Minor Baseball

Minor Baseball


I had always been attracted to older guys, and have always been turned on by politically incorrect relationships, sexual or romantic. You know, between teachers and students, older guys and younger girls. I guess because I love the feeling of being vulnerable with a guy; I think it’s sexy… and when people don’t accept it, that turns me on. But despite my very comfortable stability with my sexuality, I can’t flirt for shit. That’s not how I get guys. I can talk to them, but if I ever start flirting, I feel like I’m acting stupid. It’s just not my style. What I’m best at is just giving mysterious looks from the corner, not saying anything but capturing everyone’s attention. No, I’m not big-breasted or big-assed. I have 34C’s with a small but tight ass, curvy hips as well as a stomach. I can never get a flat stomach. No matter how hard I try. I can feel it, but I can’t lose the layer of roundness above it. And I have long legs. Good for running, which I do.

I play baseball for the Little League. But I’m not really little; I’m sixteen. I’ll be a junior in high school, after this coming summer. I just joined this team, and, surprise, surprise, I’m the only chic on the team. See, most girls my age are going out with guys, shopping at the mall, or getting a tan at the salon. I’m playing baseball, working at the food stand at the local fields, and riding my mountain bike I’ve had since the fourth grade. I guess I’m a tomboy, but then again, I can get girly. I mean, I do want a boyfriend, and I do want to make out in the rain like every girl does, but right now, that’s not my top priority right now. Which makes me different. And that’s a good thing.

So, here I am, in a blue-collared baby tee with jeans, my hair pulled back in a ponytail, under a Red Sox hat. Damn Yankees. I was pretty bored, in all honesty, behind the stand, watching the other teams gather together for the season kick-off. Ours already finished, and my team was actually set to play after the little boys left. I watched with bored eyes as the main coach of the Yankees boys’ team announced everybody and all that great stuff. The only thing that really did make me laugh was when some kid on a motorscooter came and pissed the coach off. I already knew I didn’t like him; he coached the Yankees after all.

A few minutes passed, and I told Gladys, my manager, that I had to leave to get ready for my game. She let me go without question; Gladys, like me, was a baseball fanatic, and had no problem letting me go early if it involved the game. She was kinda like a grandmother to me. I jogged to the bathroom, and quickly changed into those hideous tight shorts and the loose shirts in a dirty stall. I put on the ordinary equipment that was required although unnecessary for me, and hurried out the bathroom. I was so consumed with what I was doing that I didn’t look where I was going and ran into someone, making us both drop onto the floor.

My face literally turned red. “I’m so sorry,” I muttered as I squirmed from underneath the man.

He shook his head, as though he was trying to get his shit together, then glanced down at me. He studied me for a moment, then grinned smugly, getting me up and offering me a hand. I took it, studying him as well. Dark brown eyes and graying hair, with a moustache and goatee. A collared shirt, and pants that fit just right. He was in good shape for his age, a slight belly, but nothing major. Not bad looking, not bad looking at all.

He must have felt the same way about me, because the first thing he asked me was, “How old are you?”

I just gave him a smirk, and turned, walking toward the field. I glanced back, “Sorry about bumping into you.” Then, I turned back, glad that I shaved earlier that morning and putting just a little more wiggle in my sway.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” I heard him call, and I grinned.

I headed into the dugout, and switched my hat to the Angels, which is who were or aspired to be. I pulled out my glove, grabbed a ball, and found one of my teammates, shamelessly flirting with a girl. “Dave, help me warm up.”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” he asked, clearly annoyed, then he turned back to the girl.

I rolled my eyes, and saw my other teammates warming themselves up. As usual, I was the odd one out. Probably because I was a girl, and that I could play. I began to toss the ball into the air and catch it.

“Hey Lefty,” I heard someone call. I glanced and found the man I bumped into staring at me. “Need someone to warm up with?” He grinned suggestively.

I quirked an eyebrow, shading my face from the sun. “Depends on what you mean,” I called back, but I gave him a smirk, and tossed it to him. He caught it with his bare hands, and threw it back to me as he walked out onto the field. He pulled out a glove from a bag, slipped it on his hand, and I tossed him another pitch.

“You play?” he asked.

I glanced around and shot him a look. “No. I tend to do this for fun.”

“Feisty,” he replied, tossing me another throw. “What position?”

“Pitcher,” I replied casually.

“Oh really?” he asked, his brow rose. He cocked his head to the side as I pitched him a crisp one. He seemed to catch it with ease, and gave me an approving nod. “You never asked my question, Lefty.”

“Which was?”

“How old are you?” he repeated.

“Does it matter?” I asked honestly.

“Depends,” he replied.

“On what we do,” he tossed me a fly, which I caught.

“If anything,” I said flatly.

“Well, what’s your name?” he asked.

I smiled. “Jessica.” I tilted my hat a little so it would block the sun out from my face. “And you?”

“Morris Buttermaker,” he replied. “But people call me Buttermaker.”

“No one calls me Lefty,” I told him.

“But that’s what you are,” he said. “Do you bat that way too?”

I shrugged. “Depends on my mood, and what I feel like.”

He nodded. “You’re pretty good.”

I gave him a nod. “I know.”

“How long have you been playing?" he asked.

“Since I was six,” I replied. “And you?”

“Way before you were born,” he shot back and I rolled my eyes.

“So what are you then?” I asked. “A coach?”

He nodded. “Yup, I coach the Bears. You should come watch us sometime.”

I raised my eyebrows but gave him a sarcastic smile. “Yeah, ‘cause I love watching little twelve year olds run around, right?”

He rolled his eyes. “Hey, it’ll be great.”

My coach blew his whistle, signaling five minutes till game time. I gave him a small smile. “Thanks for warming me up,” I said. “Maybe I can return the favor sometime?” I gave him a grin. “See ya later Coach.”

“Break a leg, Lefty,” he called back to me. “And come see us sometime, you hear?”

I nodded but didn’t turn around, because I knew he was watching me every step of the way.