1 comments/ 16199 views/ 1 favorites Silver Slugger By: Nigel Debonnaire The mountain peaks were turning red as dawn approached. Rocky Jones let his attention drift as the first batter of the 28th inning stepped into the box, gazing at the ribbon high above the stadium. "We've been playing all fucking night," he said to himself, then focused on the action, thumping his glove as the pitch came in. Rocky had gotten in midday before. It was a strange route from the middle of Alabama to the southern Rockies, taking 15 hours via planes and buses due to a severe weather system in the country's midsection, but he'd gotten a nap in the afternoon and felt somewhat human by the gametime at 7:00. A crack of the bat, and Rocky sprinted to the left field corner. The frozen rope sailed past him and skipped once on the grass before gunshot meeting with the outfield wall sent it spinning back his direction. Rocky managed to corral it and get it back to the infield in time to hold the hitter to a double. He looked vaguely familiar, maybe he was in Rocky's Class A ball league last year. Four years in pro ball meant a lot of faces to remember. "Good thing I'm not a pitcher or catcher," Rocky said to himself, "cause my memory's shit for anybody I haven't hit." The late May was starting to get hot in the Southern League cities, worse than the Texas league Rocky played in the year before. Rocky hated the heat and dust, but heat and heavy humidity were worse for a kid from northern Minnesota. The first two years of minor league baseball were a lark, like getting paid to play High School ball, but last year in High A ball the expectations were higher, and he barely fought his way to AA ball at the end of Spring Training. The next batter managed to strike out trying to sacrifice, but the next two hitters walked, filling the bases. The pitching coach came out to talk to the pitcher; the bullpen was silent since he was the last pitcher on the roster who'd been used that night. Rocky had pitched in high school, but the one time he tried it in the pros was an embarrassment, so he figured he'd keep his mouth shut about it. Let somebody else volunteer to pitch if this goes on much longer. This game had been a long struggle with lots of runs, but his team managed to match every rally the visitors over 28 innings and so they were playing into the dawn's early light. A left handed hitter strode to the batter's box: the stocky designated hitter with huge arms who had five hits and two walks so far that night. Rocky remembered him from the year before as his league's leader in home runs and RBIs. The coaches moved him several feet to his left and kept him at medium depth, moving the other outfielders back and the infield in. "What the hell is Mutt thinking?" he said aloud. Mutt DeMedici was infamous for strange strategies that kept his four Major League clubs solidly under .500 and his minor league clubs muddling through their seasons. Rocky bent over slightly and focused: a tall, lean man with sandy hair and blue eyes whose body became a coiled spring ready for the ball to come his way. A ball outside, and Rocky looked up at the owners box. A faint light shone within. M. C. McMillian was a maverick owner, creative and appreciated by the community, one of the senior owners of the Pacific Coast League, but blocked several times from owning major league teams. No-one seemed to know what he looked like, his picture never made the papers or the Internet and no one knew what he did for a living; rumor said he inherited his fortune, which is increased through shrewd investment. The players loved him; his new teammates told him at length how the owner treated them like kings. The clubhouse and trainer's room showed it. Several veterans who'd been to the Show said they'd seen worse in their Big League careers. A long drive into the seats just foul down the right field line and a pitch outside. It was just two days ago Rocky was hitting third for a winning team after working his way into the lineup and up the batting order. Mutt was frank with him when he arrived: "Kid, you're here for about ten days to fill in for a guy who's having a cup of coffee in the Show. When Tom gets back, you go back Alabama and see if you can keep your incredi-fucking nasty hitting streak alive. You'll be doing caddy work here: a couple of late innings in the outfield here and there and maybe a pinch hitting or pinch running appearance or two. If somehow you catch fire here, we'll reconsider, but for now you should just find a place to crash for a few days 'stead of renting an apartment. Coach Harnkess knows a couple of guys on the club needing a temporary roommate. Get your gear stowed and take a nap. We'll need you in uniform tonight, but don't count on getting in the game unless there's extra innings." A foul straight back and another ball. Full count with one out, and the shortstop turned around to remind him. The red ribbon on the peaks grew and brightened. Rocky was first up in the bottom of the inning, but he'd been a pro long enough to know he couldn't think about that yet. He entered the game in the 11th inning as a pinch runner, but his speed was useless as the trail runner and he was stranded in his only scoring opportunity. The pitchers in AAA ball were throwing BBs, his feeble swings brought weak foul balls, and the futility bothered him between innings. Another loud foul down the right field line and another foul straight back. If this guy connected in fair territory, the game would be over this inning. Rocky thought about his girl back in Minnesota, Connie Larsen, spending the summer with her family in Albert Lea. Blond, blue eyed, and a Scandinavian body that made him erect just thinking of it. Phone calls were a lousy way to maintain a relationship, and lately she was rather distant when he managed to get hold of her. Her father gave him rotten looks every time he appeared at their door. He'd refused several offers to go hunting with the old man in the cold and snow, worrying since he frequently referred to Dick Cheney. . . A huge swing and the ball sailed like a wounded quail down the left field line toward no man's land just behind third base. Rocky reacted instantly, gauging the flight of the ball as he sprinted across the turf. It seemed futile at first, he was sure it would fall in, scoring at least two runs. He willed himself faster and tried to kick in another gear. The quail hung in the deep blue sky, not wanting to touch down. The altitude was affecting it; Rocky never played at altitude before. Hope arose in his chest, but the ball had to come down sometime soon. The third baseman and shortstop were racing out, but with the infield drawn in they were farther away from the ball than Rocky and had bad angles to reach it. The quail slowly dipped toward the earth. Rocky reached out his gloved left hand, straining as far as he could. Distantly, he heard the few remaining fans roaring, diehard baseball fans willing to sit up all night just to say they'd been there as a badge of honor. His feet were barely touching the ground, the wind singing in his ears, his arm stretching farther and farther as he tried to catch up with the ball. The quail was coming to earth. Rocky didn't think; he left his feet to lunge at the falling projectile. Years and years of practice took over, guiding his actions, preparing for impact. The ball settled in his glove just before his arm hit the ground, and by a miracle stayed there. His body skidded across the green turf for an eternity. Rocky rolled to pop to his feet, looking down the third base line ahead of him: the runner had tagged and was heading home. His arm reached back and sent a cannon shot home. At first, the throw seemed to be offline to the right, but it tailed back to land in the catcher's glove at waist level on one hop. One second later the runner arrived, but the squat Sumo guarding the plate hung onto the ball through the collision and the inning ended with an unlikely double play. Rocky trotted into the dugout, accepting his teammates gratitude, and switched gears to take his at bat. "Hey, you probably made SportsCenter," Coach Harkness enthused, and Manager DeMedici gave a rare smirk. "You're up, Rocky," the old man said, his face returning to its usual wrinkled mask. "Get on base." The sky was growing more and more normal crystalline blue as daylight approached, the red on the mountaintops gave way to yellow and the horizon sported a red streak. A few stars valiantly competed against the growing light, but only the brightest were succeeding. No breeze, and the birds were just starting to call the sun over the horizon. "Hey, is this the longest game ever?" Rocky asked as he took his place in the batter's box. The opposing catcher remained silent, but the umpire said: "No kid. Longest game was Rochester at Pawtucket, 33 innings. But they played it over 2 days. C'mon, let's go. Play ball." The pitcher looked in for a sign, nodded and prepared to deliver. Rocky crouched in the right handed batter's box, focused on his adversary, trying to forget the previous two at bats against this guy were three pitch strikeouts. The windup and the pitch sent a ball with a dot inward. A breaking pitch that wasn't breaking, a batter's dream. Rocky almost gasped as it grew from a BB to a beach ball, and struggled to hold his composure waiting for the hanging curve to reach him. Instinct took over again. Rocky didn't think; his hands drew back slightly, then propelled his bat through the strike zone, sending the orb deep to left center field with a rifle sharp crack. He didn't think it would make the seats, so he sprinted to first as fast as he could, turning to see its flight when he rounded the bag as his heart pounded. The speed was unnecessary: the second base umpire was making a circle with his hand, ending the game with a home run call. Rocky slowed to a trot and floated around the bases as the other team trudged off the field, meeting his new teammates at home plate to dance in group celebration. The celebration was muted. A long night's work had taken a lot out of everyone, and there was another game that night, in twelve hours. There was backslapping and glee in the shower room, but all were ready to go home. After Rocky changed, Mutt DeMedici approached him with a smile on his face. "Nicely done, kid, nicely done. Highlight of your fucking life so far, I bet." "Yes, sir." "You don't have to call me sir, kid, just call me Mutt like everybody else." "Yes, Mutt." "Well, you got another piece of Christmas coming. Just got the call: you're the Silver Slugger tonight, I mean, today." "Silver Slugger?" "Yeah. In the majors, it goes to the batting champion. Here, it means you get a special reward from above. See that door over there?" He pointed to a door in the clubhouse marked 'Silver Slugger'. "Yes." "Well, go through that door and do as you're told. A little perk from above to tonight's MVP. Enjoy." "What's going to happen?" Mutt smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. "You'll like it, don't worry," he said solemnly, turning and leaving the clubhouse. Rocky stood there several moments, stunned, and one of the veterans came up. "You the Silver Slugger, Rocky?" He nodded his head quizzically. "You've got it made, friend, savor the fruits of victory. Relax, this is a good thing." A slap on the butt, and the veteran was gone. Timidly, he turned the doorknob and entered a descending hallway. The colors were the same as the locker room: light blue and lavender, the team colors. Light jazz oozed from unseen speakers: Rocky shook his head and walked like a zombie down the hallway. He hadn't heard jazz before, even at the strip clubs he visited with his teammates past. The corridor ended with a wall, a video monitor at chest level playing a clip of a woman giving a well endowed man oral sex. On his left there was a hole in the wall at waist height, covered with a black cloth on the inside. The video played out, and was replaced by a text message screen. Hello, Silver Slugger. "Er, hello?" That's all right, I can hear every word you say, Rocky. Just keep talking. Great game tonight. "Well, thanks, but it wasn't that good. Struck out a couple of times and let that ball by me in the last inning." You came through under pressure with a great catch and hit the game winning home run. You've made your mark up here. "Thanks. I hope I can help the team while I'm here." You will, you will. Now, stick your dick through the hole in the wall. "What?" Put your Louisville slugger in the place indicated. It's time for your special bonus. He paused several seconds. 'How do I know it's not some kind of trick?" It IS some kind of trick, but you'll like it. "I know all kinds of things that can happen if I put my dick in there. You could spray it with skunk juice, or snap it in a rat trap, or you could be a big, hairy dude with two day's stubble." Where do you come from? Did somebody trick you like this before? "No, but I watched that old Robert Redford movie where he plays baseball and this chick in a hotel room pretends to like him then messes him up good." The Natural. Great movie, and based on a real event, but that's not going to happen to you here. Didn't your manager and your teammates say this is a good thing. "Yeah, but they may be messing with me." If you're unsure, stick your hand through the hole. Reluctantly, Rocky put his hand through the hole, and it was immediate taken by a soft, feminine hand. Velvet lips encircled his index finger, a tongue teasing his cuticle, a gentle suction drew him in. After several moments, the hungry mouth released, and he found his hand cupping a palm sized breast, whose skin felt like satin, topped by a hard nipple. A tweak of the bud brought a squeak of delight. He pulled his hand out. Satisfied? "Yes. But I've got a girlfriend back home. . ." She's not here, is she? "No." Don't worry, I won't tell her anything. Put your dick through the hole. I want to make you feel good. He unbuttoned his fly and tentatively put his limp penis through the hole. Immediately, two soft hands began to stroke it alternately, making him hard almost immediately. One hand reached down to caress his balls while the other wanked him with long strokes. It was heavenly, and Rocky's eyes looked up at the ceiling. His girlfriend gave him a hand job like this on their first date. Connie gasped as she groped his trousers at his size, and released it immediately to look at it in awe. His sperm messed up the back seat of his car, and he had to spend most of the next morning cleaning it up, but it was worth it. The velvet lips were teasing the end of his cock. A serpent tongue flicked out to tease the crevasses at the head, making his balls tingle. The stroking and teasing went on for an eternity before the mouth suddenly engulfed half his protuberance and started sucking hard. Connie never did anything like this, contenting herself to nibble at his pole once and avoiding the stream she called forth. Suddenly, he was released, his Louisville slugger dripping with saliva, abandoned momentarily. For a few moments, it entered a soft, silky cave of skin between two plush cushions, then the body on the other side turned for him to enter her vagina. He felt her inner lips against his cock, which swallowed him slowly but surely until he was completely embedded in her wet canal. Connie never did this for him; she was determined to remain a virgin until marriage. Rocky had never done this before, and he couldn't believe how wonderful it was to pound away inside a willing partner. Spasms surrounded his rock hard dick, and after some shuddering, pulled off again, leaving him unspent. The screen awoke to life. That was fantastic, Rocky. Did you like that? "God yes, why did you stop?" That orgasm took my breath away. Have to settle down a bit. Your dick is so wonderful. Give me a minute and I'll give you the best head of your life. He could hear heavy breathing from the other side, and the hand returned to keep him hard. After a moment, he felt a tongue on his balls; Connie had refused to tea bag him point blank when he asked her. His bat grew incredibly stiff and he though he was going to blow his load within seconds, then the mouth swallowed him again, working deeper and deeper until he felt her nose in his pubic hair. It was even more incredible than being buried in that snatch a few moments ago, and soon he erupted in long, thick ropes down her waiting throat. She licked him clean afterward, still stroking him gently and playing with his balls. Finally, he was back to normal and withdrew to put himself away. The screen came to life again. Congratulations, Silver Slugger. You've received your well earned reward. Keep your eye on the ball and your mind in the game, and you may see this place again. Rocky staggered back up the passageway, where his new roommates were waiting for him. They said nothing as he emerged, but gave him shit eating grins. "Now you know why we play hard every day here," Phil Benson the shortstop said. "Let's grab some steak and eggs before getting some shut eye." Mary Catherine McMillian sat in her special room putting her lipstick on when her daughter came into the room. It was a lavish room, with a large comfortable chair, laptop computer and a hole in the wall next to the chair. "Mother, I still can't believe you're doing this," the younger woman groused, her foot tapping relentlessly on the floor. "You're out of your fucking mind." The older woman checked the buttons of her silk blouse and adjusted the lapels. She wore a dark business suit over it, shorter than ususal. The suit hid a fantastic body, lean and seductive, and her blonde hair was just beginning to transition subtly to grey. "Look Wandawiggle, I'm old enough and have enough money to do whatever the hell I want, so get off my back. I love baseball and I love anonymous sex. That kid was the best hung stud we've ever had here. I loved every minute. Get off my back." Wanda McMillian paced the room nervously. "Stop calling me Wandawiggle, I'm an adult now. You're forty eight years old. You should be more dignified." "Once again, I've got enough money I don't care. Fuck you, I've earned it. You're twenty five, when the hell are you going to start giving me grandchildren?" "Shit, mother, do we have to start that again?" "You would be better off if you got laid once in a while. That Karen girl you hang out with isn't going to make you happy." "Damn you, Mother, damn you to hell. You just don't understand." Mary Catherine got up and strode over to get in her daughter's face. "Look kid, we've got a long history in baseball, a dynasty going back to Cap Anson, and we've got to think of the future. Somebody has to inherit this, and I don't care if you want to munch carpet the rest of your life, you're the only one who can keep this family going. Give me some grandchildren before your uterus falls out." "You aren't dignified enough to be a grandmother. Why do you sneak down here and give your players blow jobs when they do well? Why don't you just fuck them in some sleazy hotel?" "I have to maintain my players' respect. If they knew I was fucking and sucking them, they wouldn't pay attention to me, they'd treat me like a fuck toy. I wouldn't have any respect or control of them at all." "You are a fuck toy." Undisturbed, Mary Catherine continued. "This way I can motivate them, cultivate some mystery, and get them to bust their balls for me out on the field. And I get as much free, no strings attached sex as I want as long as somebody on the team is playing well." Silver Slugger: the Sixth Game Mary Catherine McMillian sat in owner's box in the eighth inning of the Sixth Game. Her boys fought hard during this championship series; they won the first two games at home, lost three on the road, and now they were poised to claim the Sixth Game at home. If they made it to Game Seven, anything could happen. But they were three outs away, after her team finished hitting in this inning, and had a two run lead to protect. Another run or two would be nice: no cushion was big enough. Her friend, Clara Plaisance sat next to her, dressed as her hostess in a grey business suit with a silk white blouse with a frilly collar. Clara was her main consultant, closer than her General Manager, and the only other person permitted in the owner's box beside her daughter Wanda. She looked down over the bleachers and found the box for player's wives and girlfriends. "Wanda seems to enjoy being a player's girlfriend," Clara said while sipping a margarita. M.C. looked through her binculars at her daughter, sitting in the field box behind home plate wearing a sundress and flipflops next to her friend Karen, dressed in a blue top and red shorts. "Wanda's playing the part all right, though I wish that bull-dyke Karen would get lost. Rocky's a sweet kid and he deserves a woman who's focused on him alone." Rocky Bridges, the starting left fielder, was her boyfriend. "They do seem to be close." "I worry it's the Three Amigos more than anything else. They're always hanging out as a threesome" "Just wait, M. C. You never know with kids. They may be having some threesomes in the bedroom." M.C. snorted in disgust. Rocky Bridges strode to the plate in the bottom of the 8th, facing the other side's top reliever with two out. Three pitches later he deposited a fastball over the centerfield fence to increase the lead to 5-2. The women jumped to their feet to watch the drive and applaud. "That's my boy," M. C. said, "That's my boy. I kept him when they wanted him sent down and I was fucking right." "Damn straight," Clara added. Looking down the foul line, she wondered: "Isn't Mutt getting Manny ready to pitch the 9th?" The home bullpen was library quiet. "Doesn't seem like it," M. C. replied. "The bullpen's been worn out this series; he may hope Dober can get three more outs." Clara pushed an imaginary hair from her immaculate coif away from her face. "That's not completely crazy, which would be a switch for Mutt. Dober used to lead the league in complete games, although that was another generation. However, I wouldn't leave him out there without backup when the season's on the line." They settled down to sip their drinks and watch the next at bat. The bottom of the 8th ended and Dober took the mound for his warmups. "One more inning," he said under his breath, "One more inning." He started his warm ups slowly, the first a gentle lob, before letting it go gradually over the next 7 pitches. Looking in the stands as the ball whipped around the infield after the last warmup, he spotted Rocky Bridges' girls in the stands. He had an instinct: both Wanda and her friend Karen were pregnant. The look in the eyes and the very slight blush in their faces told him. It was a party trick that fried people's minds over the years, perplexing his teammates and embarrassing their wives and girlfriends. Karen was an extremely heavy woman with a thick face and short hair that Dober couldn't imagine getting a date. "Rocky must be some stud," he muttered to himself. The catcher came out to talk before the first hitter. "You all right, Dober?" "Sure, Bill. Three outs, right?" "Right. You know what you want to do?" "Yup." The first batter strode to the plate and Bill Brixton sauntered in his armor to crouch behind him. The umpire looked at the hill and pointed; John Wesley Hardin, better known as Dober, entered an ethereal state.of focus. Left hand pull hitter–little crouch–dead pull hitter, first pitch fastball–three fingers down, shaken off, arm hurts too much to throw a curve–cotton candy for sale behind the plate, too late for beer--nod, wind, stretch–weight shift, ball zipping past his ear, bouncing into fielding position–Herb Score fear–ball–what the fuck is wrong with that bastard, that was a strike three innings ago–lights in the owner's box--one finger, nod–nod, wind, stretch–weight shift–fastball on the fists, blooped to short–easy catch–one down. The ball went around the infield, and returned to him via third base. Mopping his brow, he looked in the visitor's dugout. A rare night for his family: his son started for the other side; the first time in baseball at any level. There were more pictures than usual before the game, lots of posing. Frankie was a good boy, talented, and he'd probably make the Show during Spring Training. Dober remembered his first Spring Training: the anxiety, the hard work, the reckless, anonymous fun. He envied his son's future for a moment. Right hand hitter–slap hitter, used the whole field–infield shift, short and second–girl in the back flashing right field, stop you bitch–hold the ball–damn girl distracting my fielder–two fingers, nod–wind, stretch–split finger, ball one–shit, missed that one–crack of ball hitting leather and stinging his left hand–nod, wind, stretch–weight shift–change up in the dirt–damn, my shoulder hurts–return–gotta get this in–nod, wind stretch–weight shift–line drive up the middle, reach and duck–through the infield–centerfielder getting it back in–runner stops at first–shit,shit,shit,shit. Texas Joe Finnerty trotted over from first base for a visit. "Whad'ya wanna do, John?" Texas Joe as scrupulously polite kid from Austin who was borderline for promotion, and refused to call anyone by a nickname, even though he answered to dozens. "Wanna keep 'im close?" "No, Joe. Let him go. Play your usual position; he can steal all three bases and it won't matter. I gotta get two more batters out." As Texas Joe returned, Dober pawed the dirt behind the mound with his spikes. A twinge sizzled through his body from his right shoulder to his spine and down his legs. He fought an urge to rub it, dared not share a sign of weakness at this point of the game. He remembered a line from the Dan Quisenberry poem "Time to Quit.". Dan was a major league pitcher who wrote about his last year: "a doberman gnaws my shoulder/with each toss". Chuckling, he thought about how ironic it was: he got his nickname for his tenacity on the mound, worrying hitter with the tenacity of a Doberman, and now it described the feeling in his pitching shoulder and elbow. Just like Quiz, he thought with a wince. In the owners' box, M. C. leaned forward and Clara went to fix another Margarita on the rocks. "Make mine a double Scotch, Clara," M. C. said quavering. "Sure, M. C. You think Mutt's going to stay with Dober?" "The bullpen's starting to move around. Yeah, he'll probably get Manny up if this guy gets on. The tying run's still on deck." They watched Dober take the rubber and stare in with laser eyes, holding the ball. The batter returned his gaze with arrogance and cockiness. "Didya see the lump in Dober's pants?" Clara said out of the blue. "What?" M. C. replied. Dober stepped off the mound, and all relaxed. "Dober's got a huge bulge under his belt. Like he's got two pairs of socks stuffed in there. You ever get into that?" M. C. looked at it through her binoculars. "No, I don't--think so. But a nice thought." Her face creased in a smirk. "His boy had a big pair of pants as well." Clara said, handing her friend a drink. "His boy isn't on my team," she sniffed. "And he got run out of the game in the fourth inning." Clara licked her lips. "Almost makes you forget there's a game's going on." "You're sick, Clara." The hitter's attitude was rubbing Dober the wrong way. The young man with bulging biceps and an arrogant smile was a hotshot in this league, but he's failed to stick three times in the Big Leagues. Bill the catcher looked up at him, then back at his pitcher and shrugged his shoulders. Crouching, one foot on the rubber–hate that damn smile–coming to the set position–stop dancing at first, you little prick, you don't matter–fist means your choice–hell, it's my last game, let's do it old school--nod, wind, stretch–weight shift–fastball two inches away from his shoulder–damn sissy, flopping back like that–almost moved into it–umpire holding up his hand in warning, Bill getting between him and the plate–disbelief in his eyes as he gets up, a little fear–you deserved it, you little prick. Clara jumped up from her seat: "What the hell was that all about? He threw at him. Why did he throw at him?" The replay flickered by; M. C. followed it closely. "Dober's got balls. The pitch wasn't that close. This kid's a wuss after all. I love it; that's old school. Get him, Dober. Sic 'em!" At the rubber again–smile gone from the bastard's face, not swinging as hard–chick upstairs can't keep her top on–lean back, wait–runner dancing at first, go ahead you little prick, run–two fingers, not the splitter Bill, shake off–one finger, curve, another shake–three fingers, fastball, another shake–four fingers, changeup, nod–wind, stretch, weight shift–ball zipping past his ear–big swing, all air, falling forward–ball saunters by–strike one, stupid. "This is a master at work," M. C. bellowed, "Get'im, Dober. You got this guy, c'mon. Give me a pennant and I'll give you the ride of your long life." Clara and M. C. watched as Dober ran the count to 2 and 2, then the hitter fouled off several pitches. Dober winced noticeably after every pitch, more and more, but refused to back off. "Is he hurt?" Clara asked. "Is he going to come out? It looks like his arm's going to fall off." "No," M. C. said flatly. "He will keep throwing pitches until one of them gives up. And I'll be the kid, not Dober." The bullpen was standing, motionlessly watching the duel. The runner at first stopped his dancing, uncovered as a distraction and ignored. The third base coach went through useless signals and clapped his hands; the hitter had to get on base somehow. The fans were clapping rhythmically during the pauses, trying to pass their energy and will to Dober, to keep him going. Crouch, stare–kid's a little bent out of shape, can't handle the tension–one strike and he's gone–damn, damn, damn doberman, gnawing on my shoulder–two fingers, low and outside, nod–wind, stretch, weight shift, whizzing past ear–awkward swing, reaching, dull contact–soft grounder to short–Phil's a pro, takes his time quickly–toss to second, pivot–Jerry's calm; he's done it a thousand times–runner eating dirt to get out of the way, nowhere close to second–race to first, no contest–Texas Joe cradles it two seconds before the foot hits the base–it's over, it's over, thank God, thank God, thank God, thank God, thank God! The voice of God announced the final score as the batter continued down the first base line into the outfield, and Dober's teammates gather to pound his back and hug him in celebration. They jostled his painful arm and shoulder, but he didn't care. It was a last game win, keeping his team alive for a shot at the championship. He did his job; not bad for a 45 year old man who started pitching before most of his teammates and adversaries were in diapers. Clara and M.C. celebrated their victory alone in the box. "One more game," Clara said, clasping M. C. close and kissing her full on the lips. "Yes," M. C. said after disengaging. "Almost there." "Yes." They broke their embrace and finished their drinks. "Another?" Clara inquired coquettishly. "No. Need to cap this off another way." Clara smiled and started unbuttoning her blouse. "I thought you'd never ask." M. C. laid her hand on Clara's cheek. "No, Sweetness. I'm going downstairs." "Going to find out if Dober really has the biggest dick on your team?" M. C. smiled and her friend responded: "Need any help?" M. C. shook her head. "I think I can still handle a big bat by myself, even a really big one. It's been a great season, and I'm in training." Clara pouted. "Well, if you need relief early, you know where I live. I'll be warming up in the pen." M. C. smiled sweetly and kissed her cheek, patting it. "Of course." Mutt DeMedici sat at a table placidly, sipping beer with his winning pitcher. Dober's right shoulder had an icebag strapped on it, and another was fixed to his right elbow; he was used to drinking left handed after a game. The other boys were in a good mood, confident but restrained, remembering they had another night's work to reach their goal of a pennant. Wanda and Karen arrived arm in arm to pick up Rocky, leering at his wet, towel wrapped body, trading barbs with the other players. Other wives and girlfriends were wandering in; fortunately everybody except Rocky, Dober and Mutt were already showered and dressed. "Well, Dober, thanks," Mutt started out of the blue. "You still got it." "You're welcome, Mutt. I've had it; this is it. I don't need it anymore. As of now, I'm retired." Mutt shook his head. "You gotta be here tomorrow, Dober." "Oh, I will be, but you don't need a clod footed pinch runner, or a strike out king at the plate in a DH league. Tonight were the very last drops of blood from this turnip. It was great making history with Frankie, but this was one of a kind. Now we've got something in common with the Griffeys." He took a long draw from his beer. "It was a great season with you and the boys. We're about to win it all. This is the way to go out. Thanks, Mutt." Mutt chuckled. "You remember how many times you struck me out?" "13, all in the Sally League. We were both 19 years old, a lifetime ago. You stalled out in AAA." "And you went to the Show a year and a half later. 23 years in the Bigs, 8 All Star Teams, third in the Cy Young race five times, six 20 game win seasons, fourth, no, fifth on the All Time Strikeout list. . ." "Ten years wandering from team to team after the team I loved dumped me, ending my Big League career with my one appearance in the World Series: one inning of garbage relief to finish the last game on the losing end of a sweep." They sipped their beers and watched the players drift away. Rocky managed to dress himself and bounded out with his women. "I appreciate you coming along for the ride this year," Mutt said. "You could have stayed at home." Dober shrugged his shoulders. "I just painted my apartment and got tired of watching the paint dry. You needed a warm body." "You won some big games for us, including this one. I know how much it cost you, how much you hurt. Thanks." All quiet in the home locker room, and two old players finished their beer. "By the way," Mutt said, "You're the Silver Slugger tonight." "What?" "You know what I'm talking about, Dober. That little reward management hands out for great performances. Down the special hallway. Enjoy." Dober threw him a sneer and finished his beer. Standing up slowly, he winced as his back popped and his knees creaked. He took a fresh beer and sauntered to the special door. Mutt went back to his office with a fresh beer, and prepared to make up his lineup card for Game 7. The descending hallway continued the theme of the team colors. The corridor ended with a wall, a video monitor at chest level playing a clip of a woman giving a well endowed man oral sex. Dober frowned and sipped his beer. On his left there was a hole in the wall at waist height, covered with a black cloth on the inside. The video played out, and was replaced by a text message screen. Hello, Silver Slugger. "Hello. I'm not a slugger, by the way. I'm a pitcher, I work hard for what I get." That was the greatest game I've ever seen from a pitcher. "Thanks, Kat. We needed the win. And you're wrong." We absolutely need this win. And you got it for us, giving the boys in the 'Pen a deserved rest. Tomorrow we can win the Series. "Yup. Just doing my job." What did you just say, a moment ago? You don't believe me? This isn't the greatest pitched game I ever saw? Never mind. Now for your bonus. You know what to do with the wall, don't you? "Yup." Well, present yourself and get what's coming to you!" "Nope" A pause. There was confusion on the other side. Did you just say no? "I did. My arm hurts like hell and I'm tired. Got no time for stupid games, Kat." But I want to make you feel good. "Thanks. Got what I need right here. Ice on the arm, and beer to drink." Don't you want a fantastic blow job? "Not right now, thanks. Not this way." I can go farther. "I know. Believe me, I know." You do? "Rocky is my friend." Shit. Does everybody know now? "Nope. I don't like gossiping; I'm not a woman. The only guys who know about this have come down here, other'n me. Your secret's still safe, Kat." That's one way to put it. Still, I can go farther. I can fuck you any way you want. "I know, Kat. I remember. Yes, I remember it well." There was a long pause, and deep breathing from the other side. "You know I know, Kat. Just after the greatest game you ever saw pitched. Surely you remember." A woman's voice came through the hole. "Remember what?" "A Perfect game. Champaign, Illinois, 26 years ago." A pause, and then a command. "Come up to the Owner's box." "Why?" He drew out the monosyllable to tease her. "Because you're my employee and I told you to." she spat out quickly. "The attendant will let you in. We have to talk." "Fine with me." It took Dober a while to return through the clubhouse and the stadium to the owner's box door; it wasn't easy to find on purpose. The attendant let him in without a word and after riding up a small elevator, he walked down a hallway to a plush box overlooking the third base line. Someone sat on a couch facing the field as he entered, the only light coming through the plate glass window from the park's security lights. He sipped his beer and waited. A voice usually confident spoke with uncertainty. "You have to remind me. I used to live near Lincoln Park in Chicago 26 years ago." "You were a music teacher in a High School on the North Side. You had the bands, all the bands, including the pep band." "Yes. I'd almost forgotten." "At the end of the school year you took your pep band to the Illinois High School baseball championships in Champaign. University of Illinois stadium, weather was hot for May. Your school won it all." "They did. We had a great time, I let the kids have some fun, and we came home with a trophy." "Yes. Remember the final game? Remember it?" "It was a perfect game. 27 batters up and 27 batters retired. We won it all on a perfect game." "Who was the pitcher?" A long pause, an uncomfortable silence. Dober sipped his beer, and waited patiently. At last the answer came. "It must have been you," came a whisper. "Yes." Dober could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. Slowly, the realization dawned. "You, you, ah, ah, John Wesley Hardin." "Named after a Western gunslinger." "You pitched that perfect game." "After the bus ride home, you waited for me. You were so happy we won, and you asked me over to your place. You had a little apartment off Lincoln Park, third floor walkup, no air conditioning, sparse." Another pause and an intake of breath. "We made love that night," she whispered. "We made love that night, the next day, the next night and the day after. When I got home Sunday night, my Methodist minister dad gave me holy hell for missing church. I didn't care; I found the girl of my dreams. I came straight back to you." Her eyes looked down as she tried to remember. "It was so long ago." "You lost track of me. We were together three weeks. Fantastic sex, night after night, and every day we wandered through paradise beside the Lake. You said it was alright, a student fucking a teacher, since I graduated just before the playoffs. I was drafted by the Red Sox, and went off to play minor league ball, then fall instructional league. By the time I got back home, you'd moved." Silver Slugger: the Sixth Game "I got engaged. Got married in early September, Labor Day weekend. Away from Chicago." "To a man who gave you money." "To a man who gave me lots of money in ten years before he dropped dead of a heart attack." "You've done very well." "I knew what to do with it. I know how to make money from money. I know how to run a ball club, too." "And he gave you a daughter? Didn't he?" "No. I don't think so," she said softly. "Someone else did." "Who?" Another pause and a faint reply. "There were so many. I was a slut in those days." Dober chuckled into her beer can. "Always, Kat, always. The guys used to talk about you in the locker room all the time: you went through the faculty and administration by Christmas, both sexes. There was a circle jerk dedicated to you by the basketball team one night in the shower room. The band guys could hardly watch your hands. You're still pretty much a slut. The Silver Slugger tradition is your way of working that out." His voice was calm and non-judgmental. "Touché." There was a clink as she took a sip from an iced drink. "We did get a I rating at District Music Contest." A distant boom from a storm reverberated, the clouds were moving from North to East. "How did you figure me out? I went to a lot of trouble to keep this little tradition a secret. I went to a lot of trouble to keep me a secret." "I'm not a dummy, and you're not the only one who can manage money. Wanda looks so much like you did then: when I met her through Rocky I thought I'd gone through a time machine. I helped Rocky find an apartment and we spent a lot of time talking; I like the kid. He told me about his girlfriends, and details Wanda dropped about her life tripped my radar. She didn't withhold a lot other than she's the owner's daughter. The bits and pieces she threw out about herself and her mother and they made sense after a while. The Internet, a few friends, and an investigator filled it in." "Very nice, Sherlock. First class, I should say. I thought you looked familiar when I first saw you last spring, but I couldn't put my finger on it." They sipped their drinks. Flickers of a thunderstorm in the distance provided a show, but in the wrong direction for a local shower. "Kat, I know who Wanda's father is," he said softly Kat turned to look at Dober, one eyebrow raised. "Really?" "Really." "Who?" "Me." A pause and a look. "She looks a little like you around the eyes. Got proof?" "Yup. I'll show it to you, if you want. Got some hair and saliva, sent it off to a lab. She's got my mother's eyebrows and ears. Results came back a month ago. Nobody knows except you and me." They sipped their drinks and Dober finished his, dropping the can in the wastebasket. "So where do we go now?" she said at last. "What do you want? A job next year? Pitching coach? Front office?" "My wants are very simple." "Here is comes. What are your wants?" There was a long, dramatic pause, and a twinkle in his eye showed in the dim light. "I'd like to fuck you again, Kat." Kat's jaw dropped. Her head turned to one side, trying to digest the information. "How many times were you married?" "Three. Distance killed them all: all the women I married wanted me to quit baseball and get a regular life before I wanted to." "Married now?" "Nope." "Dating?" "Used to date off and on. After a few years, I got tired of the bimbos. Not for eight years now.". "Children?" "Five. Four boys and one girl--besides Wanda, so I guess she makes six. Three from marriage number one and two from number two." "Frankie your oldest till now?" "Yup. Got three grandchildren, too. Frankie's little boy's 18 months, and Sid has 6 month old twins." She went to the bar and fixed herself another Scotch on the rocks. Taking off her coat and loosening the top button of her blouse, she faced him five feet away, shaking her head. "I don't get you." He smiled. "My turn. I know you're not married now; any boyfriends, Kat?" "Nope. Got tired of the bastards. I run my life and my business." "No problem. Any other kids than Wanda?" "No. She's the only one. I want grandchildren." "You'll have them; she's pregnant." Kat's jaw dropped. "How do you know?" "I know. I've got a gift. Get her to take a test, you'll see. And her friend, Karen." "Damn bulldyke." "You're being unfair. You used to sleep with women before men wrote letters to Penthouse about it. Maybe you still do." "Touché." She batted her eyes and unbuttoned another button. Dober blinked and watched the show. "So John, why do you want to sleep with me again? You know all my secrets, you can expose me to the world, ruin my plans. You have a lot of leverage over me; you could ask me for a job, money, stock options, and I'd have to give it to you. If I were unscrupulous I could have you murdered." "You're not that ruthless." He looked at the refrigerator at the bar with a question in his eyes. She nodded and he went over, discovering a premium beer within. Finding an opener, he cracked it open and took a sip. The distant light show played out an barely illuminated their staredown. He broke the tense silence. "You're the most fabulous woman I've ever known. I adored you since High School, I watched you as you walked through the hallways in your sweaters, short skirts and heels. When you lured me into your pad, I went willingly, like a sailor swimming out to meet the Sirens. Those weeks were the finest loving I've ever known. Not only the finest sex, it was more. We spent a lot of time running around the Loop, having fun in the park at the diamond. The touch of your lips on my body, the touch of my hands on your skin have haunted me ever since. No one was as good as you, I never found enough of you in another woman. I've craved you all these years." She looked down, embarrassed. He put down his beer, came over and raised her face with his left index finger. "I'm comfortable, I've got a wonderful place to live in the Ozarks, I don't have to work another day in my life," he said. "I got a great family, and it's growing. 26 years ago, a 21 year old who graduated from college early and went into teaching encountered a 19 year old freshly graduated senior and they made beautiful music together. You're still so lovely, Kat, I can hardly bear to look at you, you're so beautiful. I know I'm a worn out old man, but I'd like to make a little of that music again. No games, no strings, no expectations." A tear crept down her cheek. Her mouth moved and she took the finger in her mouth and began sucking it, running her tongue around the fingernail. His eyes closed and he put his right hand on the bar to steady himself. Flickers of electricity painted the horizon outside, and a breeze rattled the stadium. Suddenly, she let the finger go. "I have one question for you, John," she asked, shaking. "What?" Her eyes brimmed full, and her lip trembled. "It's about what you love, John." "Yes." "Do you love baseball?" He rolled his eyes. "Do you love baseball?" He tapped his foot impatiently. "Do you love baseball, John?" "I spent the past 26 years playing baseball. One son will be in the majors next year, two more have a chance. I could have been sitting on my dock at the Lake of the Ozarks all summer, going to AA games in Springfield instead of busting my nuts for Mutt's team. I could have coached. I had to come back and lay it out there again, finish my career the right way, even though it meant going back to the minors. I didn't have to: I spent 23 years in the Majors. I wanted to be on your team for once, to win it for you again. Baseball is my life, Kat, it's in my blood. I will always be around baseball. Even though I'll never pitch again, baseball will be the most important part of me." She came to him in a rush and a cry. Their lips met, and two old lovers sank to the floor to remember a warm Lincoln Park summer where they celebrated their first season together with skin, sweat, softness and hardness, as the echos of the stadium surrounded them. What the lovers lacked in youthful flexibility, they made up for in rekindled passion. The distant flickering faded from the horizon, and the stars came out against the darkened light standards keeping sentinel as the silent green cathedral below waited for its destiny: Game Seven. Silver Slugger Wanda tapped her foot in frustration. "Well, that kid you blew this morning isn't going anywhere. The Front Office evaluates him topping out at AA ball, and in about three years he's going to be back home driving trucks across Minnesota full time. And his girlfriend has already taken up with another boy." "He's 22 years old, anything can happen. He'll get over the Scandinavian bitch with the big tits. He's a hard worker, lots of speed, some pop in his bat, and he may surprise everybody." "Like he surprised you tonight?" "Look Wandawiggle, you'd do well to hook up with him. You haven't done any more than read the scouting report. He's beautiful, a sweet kid, loyal to a fault and well built: he'll give you lovely babies. Your son could be a Hall of Famer." Wanda paced the room again, while her mother continued to refresh her makeup in a compact mirror. "Well, he is kinda cute in spite of that nose. . ." "There now. You won't need Karen's strap on any more, won't need the vibrator. You dress down and meet him at a local watering hole. Don't tell him you're the owner's daughter. Put yourself in range and be nice to him. That cock will split you so wide open, feel so good inside you, you'll be in heaven." "I don't know, he's not going to be up here very long. . ." "Bullshit. Tom Perkins went four for four in his Major League debut tonight, so he won't be coming back for a while. We've got another outfielder at the end of the bench who hasn't hit his weight since Spring Training, and I can talk the Big Club into sending him down to instead of Rocky when the time comes. We can keep him here long enough." Wanda looked thoughtful, and her mother came over to speak to her up close. "Do this and I'll leave you everything," Marie Catherine whispered in her ear. "I've got another shot at a Major League team and this time it's going to happen. I know just the manager to hire, the free agents to sign, the scouts to hire, the talent to draft. We'll make tons off the merchandising and build the team into a winner, the next America's Team. Steinbrenner will eat his heart out." Wanda shook her head, smiling. "I think you're crazy, Mom." The older woman cupped her daughter's face and kissed it on the cheek. "Of course, I'm crazy Wandawiggle. I love baseball with all my heart, so much I'd fuck myself to sleep with a bat every night if I could. You've got baseball in your blood, too, or else you wouldn't be here. Do it for the team, dearest, do it for the team. Do it for baseball."