Anyhow, I put that out of my head. He went down to the field, to take his turn at catching, and I waited my turn. I hadn’t put my full name down on the tryout sheet, so, when they called my name, the manager just bellowed out "L. Woodard!" I took a deep breath, and strolled out of the trees and onto the field, and walked towards the pitcher’s mound.
The murmuring started immediately. And the manager-who was standing behind the pitcher’s mound, so he could watch for break and movement and that-bellowed, "Hey, there’s a naked chick on my baseball field!"
"Excuse my attire, I’m in the program this week." I held out my glove for the ball, which he was holding.
"What are you doing on my field, honey?" No ball was presented to me.
"It’s my turn. I’m L. Woodard. Lily, actually." I tapped my glove.
He laughed. " You are trying out for my team?" No ball.
"No." I grinned at him. It wasn’t a pleasant grin. "I’m not trying out for your team. I’m making your team. Now gimme the ball." I think I stunned him, because he finally gave me the ball.
"Hold it!" came a bellow from the stands. It was my biggest "fan", our beloved principal, Mr. Tilling. "Lily, you’re in the program. You’re covered up. That’s a violation."
"No it’s not." It was Mike, rushing out of the dugout. "It’s legit. That’s not clothes, it’s taping for stability. That’s allowed." He walked over to Mr. Tilling with a program brochure in his hand. "It’s right here." He pointed out the section and handed the brochure over to Mr. Tilling. Mr. Tilling read the thing three times and had to admit, grudgingly, that we were right. Very grudgingly.
Mike, bless him, walked over to the plate, and told the guy who was behind it, "Hey, Brady, take a break. I’m going to catch her." Brady shrugged and gave way. Mike grinned at me and bellowed to the pitching coach, over at the third base line, "Hey, Muggsy, you got that radar gun ready?" Then he looked at me and bellowed, "All right, Pedro, show ‘em what you got. Let’s see the number one." I grinned and nodded, he slipped his mask back on and got in his crouch, I wound up, and threw the fastball.
WHAP!"HOLY SHIT!!" Muggsy, the pitching coach, was staring at the radar gun. "That pitch was 87!"
"The gun must be on the fritz," the manager said.
"Was workin’ fine a minute ago."
"Eighty-seven?" Mike yelled out to me. "That one was a little off, Lily. Let’s really reach back and get one."
"’A little off?’" the manager moaned from behind me.
I stifled a giggle, reared back, and threw. Thwap!
"HOLY SHIT!" Muggsy. "That was ninety-one!"
"That’s more like it," Mike yelled.
"You bet your ass," I yelled back. I threw a few more fastballs, all hovering around 90, while Muggsy looked at his radar gun like it was possessed by demons.
"All right, Lily, let’s show ‘em the changeup," Mike yelled. I nodded, kicked, and threw. Very nice.
"That was a fastball. That had to be a fastball, right?" the manager babbled from behind me. "That was no changeup."
"Uh, Skipper?" Muggsy said. "That was a changeup." He held up the radar gun. It said 68.
"HOLY SHIT!" the skipper yelled. "That looked just like the heater!"
"Well, Pedro Martinez is my idol," I giggled at him. I threw a few more of those-while listening to the Skipper muttering incredulities from behind me-and then Mikey called for the slider. In it went, and out and down it broke, right off the table, right like it’s supposed to.
The skipper was just staring down at the plate. Then he said, tentatively, "Muggsy. What’s the gun say?"
"Eighty-four."
"She throws an 84 mph slider and it breaks like that?!?!?!?!?"
"Well, honestly, it’s usually closer to 81 or 82. Adrenaline rush, and all that," I told him.
"Oh my fucking Christ."
I threw a few more of those, showed them the curveball and the cross-seam tailing fastball, and then the Skipper said, "OK, Woodard. I’ve seen enough."
I flipped him the ball, and strode off the mound, with every eye staring at me. And it was not the same stare I had gotten when I walked on the field. Hey, I’ve been in The Program for two days now. I didn’t mind the program, I liked my body, and I liked being a girl. I did not at all mind having my pussy and boobs stared at. But not here. Not on the field. When I’m on that baseball field, you’d best not be staring at my pussy-you’d better be staring at my arm.
When I walked off that field, they were staring at my arm. A few of the less-charitable ones, I am sure, were hoping it’d fall off-but they were staring at it.
Damn, it felt good. If I hadn’t been trying to be cool, calm, and collected, I would’ve done the Happy Dance up and down the third base line. But I kept cool.
I hung around until the end of the tryout, got called back to pitch and hit the next day-of course-and then started getting my stuff together. Mike came over. We walked up behind the third base stands.
"You showed ‘em, Pedro. That was something else. They’re still muttering."
"Damn, that felt good," I told him.
"I’ll bet," he grinned.
"Thanks for the support. You’re a great catcher," I told him.
"Yes, I am." We both laughed.
I looked at him. With the pressure of the tryouts done, all those other feelings came rushing back. And how. I looked at him, smiled-I was shooting for ‘coyly’ but don’t know if I got it-and said, "Can you help me with my tape?"
"Sure thing." He unwrapped the ace bandage, and then went for the scraps taped over my nipples. He was very careful. Took his time. Oh Jesus.
I reacted. I know I reacted. I wasn’t trying to make it too obvious, but I know I reacted. And, suddenly, the fabric was off, and he stepped back and proclaimed, "All done!"
All done? All done? NO! No, you are not ALL DONE! GET BACK OVER HERE! YOU ARE NOT ALL DONE!
I didn’t say it. My mind screamed it. But something must have been in my eyes, because he said, "Are you OK?"
NO! I’M NOT OK! GET THOSE HANDS BACK OVER HERE AND MAKE IT OK! As my mind kept screaming, I looked at him. Oblivious. Completely oblivious. I thought he had more of a clue than that.
Unless he wasn’t oblivious. Unless, instead, he was completely disinterested. Which I should be used to by now.
Damn, damn, damn. When the fuck am I going to learn? When? He looked at me and saw a right arm. When has it ever been any different?
I’m such a fucking idiot.
Out. I had to get out of there.
"Lily, are you OK?" he asked again.
"Fine. Great. Thanks. See you tomorrow," I blurted, and not at all nicely. And I got out of there.
Ran to my car. Got in. And almost broke my hand punching the steering wheel.
Finally, I drove home.
CHAPTER TEN MIKE"Mike, is that you?" I heard Mom call from the kitchen when I walked in.
"Yup."
"Want a coke?"
"Love one, thanks." She came out of the kitchen with one, and we sat on the couch. She kissed me on the cheek. She always does that. Embarrasses some guys, I know, but not me.
"So, how was your day? How’d tryouts go?"
"Great, and great."
"How was Lily?"
"Mom, you should’ve seen her!" I told her. "She was fantastic. Incredible. Blew everybody away. I was behind the plate, catching her, and couldn’t stop grinning. I think Muggsy almost ate his radar gun."
"That’s great," Mom said. "She must have been thrilled."
"Well, she was," I told her with a frown. "Until the very end."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, we hung around until the end of tryouts, right? She was fine. She was excited. So, she asked me to help her take her tape and stuff off. I did, and then she got all weird or something. She was like, staring into space. And when I asked her if she was OK, she snapped at me, and then stormed off. I don’t get it."