Almost like sex

Hearing my name announced and stepping into the batter’s box is one of the greatest moments of my life. It’s right up there with the first time I buried my face in Alyssa’s pussy—or Kimberly’s, for that matter. I have to pull my mind back quickly from those memories, though, or else I’d watch three strikes go by without ever noticing them, and that wouldn’t do.

So, focus, I tell myself. On the mound for the Aggies is Cal Paxton; run through the scouting report. Senior, tall righty, three good pitches—four-seam fastball, curve, and slider. I bat left (though I’m right-handed for most things) and he’s a righty, so he’s probably coming at me mostly with the fastball and the curve. His heater has good rise and he throws a true 12-6 yakker, so I’m looking for him to work vertically, moving up and down to change my eye level. I’m planning to take the first pitch, partly to control my jitters but also to get a look at his stuff and the first sign of how he plans to attack me before I start swinging.

First pitch is a fastball high and outside; the ump decides it caught the corner, though it could have gone either way. 0-1.

Second pitch is a curve outside. Paxton wants to get this and the high heater in the same “tunnel”—the same initial flight path—so that I won’t recognize the curve. He doesn’t manage it, and I don’t chase. The bottom drops out quite impressively, and it finishes below the zone (and probably outside). 1-1.

At this point, I suspect he’s going to come inside and try to bust me in on the hands with his fastball, try to pop me up. I’m trying not to lock in on that idea, but I see it coming—and that’s exactly what Paxton does.

Or tries to do. He doesn’t get it as high as he wants it, and probably not as far inside, either. Fastball, inside third of the plate, upper half but well in the zone. Right where I like it.

Meat.

I pull the trigger and take a viciously quick swing, harder than I’ve ever swung before. I hit the ball square on the nose and absolutely unload on it. I send a rocket of a high line drive screaming into right field, just a few feet inside the line. The right fielder starts running back, then stops and throws his hands up in disgust. I doubt the ball is really still rising when it hits the stands twenty rows back, but it feels like it.

I’m out of the box running as soon as I make contact, then I slow up as I realize just how hard and far I hit that ball. I’ve never done anything like that before, and I wouldn’t have believed I could. The crowd sits stunned for a moment—almost as stunned as I am, I think—then explodes to its feet; the stadium erupts in a deafening roar. BSU fans were willing to give me a chance because they believe in Butch Baker—and even more, because they believe in Kimberly Daniels, and they know I’m her boyfriend. But still, a freshman walk-on starting at DH and leading off? They had their doubts. Of course they had their doubts.

They don’t anymore.

I feel intoxicated as I round the bases at a steady trot. I look around a little, but mostly I concentrate on staying in the basepath, because it doesn’t quite feel like my feet are touching the ground. It’s almost hallucinatory. As I round third, I look across the diamond toward our dugout. Right behind it I see Kimberly, sparkling with delight in me, her tits bouncing deliciously as she jumps up and down. Suddenly my biggest concern is keeping my instant boner from getting big enough to interfere with my running.

When I get back to the dugout, my teammates are still going bonkers. I get high-fives, hugs, and hammer-blows on my back—along with a few snarky (and slightly envious) glances at the bulge in my pants. The guys know full well who caused that. Butch comes over to tell me he sent the batboy out to the bleachers to get the ball for me, which makes me giddy. Doug Coble says, laughing, “Did you see Paxton’s face after you went yard on him? He looked betrayed—like he’d been promised you couldn’t do that!”

It suddenly hits me: no, I’m still not an athlete, but (with a nod to John Kruk) I am a ballplayer, and these guys accept me. It’s every bit as strange to me as the fact that I could hit that home run. It’s also every bit as true.

The next time I come up to bat, Paxton glares at me, and the first pitch is a fastball in the ribs. It spins me around a bit; out of the corner of my eye I can see my teammates jumping to their feet in the dugout. I stare at him in disbelief for a moment, then burst out laughing. It hurts like blue fire, but I can’t help it. My teammates settle back onto the bench, grinning. I can see shock and consternation at my reaction written all over Paxton’s face. I walk down to first, laughing all the way; it makes my side hurt, but I still can’t help it, and it delights our fans. He didn’t even try to get me out—he just handed me the base, I think. If I’m that far into his head, he’s already lost.

He can hardly stop glaring at me long enough to pitch to Grant Foster, our second baseman. In short order, he hangs a dead slider in the middle of the plate and Grant takes him out of the park. Then the Aggies’ manager comes out and takes him out of the game.