Based-Ball
You started playing for the other team so when I went to pitch you called a time out.
Now time Is up and there is a silent crowd.
As I watch from the sidelines; you swing and you miss, but then you'll hit a bunter, that'll tear your ass if you make that home run.
While I'm amiss, caught on the kiss cam warming this bleacher and I'm pissed off.
I'm done honey bun; cause the only future I see costs me playing this game. It is me potentially getting drafted and leaving our team.
While if I were to be realistic, ostensibly for us there is nothing on base.
On your lies up to this inning we've been lead to this loss
The home run you just swung at might be the final straw.
Plus the lies!! These damn lies, how you ultimately cost us the season.
I'm sick at the fact that you're up to bat again, and in the first place.
The sickened grimace my face takes makes you strike all the way out.
Now you are truly the foul ball,
So Fuck you fuck boy,
You can't win them all.
Paradise by the dashboard light*
"A little late, aren't you, Bobby?" Billy says, pausing his video game.
"I have an AP physics exam tomorrow, Dad. I was studying with Christy."
"Christy Hatfield? You two still hang out?"
"You've only been away at college for four months, Billy. Not much has changed."
"I don't know about that. You grew at least four inches since I left."
Bobby smiles. "Five."
"And Christy doesn't look like a little boy any more..."
"She never looked like a boy, dickhead."
"Whatever. Have you gotten to first base with her yet?"
"What? We were studying, not playing baseball. She plays soccer anyway. You know that."
Billy cracks up laughing. "C'mon, you're not serious are you? You don't know what getting to first base means?"
"You hit the ball, run and tag first base before the ball gets there. I don't play, but I do understand the logistics."
"How old are you again?"
Bobby just stares at him.
"Getting to first base means kissing. With tongue. The French way," Billy sticks his tongue in and out while fluttering his eye lids.
"Good night, Billy."
"Well, have you?"
"Have I what?"
"Have you gotten to first base?"
Bobby rolls his eyes but then smirks. "Given your analogy, I'd say probably second."
"That's my boy!"
Bobby shakes his head and heads to the stairs.
"I can help you hit the elusive home run if you like."
"Don't be disgusting. I don't need help. Conversation over. When do you go back to campus?"
"I'm just saying...I could lend you Red."
Bobby stops with one foot on the bottom step. "You'd lend me Red? You don't let anyone touch your Mustang. Not even Dad."
"It's for a good cause. But only this once. Take her to the drive-in over in Little Falls. Magic happens at the movies..."
"Maybe...okay...thanks. Seriously, thanks."
Sunday morning
"What the hell? Bobby!!!!"
Bobby runs outside to the driveway. "I am so sorry, Billy, but it really wasn't my fault."
"What did you do to my baby?" Billy says, caressing a massive dent in the front driver side.
"Nothing, I swear. I had parked the car at A la Mode. Christy and I went to get ice cream after the movie. We heard a crash and ran outside. Johnny Miller misjudged the size of his monster truck or something and hit the front end. Thank goodness he was only parking and not speeding down Main like he usually does. Sheriff Davis came and everything. It was nuts. Anyway, Johnny's dad's insurance will cover the repair. I really am sorry, Billy. Seriously, bro, I feel terrible."
Billy closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and says, "Well, at least tell me it was worth it."
Bobby smirks and says, "The movie was great." He pauses. "I think."
"Yes!" Billy yells, thrusting a first in the air. "Sounds like someone ran the bases last night."
"Enough! Stop with the baseball metaphor, please. And no more questions. Sorry about the car. Later dude." Bobby walks away from the house to the road.
"Where're you going?"
"To study. With Christy. We have a Calculus test tomorrow."
"No books?"
"Nope," Bobby says as he continues walking down the road.
Billy whoops and hollers, "Make sure you bring a glove!"
"Dude! STFU already!"
"My little bro is a man now."
Bobby groans and keeps walking.
Mrs. Johnson, Billy and Bobby's mom, comes to the door. "What does Bobby need a glove for? It's too cold for baseball." She pauses. "And since when does Bobby play baseball?"
Bobby picks up pace and starts to jog down the block but hears his brother say, "Just messing with him, Mom. No one's playing baseball outside today." He hears the echo of his brother's laughter as he turns the corner.
I Need to Strike Out on My Own
I’ve got to leave home first before I start second guessing the signs my parents are giving and the inevitable third degree thrown at my head. Don’t want to get called out by those who’ve coached me this long. It’s time to go on a road trip.
I’ve been batting around the idea of grounding out a niche for myself. I’ll step off this mound and not balk at the opportunity to clear the bench to start anew. Delaying this would risk me being forced out, something that wouldn’t come from left field. I’ll pitch my game plan to line up with my goals of being a winner. Switching when needed, I’ll double up my confidence, giving myself the green light to swing away. I may be a diamond in the rough, but I’ve dug out a good, but not perfect, record.
Although I’ll be on the road for a stretch, I know this change up will fit me like a glove. I wouldn’t trade such an opportunity for all the peanuts and Cracker Jacks in the world. If I’m not delayed by rain, every so often I’ll pop up for a park walk then stretch it into a home run. I’m sure my parents will be rapid fans when they see me playing on a different field.
Rounding the Bases
THE BUNT
In the VIP room, I said the wrong thing to her, as is always my fatal flaw in all of my come-ons. But she misunderstood me. Thank God! I mean, I don't know what she thought she heard, but I wasn't into diagramming sentences. And what she thought she had heard was the right thing, apparently.
She told me I was a great kisser.
I thought about baseball. She was a great pitcher, with never a wrong thing said, especially that compliment. Compliments come few and far between, so when a pitcher throws one, I swing, I connect, and I scramble. So there I was, safe at first base.
STEALING SECOND BASE
This distraction allowed me to cop an outside feel. I surveyed the bases, and I assessed the weak links in the field. I kneaded her breasts like a hungry baker with dough. She liked it. She allowed the steal.
THIRD BASE
Emboldened, I wondered if I was moving too fast. But then, after all, she was a sex-worker. Her bust was full, and so were her lips. I synchronized my "great" kissing with my handwork. It was great teamwork.
My fingerprints were all over her skin, everywhere—so much that if there were any foul play (foul balls?), I'd be a person-of-interest, for sure.
Ten fingers. One tongue. The rest of my team was playing ball like a well-oiled machine. Ten fingerprints, ten simultaneous moans. She had been in control, but somewhere she dropped the ball. Her error, my opportunity. I didn't want just a popup, so I thought about baseball. Guys, you know what I mean. Just baseball.
I dropped my pants.
HOME
It was a great line drive, but she rejected my play. I had gotten greedy and dared too much. But then another man peaked in. It was my wingman. He wanted in. He would catch the ball for her, to throw me out. I should have traded him when I had the chance!
He had heard what I had told her to get her out into her bullpen, so he repeated it. The very thing she had misunderstood.
This time, she heard it right.
She became enraged. She threw him out. And as if to seal the rejection, she dropped her pants, too. I scored!
While I knew what she had heard—correctly—from my wingman, which was his unintended sacrifice, I must figure out what she thought she had heard from me—incorrectly. No team motto is worth its salt if it doesn't drive the runs home.
