Silver SluggerbyNigel Debonnaire©
The mountain peaks were turning red as dawn approached. Rocky Jones let his attention drift as the first batter of the 28th inning stepped into the box, gazing at the ribbon high above the stadium. "We've been playing all fucking night," he said to himself, then focused on the action, thumping his glove as the pitch came in.
Rocky had gotten in midday before. It was a strange route from the middle of Alabama to the southern Rockies, taking 15 hours via planes and buses due to a severe weather system in the country's midsection, but he'd gotten a nap in the afternoon and felt somewhat human by the gametime at 7:00.
A crack of the bat, and Rocky sprinted to the left field corner. The frozen rope sailed past him and skipped once on the grass before gunshot meeting with the outfield wall sent it spinning back his direction. Rocky managed to corral it and get it back to the infield in time to hold the hitter to a double. He looked vaguely familiar, maybe he was in Rocky's Class A ball league last year. Four years in pro ball meant a lot of faces to remember. "Good thing I'm not a pitcher or catcher," Rocky said to himself, "cause my memory's shit for anybody I haven't hit."
The late May was starting to get hot in the Southern League cities, worse than the Texas league Rocky played in the year before. Rocky hated the heat and dust, but heat and heavy humidity were worse for a kid from northern Minnesota. The first two years of minor league baseball were a lark, like getting paid to play High School ball, but last year in High A ball the expectations were higher, and he barely fought his way to AA ball at the end of Spring Training.
The next batter managed to strike out trying to sacrifice, but the next two hitters walked, filling the bases. The pitching coach came out to talk to the pitcher; the bullpen was silent since he was the last pitcher on the roster who'd been used that night. Rocky had pitched in high school, but the one time he tried it in the pros was an embarrassment, so he figured he'd keep his mouth shut about it. Let somebody else volunteer to pitch if this goes on much longer. This game had been a long struggle with lots of runs, but his team managed to match every rally the visitors over 28 innings and so they were playing into the dawn's early light.
A left handed hitter strode to the batter's box: the stocky designated hitter with huge arms who had five hits and two walks so far that night. Rocky remembered him from the year before as his league's leader in home runs and RBIs. The coaches moved him several feet to his left and kept him at medium depth, moving the other outfielders back and the infield in. "What the hell is Mutt thinking?" he said aloud. Mutt DeMedici was infamous for strange strategies that kept his four Major League clubs solidly under .500 and his minor league clubs muddling through their seasons. Rocky bent over slightly and focused: a tall, lean man with sandy hair and blue eyes whose body became a coiled spring ready for the ball to come his way.
A ball outside, and Rocky looked up at the owners box. A faint light shone within. M. C. McMillian was a maverick owner, creative and appreciated by the community, one of the senior owners of the Pacific Coast League, but blocked several times from owning major league teams. No-one seemed to know what he looked like, his picture never made the papers or the Internet and no one knew what he did for a living; rumor said he inherited his fortune, which is increased through shrewd investment. The players loved him; his new teammates told him at length how the owner treated them like kings. The clubhouse and trainer's room showed it. Several veterans who'd been to the Show said they'd seen worse in their Big League careers.
A long drive into the seats just foul down the right field line and a pitch outside. It was just two days ago Rocky was hitting third for a winning team after working his way into the lineup and up the batting order. Mutt was frank with him when he arrived: "Kid, you're here for about ten days to fill in for a guy who's having a cup of coffee in the Show. When Tom gets back, you go back Alabama and see if you can keep your incredi-fucking nasty hitting streak alive. You'll be doing caddy work here: a couple of late innings in the outfield here and there and maybe a pinch hitting or pinch running appearance or two. If somehow you catch fire here, we'll reconsider, but for now you should just find a place to crash for a few days 'stead of renting an apartment. Coach Harnkess knows a couple of guys on the club needing a temporary roommate. Get your gear stowed and take a nap. We'll need you in uniform tonight, but don't count on getting in the game unless there's extra innings."
A foul straight back and another ball. Full count with one out, and the shortstop turned around to remind him. The red ribbon on the peaks grew and brightened. Rocky was first up in the bottom of the inning, but he'd been a pro long enough to know he couldn't think about that yet. He entered the game in the 11th inning as a pinch runner, but his speed was useless as the trail runner and he was stranded in his only scoring opportunity. The pitchers in AAA ball were throwing BBs, his feeble swings brought weak foul balls, and the futility bothered him between innings.
Another loud foul down the right field line and another foul straight back. If this guy connected in fair territory, the game would be over this inning.
Rocky thought about his girl back in Minnesota, Connie Larsen, spending the summer with her family in Albert Lea. Blond, blue eyed, and a Scandinavian body that made him erect just thinking of it. Phone calls were a lousy way to maintain a relationship, and lately she was rather distant when he managed to get hold of her. Her father gave him rotten looks every time he appeared at their door. He'd refused several offers to go hunting with the old man in the cold and snow, worrying since he frequently referred to Dick Cheney. . .
A huge swing and the ball sailed like a wounded quail down the left field line toward no man's land just behind third base. Rocky reacted instantly, gauging the flight of the ball as he sprinted across the turf. It seemed futile at first, he was sure it would fall in, scoring at least two runs. He willed himself faster and tried to kick in another gear.
The quail hung in the deep blue sky, not wanting to touch down. The altitude was affecting it; Rocky never played at altitude before. Hope arose in his chest, but the ball had to come down sometime soon. The third baseman and shortstop were racing out, but with the infield drawn in they were farther away from the ball than Rocky and had bad angles to reach it.
The quail slowly dipped toward the earth. Rocky reached out his gloved left hand, straining as far as he could. Distantly, he heard the few remaining fans roaring, diehard baseball fans willing to sit up all night just to say they'd been there as a badge of honor. His feet were barely touching the ground, the wind singing in his ears, his arm stretching farther and farther as he tried to catch up with the ball.
The quail was coming to earth. Rocky didn't think; he left his feet to lunge at the falling projectile. Years and years of practice took over, guiding his actions, preparing for impact.
The ball settled in his glove just before his arm hit the ground, and by a miracle stayed there. His body skidded across the green turf for an eternity.
Rocky rolled to pop to his feet, looking down the third base line ahead of him: the runner had tagged and was heading home. His arm reached back and sent a cannon shot home.
At first, the throw seemed to be offline to the right, but it tailed back to land in the catcher's glove at waist level on one hop. One second later the runner arrived, but the squat Sumo guarding the plate hung onto the ball through the collision and the inning ended with an unlikely double play.
Rocky trotted into the dugout, accepting his teammates gratitude, and switched gears to take his at bat. "Hey, you probably made SportsCenter," Coach Harkness enthused, and Manager DeMedici gave a rare smirk.
"You're up, Rocky," the old man said, his face returning to its usual wrinkled mask. "Get on base."
The sky was growing more and more normal crystalline blue as daylight approached, the red on the mountaintops gave way to yellow and the horizon sported a red streak. A few stars valiantly competed against the growing light, but only the brightest were succeeding. No breeze, and the birds were just starting to call the sun over the horizon.
"Hey, is this the longest game ever?" Rocky asked as he took his place in the batter's box.
The opposing catcher remained silent, but the umpire said: "No kid. Longest game was Rochester at Pawtucket, 33 innings. But they played it over 2 days. C'mon, let's go. Play ball."
The pitcher looked in for a sign, nodded and prepared to deliver. Rocky crouched in the right handed batter's box, focused on his adversary, trying to forget the previous two at bats against this guy were three pitch strikeouts.
The windup and the pitch sent a ball with a dot inward. A breaking pitch that wasn't breaking, a batter's dream. Rocky almost gasped as it grew from a BB to a beach ball, and struggled to hold his composure waiting for the hanging curve to reach him.
Instinct took over again. Rocky didn't think; his hands drew back slightly, then propelled his bat through the strike zone, sending the orb deep to left center field with a rifle sharp crack. He didn't think it would make the seats, so he sprinted to first as fast as he could, turning to see its flight when he rounded the bag as his heart pounded.
The speed was unnecessary: the second base umpire was making a circle with his hand, ending the game with a home run call. Rocky slowed to a trot and floated around the bases as the other team trudged off the field, meeting his new teammates at home plate to dance in group celebration.
The celebration was muted. A long night's work had taken a lot out of everyone, and there was another game that night, in twelve hours. There was backslapping and glee in the shower room, but all were ready to go home. After Rocky changed, Mutt DeMedici approached him with a smile on his face.
"Nicely done, kid, nicely done. Highlight of your fucking life so far, I bet."
"You don't have to call me sir, kid, just call me Mutt like everybody else."
"Well, you got another piece of Christmas coming. Just got the call: you're the Silver Slugger tonight, I mean, today."
"Yeah. In the majors, it goes to the batting champion. Here, it means you get a special reward from above. See that door over there?" He pointed to a door in the clubhouse marked 'Silver Slugger'.
"Well, go through that door and do as you're told. A little perk from above to tonight's MVP. Enjoy."
"What's going to happen?"
Mutt smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. "You'll like it, don't worry," he said solemnly, turning and leaving the clubhouse.
Rocky stood there several moments, stunned, and one of the veterans came up. "You the Silver Slugger, Rocky?" He nodded his head quizzically. "You've got it made, friend, savor the fruits of victory. Relax, this is a good thing." A slap on the butt, and the veteran was gone.
Timidly, he turned the doorknob and entered a descending hallway. The colors were the same as the locker room: light blue and lavender, the team colors. Light jazz oozed from unseen speakers: Rocky shook his head and walked like a zombie down the hallway. He hadn't heard jazz before, even at the strip clubs he visited with his teammates past. The corridor ended with a wall, a video monitor at chest level playing a clip of a woman giving a well endowed man oral sex.
On his left there was a hole in the wall at waist height, covered with a black cloth on the inside. The video played out, and was replaced by a text message screen. Hello, Silver Slugger.
That's all right, I can hear every word you say, Rocky. Just keep talking. Great game tonight.
"Well, thanks, but it wasn't that good. Struck out a couple of times and let that ball by me in the last inning."
You came through under pressure with a great catch and hit the game winning home run. You've made your mark up here.
"Thanks. I hope I can help the team while I'm here."
You will, you will. Now, stick your dick through the hole in the wall.
Put your Louisville slugger in the place indicated. It's time for your special bonus.
He paused several seconds. 'How do I know it's not some kind of trick?"
It IS some kind of trick, but you'll like it.
"I know all kinds of things that can happen if I put my dick in there. You could spray it with skunk juice, or snap it in a rat trap, or you could be a big, hairy dude with two day's stubble."
Where do you come from? Did somebody trick you like this before?
"No, but I watched that old Robert Redford movie where he plays baseball and this chick in a hotel room pretends to like him then messes him up good."
The Natural. Great movie, and based on a real event, but that's not going to happen to you here. Didn't your manager and your teammates say this is a good thing.
"Yeah, but they may be messing with me."
If you're unsure, stick your hand through the hole.
Reluctantly, Rocky put his hand through the hole, and it was immediate taken by a soft, feminine hand. Velvet lips encircled his index finger, a tongue teasing his cuticle, a gentle suction drew him in. After several moments, the hungry mouth released, and he found his hand cupping a palm sized breast, whose skin felt like satin, topped by a hard nipple. A tweak of the bud brought a squeak of delight.
He pulled his hand out. Satisfied?
"Yes. But I've got a girlfriend back home. . ."
She's not here, is she?
Don't worry, I won't tell her anything. Put your dick through the hole. I want to make you feel good.
He unbuttoned his fly and tentatively put his limp penis through the hole. Immediately, two soft hands began to stroke it alternately, making him hard almost immediately. One hand reached down to caress his balls while the other wanked him with long strokes. It was heavenly, and Rocky's eyes looked up at the ceiling.
His girlfriend gave him a hand job like this on their first date. Connie gasped as she groped his trousers at his size, and released it immediately to look at it in awe. His sperm messed up the back seat of his car, and he had to spend most of the next morning cleaning it up, but it was worth it.
The velvet lips were teasing the end of his cock. A serpent tongue flicked out to tease the crevasses at the head, making his balls tingle. The stroking and teasing went on for an eternity before the mouth suddenly engulfed half his protuberance and started sucking hard. Connie never did anything like this, contenting herself to nibble at his pole once and avoiding the stream she called forth.
Suddenly, he was released, his Louisville slugger dripping with saliva, abandoned momentarily. For a few moments, it entered a soft, silky cave of skin between two plush cushions, then the body on the other side turned for him to enter her vagina. He felt her inner lips against his cock, which swallowed him slowly but surely until he was completely embedded in her wet canal.
Connie never did this for him; she was determined to remain a virgin until marriage. Rocky had never done this before, and he couldn't believe how wonderful it was to pound away inside a willing partner. Spasms surrounded his rock hard dick, and after some shuddering, pulled off again, leaving him unspent.
The screen awoke to life. That was fantastic, Rocky. Did you like that?
"God yes, why did you stop?"
That orgasm took my breath away. Have to settle down a bit. Your dick is so wonderful. Give me a minute and I'll give you the best head of your life.
He could hear heavy breathing from the other side, and the hand returned to keep him hard. After a moment, he felt a tongue on his balls; Connie had refused to tea bag him point blank when he asked her. His bat grew incredibly stiff and he though he was going to blow his load within seconds, then the mouth swallowed him again, working deeper and deeper until he felt her nose in his pubic hair. It was even more incredible than being buried in that snatch a few moments ago, and soon he erupted in long, thick ropes down her waiting throat.
She licked him clean afterward, still stroking him gently and playing with his balls. Finally, he was back to normal and withdrew to put himself away. The screen came to life again.
Congratulations, Silver Slugger. You've received your well earned reward. Keep your eye on the ball and your mind in the game, and you may see this place again.
Rocky staggered back up the passageway, where his new roommates were waiting for him. They said nothing as he emerged, but gave him shit eating grins. "Now you know why we play hard every day here," Phil Benson the shortstop said. "Let's grab some steak and eggs before getting some shut eye."
Mary Catherine McMillian sat in her special room putting her lipstick on when her daughter came into the room. It was a lavish room, with a large comfortable chair, laptop computer and a hole in the wall next to the chair. "Mother, I still can't believe you're doing this," the younger woman groused, her foot tapping relentlessly on the floor. "You're out of your fucking mind."
The older woman checked the buttons of her silk blouse and adjusted the lapels. She wore a dark business suit over it, shorter than ususal. The suit hid a fantastic body, lean and seductive, and her blonde hair was just beginning to transition subtly to grey. "Look Wandawiggle, I'm old enough and have enough money to do whatever the hell I want, so get off my back. I love baseball and I love anonymous sex. That kid was the best hung stud we've ever had here. I loved every minute. Get off my back."
Wanda McMillian paced the room nervously. "Stop calling me Wandawiggle, I'm an adult now. You're forty eight years old. You should be more dignified."
"Once again, I've got enough money I don't care. Fuck you, I've earned it. You're twenty five, when the hell are you going to start giving me grandchildren?"
"Shit, mother, do we have to start that again?"
"You would be better off if you got laid once in a while. That Karen girl you hang out with isn't going to make you happy."
"Damn you, Mother, damn you to hell. You just don't understand."
Mary Catherine got up and strode over to get in her daughter's face. "Look kid, we've got a long history in baseball, a dynasty going back to Cap Anson, and we've got to think of the future. Somebody has to inherit this, and I don't care if you want to munch carpet the rest of your life, you're the only one who can keep this family going. Give me some grandchildren before your uterus falls out."
"You aren't dignified enough to be a grandmother. Why do you sneak down here and give your players blow jobs when they do well? Why don't you just fuck them in some sleazy hotel?"
"I have to maintain my players' respect. If they knew I was fucking and sucking them, they wouldn't pay attention to me, they'd treat me like a fuck toy. I wouldn't have any respect or control of them at all."
"You are a fuck toy."
Undisturbed, Mary Catherine continued. "This way I can motivate them, cultivate some mystery, and get them to bust their balls for me out on the field. And I get as much free, no strings attached sex as I want as long as somebody on the team is playing well."