Complete Game: The League, Book 1 Read online

  Ian pulled on to I-94 and Reggie leaned across the front seat whispering, “I think I like him, Ian.”

  I smirked at Reggie’s assumptions that somehow I might not hear him. I asked, “Who’s your best player, Reggie?”

  He said, “Well, Ian is pretty good. He corked a couple of balls over the fence last year.”

  Ian interrupted and said, “Billy. He’s the best.”

  “Billy?” I asked.

  Reggie looked out the window on the passenger’s side of the car. “Yep, Billy Alvey. He’s the other straight guy on the team. You’re our second, and that’s the league’s rule. No more than two straight guys on a gay softball team.”

  I let the comment go by. Sometimes I felt like the world’s most hopeless late bloomer. Baseball took up so much of my time that I wasn’t very experienced in bed. I wasn’t completely sure about my orientation, but I knew that it wasn’t straight. The accident that brought down my minor league career taught me that lesson. Still, I wasn’t ready to discuss it. I decided that, for now, I could be the team’s second straight man.

  Ian said, “Yep, Billy is a good softball player, but let’s just say, he’s not your ordinary straight man.”

  I heard Reggie giggle, and I slapped my fist into the glove once again. I couldn’t imagine what exactly I was getting myself into.

  * * *

  Five team members were already spread across the practice field as we arrived. They were tossing balls back and forth. Reggie said, “Oh good, Antonio is here.” He turned toward me and said, “Everybody loves Antonio. He could be a good player if he concentrated a little harder, but he’s more interested in being a cheerleader.”

  Ian hauled two bags out of the trunk of the car with bats and a large collection of balls. As he handed me one of the bags to throw over my shoulder, he said, “I’m sort of de facto manager. Billy and Marshall help with consultation on lineups, but I take care of the equipment and necessary meetings with the managers of other teams.”

  I glanced out to the field as we walked toward home plate. I saw a tall, skinny black man instantly point at me and then bounce twice into the air. Then he began jogging across the field toward me. I turned to Ian and asked, “Who’s that?”

  Ian said, “Antonio. Get ready.”

  Antonio’s smile was so bright and cheerful that it almost looked bigger than his face. He squealed as he approached and placed his right hand with impossibly long, thin fingers on Ian’s shoulder asking, “Who’s the new piece of prime…” He covered his mouth with his left hand and said, “Oops!” with his eyes sparkling. He started again saying, “Who’s our new player, Ian?”

  Ian dropped his bag to the ground and wrapped Antonio in a big hug saying, “This is Blake. Go easy on him.”

  Turning from Ian to me, Antonio offered a hand for a shake. While our hands clasped, he reached out to squeeze my bicep with his free hand. “Ooo, some real muscle there. I bet you can hit the ball over the fence just like Ian. Our new secret weapon.” Then he made a pointed glance down at my crotch. Antonio placed his hand over his mouth once again as he looked into my eyes and said, “Let me introduce you to the rest of the guys.”

  I followed along behind Antonio. He was all arms and legs. I guessed that he was about six feet two like me, but his thin gangly body made him look taller. He was decked out in bright orange track pants and a deep purple tank top.

  We walked up to a handsome man with salt and pepper grey hair. He was solidly built and about six feet tall. Even though the weather was on the cool side, he was wearing shorts. His T-Shirt fit just snugly enough that it advertised a broad, muscular chest. Antonio said, ‘This is Marshall Easterling. Isn’t he handsome? He’s the one that all of us with…” Antonio coughed, “Daddy interests lust after.”

  Marshall blushed and reached out to shake my hand. I said, “I’m Blake. I’m friends with Ian and Reggie. This is my first practice.”

  After another once over from head to toe, I was finally getting used to it. Marshall said, “Welcome to the team. Looks like you have solid biceps. We could use a power hitter in the lineup.”

  Then I met perhaps the most distinctive member of the team. He was dressed in Milwaukee Brewers gear from head to foot including a backwards baseball cap on his head, but he looked nothing like a baseball player. His hair was long, black, and hung to the middle of his back. He wore rings in ears, eyebrows and septum. The intense red of his lips appeared to be enhanced by makeup and he wore two gold chains around his neck. Antonio said, “This is Billy Alvey. He’s our token straight man.”

  Billy grunted, “Nice colors today, Antonio. Who’s the new guy?”

  He didn’t look my body up and down. Instead, Billy stared directly into my face. I said, “I’m Blake.” I paused and finished, “Powell,” as he held out a hand decorated with three heavily ornamented rings. His shake was strong and firm.

  Billy said, “Welcome to the zoo,” and then he turned his attention back to tossing a ball back and forth with Marshall.

  Antonio strode back toward home plate and said, “Let’s find us a ball.” He picked up Ian’s bag and gingerly reached one long arm deep inside. He asked, “So did Blondie recruit you? He just needs to bat those eyelashes and show you those blue eyes, and you’re sunk.”

  I laughed and asked, “Do you mean Ian?”

  Antonio said, “Oh, right. He does have a name. Yes, Ian. Are you sure you’re still straight after hanging out with him?” He pulled a neon-colored softball from the bag.

  I had noticed Ian’s good looks, but I tried not to focus on it. Instead, he was just a nice guy, and he was great to have as a neighbor. I made an effort to sound like I was answering Antonio’s question without telling a lie. I said, “Yeah, he is a good-looking guy.”

  Antonio gingerly placed the ball into his glove and then he actually skipped toward the outfield. He called out to no one in particular, “I love softball season! All of the hot MEN!” He made a sharp turn to swat Marshall on the ass with his glove and then headed for dead center field. I broke into a jog and stared straight ahead as I followed him.

  It felt good to get my arm moving again. I threw a few balls in physical therapy, but, for the most part, my arm had only been used for weight machines to try and keep my overall strength up.

  Antonio grinned and said, “Damn, you throw hard, Blake! I bet it’s not the only thing about you that’s hard.”

  He finally pulled a small blush out of me. I threw the ball back and said, “I have a little experience with baseball.”

  Even from thirty feet away I could see Antonio’s eyebrow raise. He asked, “You’re a baseball player, Blake?”

  I called back, “I was in the minor leagues.”

  His long arm wound up and tossed the ball back. He said, “Oh, now I’m nervous. We probably look like amateurs.”

  I laughed and said, “I think that’s what you are.”

  Ian jogged up to me, and for once, I focused on his appearance. He was handsome, and he had a perpetually friendly look on his face. Those blue eyes flashed when he asked, “Are you getting to meet some of the team?”

  I held up a hand toward Antonio to stop him from tossing the ball back. I said, “Yeah, they seem like good guys. I’m thinking this could be fun, Ian.”

  Ian said, “Good, I’m glad to hear it. Let’s do a little batting practice. I’ll pitch, and Reggie has volunteered to catch.” He called out to Antonio, “Round up the guys! We’re going to do a little batting.”

  With everyone lined up near the first base line, I counted a dozen players on the team. That would mean only two reserves, but it also meant everyone was likely to get plenty of time on the field.

  I liked how Ian took control. He pointed to three of the guys and said, “Miller, Bascomb, and Jenkins out in the field. We’ll rotate in and out. The first go-round every batter gets three pitches.”

  I was standing behind Antonio, and he gestured for me to move ahead. He said, “The new guy gets to go first.”<
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  Stepping up to the plate, I felt a little bit cocky. I watched Ian make his warm-up pitches with that incredibly slow ball making the big looping arc before it crossed the plate. Surely it wouldn’t be difficult to hit it. I just needed to be patient, and then plunk the ball deep into the outfield.

  While Ian began his windup, Antonio started to cheer and much of the rest of the team joined in. I crouched just like I would for baseball, and then I waited seemingly an eternity before swinging the bat. I took that first powerful swing…and missed the ball entirely.

  Reggie called from behind the plate, “You’re gonna strike this one out, Ian! He can hit a baseball, but he can’t hit a watermelon!”

  The team switched allegiance as they saw my position weakened. They cheered for Ian instead of me. I crouched back down for the second swing, and this time I connected, but the ball dribbled off the end of the bat and landed at Marshall’s feet. I saw him grin before he picked the ball up and tossed it back to Ian.

  I didn’t have much better luck with the third pitch. This time I popped it up high in the air. Ian took three steps back from the pitcher’s mound and easily hauled it in. He stared in at me and said, “It’s gonna take a little work.”

  4

  Ian

  Blake’s first practice with the team was underwhelming to put it mildly. The best hit that he managed after five times at the plate was a line drive that landed in the hole between first and second base. Otherwise, he gave us a series of foul balls, popups and big empty swings. At first, he took it all in stride, but, by the fifth time batting and coming up nearly empty, I could see the frustration begin to take over. After he connected with the final pitch I threw to him, and it popped up behind home plate for an easy catch by Reggie, he pounded the bat hard into the center of home plate before kicking at the dirt and taking a slow walk to join the rest of the team. Antonio gave him a hearty slap on the back and delivered words of encouragement.

  Just before practice wrapped up, Billy jogged over to me and asked, “So where did you find the pretty boy?”

  I said, “He’s my next-door neighbor.”

  Billy asked, “So you just like the way that he looks? A nice piece of eye candy on the ball diamond?” Billy reached back and pulled his hair forward over his shoulder twisting it in his fingers as he spoke.

  “He was a minor league baseball player and then had a nasty injury. It killed off that career, so I thought he could possibly help us.”

  With a laugh, Billy said, “With pop-ups and dribblers to first base?” Then he paused before saying, “Oh, I get it. He’s a rescue project. The poor, sad, beautiful puppy moves in next door, and you’re gonna fix it all for him.”

  I always had to remind myself that underneath it all Billy was a good guy. He just always had a way of getting to the throbbing heart of a situation, and his comments weren’t always pretty. He was also the best player on our team. He looked like anything but a conventional player, but he would be a star on any softball team that would accept him, conventional or gay.

  I said, “No, and if you’re implying something about my motivations, he’s straight, just like you Billy.”

  Billy brushed his hair back off his shoulder again and let it hang down the middle of his back. “Which brings me to my main point, Ian. If you’re gonna recruit another straight guy, shouldn’t he be one of the best on the team? I mean, I understand making room for gay guys that can’t hit the ball out of the infield…”

  I made a motion like I was brushing something off Billy’s shoulder and said, “As soon as you get that fuckin’ chip off your shoulder, you might realize that Blake could just take us to the top of the standings by the end of the season. It’s never easy for a baseball player to hit slow-pitch at first, but he’ll adjust. Mark my words.”

  Billy tilted his head to the right. “You wanna put some money on that, Ian?”

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. I was convinced that Blake could be an outstanding player, but I hated placing a bet on it. Still, I didn’t want to back down from Billy. Everything with him was a power play, and I wanted to stand my ground. I said, “Twenty bucks says he’s hitting .300 by August.”

  “.320,” said Billy.

  “It’s a deal.” I reached out a hand and we shook.

  He grinned and said, “You’re a good man, Ian, and don’t worry. As long as he’s my teammate, I’ll support him. Loyalty comes first.”

  * * *

  I turned the key to start the car, and Blake launched in to self-deprecating comments about himself and his performance. He asked the air, “How do you hit that damn ball? It’s coming in at such a funky angle, and you have to wait forever and a day.”

  Reggie piped up from the back seat. “Just give it some practice. It will come to you…or not.” Then he laughed at the lack of wisdom in his own words.

  I said, “It’s a tough transition from baseball, but you’ll get it. I’ve seen multiple guys walk on to a slow-pitch field expecting they’re gonna slam the ball over the fence just because they did that in little league.”

  Blake grumbled, “Damn, maybe I should just give up bats and balls for good. I don’t want to bring your team down.”

  Reggie asked, “Can you still catch a ball?”

  “No problems there,” said Blake.

  “Then you’re a help to the team,” said Reggie. “Last year, we were playing the last game of the season, and it looked like we might actually win. That would have given us our second big win of the season. Then a guy on the other team hit a big looper into the outfield. Remember that, Ian?”

  I was starting to giggle and said, “How can I forget?”

  Reggie continued his story. “Antonio was backing up from second base with those long skinny arms flying every which way. He’s yelling, ‘I got it,’ and we all knew he had no chance. So Lowell starts sprinting in from center. He tried to call Antonio off at the last minute…”

  I said, “It was a really high fly. I had time to turn around from the mound and watch it all unfold.”

  “To make the story short,” said Reggie, “They collided. Antonio’s free hand connected with Lowell’s nose, and Antonio’s head hit Lowell’s shoulder. They both landed in a heap. Antonio was out cold for a few seconds, and Lowell had an ugly bloody nose. Two runs scored, and we lost the last game of the season. Do you think you can help us out with that, Blake?”

  I pulled up to a four-way stop and turned to look at Blake. He was laughing. Then he said, “I guess it’s not really that funny. They weren’t seriously hurt, were they?”

  Reggie said, “No, we sent Antonio to the emergency room to have him checked out. The docs said he was just a little rattled, and Lowell didn’t break anything. You might have seen they are both back for more punishment this season.”

  When I pulled into my driveway and I pushed the car door open, Blake asked, “Can you hang on just a second?”

  I leaned back in the seat and said, “Yeah, what’s up?” Reggie leaned forward so that he could hear.

  Blake said, “My pathetic batting really was bad for the ego, and I know I can do better. I just need practice. Would the two of you be willing to help me out with some off-the-official-schedule practice?”

  I turned toward Reggie. “If my buddy here is game, I’m game.”

  Reggie nodded. “If it’s enough to move us away from being the laughingstock of the league, I’m all for it. There’s a field just across the street from where I live, and it’s not used very often. We would probably have it all to ourselves most evenings.”

  * * *

  In the end, Blake convinced us to spend three evenings before the next team practice helping him figure out how to hit a slow-pitch softball. I can only imagine how exasperating it must have been to a natural athlete like Blake. He looked good at the plate. His swings were picture perfect, but when he connected with the ball, it most often resulted in a slow rolling ball toward first base or a high pop-up. Then many times Blake missed th
e ball entirely.

  Fortunately, away from the scrutiny of the rest of the team, Blake was patient. He was convinced that he could get the hang of it. He knew that he just needed the practice.

  Reggie, our designated fielder, said, “I would suggest having Ian hit so you can watch. He’s good at both pitching and hitting, but I really suck at pitching. I either throw the ball so high that it goes all the way to the backstop or it drops dead in the dirt before it even gets to home plate.”

  “Can you hit?” asked Blake.

  Reggie shrugged and said, “I’m not too bad. I can hit it better than you’re doing.”

  Blake frowned and said, “That’s really not saying much, but why don’t you come in here and take a few swings. I’ll watch and chase the balls. I’m not getting much of anywhere just here on my own.”

  Reggie was no superstar at the plate, but most of the time he could hit grounders, line drives, and balls deep in to the outfield when he wanted to. After the fifth time he hit the ball, he said to me, “Turn around and watch the next time I hit the ball.”

  I followed Reggie’s instructions. He hit a long fly ball, and, even though Blake was struggling with hitting, he was an awesome fielder. His reflexes were amazing. He knew almost from the moment the bat connected with the ball which direction it would fly. Reggie and I both applauded when he dove for a ball and caught it just six inches from the ground. I shouted out to him, “If you can do that every game, you don’t need to hit!”

  By the time we wrapped up the last of our three-person practice sessions before the team’s next meet-up, Blake improved from pathetic to so-so in the hitting department, and his fielding skills were unparalleled. I could smell a victory on its way in my bet with Billy Alvey. It was only a matter of time before Blake’s hitting caught up with his fielding.