sometimes "to my boyfriend", other times to "my wonderful future
husband."
	Writing definitely addressed my emotional needs that weren't being
met, but the lack of someone to hold me at night nearly drove me nuts.  I
figured that if I sent the letters out, to a real person, that I could hold
on to the dream that he would in fact be reading them and dreaming about me
as well.  It was a fantasy at best, it was a nightmare waiting to happen at
worst.  What did I have to lose?
	So the letters kept flowing and I kept sending them.  It was just
as I had figured, and probably for the best: I never got a response.
Through all of my years of admiring baseball and being a devoted Cleveland
Indians fan, I had only found two players that were even remotely
attractive.  Jose Cruz played in the outfield for Toronto and Danny Graves
was a relief pitcher for Cincinnati.
	That was how it all started.  Once a week, usually on Friday
evening after a week of mindless transactions at the bank, I would sit at
that magnificent blue table in the kitchen and I would write.  I would seal
the envelope and address it to the Cincinnati Reds, attention Danny Graves,
the Closer.

************************************************************************
That's all for the introduction.  Chapter Two will start the actual letters
that were written.  If you have any comments, send them to
Dakotajoe2000@cs.com.

I have another story posted on here, in the college section.  Its entitled
Hanging By A Moment.  That's just if you're interested, of course.

Thanks for reading, Nick