The Old BallgamebyAugustMacGregor©
The bitch shows up behind home plate again. Unbelievable. Second night in a row, she gets in the same seat and tries to fuck me up with her flashes of tit. She quickly yanks down one side of her tank top, flashes her boob, and tries to mess with my head.
She doesn't even have great cans. We're not talking about centerfold or top-notch porn material here. More like porn you'd find on the lower shelves, like bottles of cheap vodka in a liquor store. Definitely not the kind of tits you'd estimate to your buddies by holding your cupped hands in front of your chest and proudly declaring, "Those babies were out to here."
I signal to my dugout and then to Don behind home plate with two fingertip taps on my nose. My glove's against my chest. I hope the manager and catcher get my drift. The nose taps indicate something's wrong. And the glove? They should figure out that code. After last night's game, I had regaled them in the locker room about how this bitch in the first row stuck out her tit to break my focus.
"What a cunt," Don remarked, stretching his legs after squatting for so long. A catcher's curse.
"And? How good were they?" Frank wanted to know.
I filled them in on the boob mediocrity.
"Ah, who cares," Frank replied. "We won, didn't we?"
Frank's seen a lot of shit, including fans doing pretty much anything to tip the balance to their team. But our manager was right—we had won. Only by one run, but we'd take it. A win's a win.
"Tell you what," Frank went on. "If anything like that happens again, you give the signal. Got it? The warning signal. I'll get on the phone, see if I can get the lady booted out."
Beneath his hard-ass guise, my manager had to be practical. We won last night's game, but fan interference could cause us to lose another game.
Tonight, that could very well happen. Score's tied at two apiece. Not exactly the kind of score you love to see in the bottom of the ninth. But a closer's got to deal with pressure cookers. It's his reason for being. If he's not up to the task, then he's off to middle relief, which is no great dishonor but lower on the totem pole compared to the dude who starts the whole enchilada and the dude who seals the deal and walks off the mound amid thunderous cheers or boos—depending if you're home or away.
Don jogs to the mound, pulls up his catcher's mask, and covers his mouth with his fat glove. "You're shitting me, right?"
I also cover my mouth with my glove. Too many opponents can read lips. "Nope. Same bitch. Same seat."
Don's a pro. He doesn't wheel around and stare at the mass of shouting fans to single out our booby offender. That chance will come when he jogs back to his position behind home plate. He's got to be curious to check her out for himself.
"Frank'll call security," Don says. "Boot her outta here."
I nod. "So what about Martinez? Breaking ball?"
"Yeah. Then fastball high. He's been chasing those today."
"You got it. Let's take it to extra innings. She's in the pink tank top. Maybe more like peach."
Don grins as he pats his glove on my chest. "Peaches, huh? Keep your head on the ball."
As Don returns to home plate, I see Frank on the dugout's phone. Boy is he pissed. Same look he gives when debating an ump's call. No, debating is too weak. Seriously disagreeing is more like it. Or shouting down. But now, Frank's not tossing off the boob flasher like he did after last night's win. Not with the score tied.
I narrow my concentration to the spot where I want the ball to end up. But my pitch is low and Martinez isn't fooled into swinging. The bitch laughs into her cell phone. Who's on the other end? A friend watching the game on TV? The boob tube lives up to its name, and everyone watching closely gets a treat. If someone spots her tricks, would they call security? Surely, some TV producer sitting in front of a bank of TVs fed from the many cameras in the ballpark could catch the boob bandit. Maybe he thinks ratings will go up with a bit of flesh. No matter. Not with Frank's call. He'll give someone an earful.
Ratings should be solid with this nail-biter. The good folks at Columbia get fired up every time us Mudcats come up from Charleston. After we took the first game in the series last night, the Columbia Wrens and their fans want to even the wins. Hey, nobody likes to lose—much less be swept in a series. The third and last game in the series is tomorrow night, so both of us have another chance. But tomorrow's far away. Games don't get any tighter than the one right now.
Tight like how her peach-colored tank top clings to those mediocre tits. Obvious nubs of her nipples stand out in excitement over their owner's public flashing. Her tank top's thin shoulder straps could rip with the gentlest of tugs. No bra straps.
I shake my head in an effort to fling off my wandering visions. Got to get back to business. I'm a closer, and I've got to close down this batter and inning so my hitters can get a shot at the tenth inning.
Still, I'm a right-thinking dude. I can't help but think about how they'd feel to squeeze and fuck. At the ballpark, it's not a stretch to imagine making your own hot dog. She provides the soft buns. You bring the dog and mayo—it's the only condiment that's needed. Well, maybe some lube if you want to slick up the valley.
I scratch my groin in that gesture many women find offensive, and I hope she gets my drift. Back at ya, baby. You wanna show me some tit? Suck on this, bitch. The threat's as empty as a foul ball on two strikes, but I have to do something. Last night I quietly endured her taunts, and it only brought me frustration.
She laughs harder into her cell phone. Actually laughs harder.
I picture fucking her from behind, with both of my hands full of tit. She's bent over deep and crying out from the biggest dick she's ever had in her hot little cunt. Or maybe I'll fuck her up the ass. I'm squeezed into her tight asshole that's already seen a few visitors—on account of her comfort level and coaxing me ever inward. No shy flower here. Not with her flashing me two nights in a row out in a crowded stadium.
My fastball fires at the outside lower corner. Martinez gets a piece of it. The ball grounds to Nelly, who's playing off second base and tosses the ball to Derek at first. Easy third out. The crowd answers with boos, groans, and scattered applause. Extra innings, here we come.
Take that, you little bitch. Your tits didn't work last night, and they ain't working tonight.
In the dugout, I'm awarded with pats on the back and high fives. I'll take it while I can, since the tide could quickly turn the other way if I give up just one run in the bottom of the tenth. Encouragement is shouted to Pepper, who's warming up with a weighted bat. He's the first of three shots—and hopefully more—at bringing us into the lead.
My teammates are abuzz about the boob flasher. They spied glimpses of her after I alerted Frank, but they're bummed because no one actually saw her show off her tit. Some guys congratulate me on keeping my cool to clock a well-placed 90 mph fastball despite a tit aimed at me.
"Hey," I reply, "if she had big knockers, I'd be in trouble. Serious trouble. No way I'd be able to pitch if some porn star was pulling that shit. I would've handed the ball to Martinez, let him do whatever the fuck he wants." That gets a good laugh. "If those were some big cans, I'd jump in the stands and get busy with 'em. You dopes could finish this thing."
Big jugs they weren't. Still, I've got a hard-on. That bitch's middle-of-the-road boob inspired visions of titty fucking and doggy style for me. My woody strains at my cup, and I'm grateful for the plastic protection to save me from the embarrassment of walking around with a pitched tent. Thankfully, my dick softens as I watch Schalk prepare to pitch to Pepper, who's now at home plate. We'll see what the Wrens' closer can do with the ball.
Two disappointing outs later, word comes that the bitch has been yanked from her seat. Escorted by cops who kindly but firmly took her away. When Frank tells me the news, I breathe a sigh of relief. Those three outs in the bottom of the tenth loom large.
"After the tenth, sit the fuck down," Frank says. "Save your arm for tomorrow. Got it?"
I most definitely get it. Just like I get those three big outs when it's my turn on the mound again. Bang, bang, bang. Much easier without the titty diversion. Man, when the strikes are clicking, you're in seventh heaven.
Ultimately, we lose the game. Bottom of the eleventh inning with a RBI-causing double from Alston, the right fielder for the Columbia Wrens. Wasn't me pitching, thank God. Yeah, it's a selfish thought. But if my pitching led to a loss tonight, I'd feel guilty that the boob flasher screwed up my game. Even though she had been removed from her seat, the reach of that tit could've snowballed into bitter guilt that I given up one for the team.
Us defeated Mudcats head from the dugout to the lockers when a cop waves me over. He looks a bit smug from being on the winning side tonight.
"Leo Mackey wants to see you," he says. "He's head of stadium security."
"What about my manager?" I reply.
"Nah, just you. The lady has a complaint against you, and you only."
I call Frank over and fill him in on my summons. "You okay with it?"
He looks annoyed. "You didn't give up a run, didja? Not my problem." He grunts and leaves.
By this time, a crowd of Mudcats has gathered to see what's going on.
"She's got a complaint?" Don can't believe it. "What the fuck's up with that?"
Pepper pipes up: "Dude, you should complain to her. Tell her to show you both tits next time!"
A few jibes are thrown at me for good measure. This is the same shit we go through day in and day out during the season. They're my summer family. Playing, training, traveling—we're always together, and we've got to make the most of it. We think of stupid-ass nicknames. We tell raunchy jokes. During a bus ride to Raleigh, we came up with an X-rated version of Take Me Out to the Ballgame:
"Take me out to the whore house,
take me out to the hoes.
Buy me some pussy and blowjobs,
and make 'em all big, fat slobs.
Let 'em suck, suck, suck on my big dick.
If I don't cum it's a shame.
For it's one, two, three hoes a night
at the old whore house!"
We're the slobs. A bunch of dopes entertaining ourselves between games. When we're on the field, it's all business. But off, it's back to teenaged humor. We're a sausage party with no poontang in sight. Sometimes we're treated to interviews given by women sportscasters, and the jokes begin as soon as the locker room door clicks behind their (usually) sweet asses. Ugly chicks aren't picked for sports news. Gotta keep the viewers happy, and they're just as adolescent as we are.
As I walk the halls toward Leo Mackey's office, I'm grumbling about having to deal with the boob flasher. Why didn't the bitch just go home? I want to just get this over with.
Things get a lot more interesting. In Leo Mackey's office, the boob flasher is there, of course. Sitting opposite to Leo's big desk with her arms folded in front of her. Her face could melt a fastball. She should've tried that pissed off expression on me rather than flashing me.
It's not the boob flasher that stops me in my tracks. It's the hot babe sitting next to her. Now this is a chick that would've fucked me up back on the mound. Her mounds are much better than the boob flasher's. Both are wearing snug tank tops, and the difference is obvious.
Comparisons immediately leap to my mind since the two chicks are sitting next to each other in front of Leo Mackey's desk. Yup, the new babe has bigger tits. Call 'em jugs, and you'd be safe. These knockers wouldn't be free or cheap. Not like the boob flasher, who flashed her goods in front of the whole stadium. Her busty friend would be much different. To see these plump beauties, you'd have to buy rounds all night long of her favorite booze—and still be very lucky at closing time that she deems you worthy. Or maybe you'd have to wine and dine her at a fancy joint serving meals of at least three courses. Either way, the guy would have to be one hell of a stud.
The boob flasher is prettier. Out on the mound, I didn't notice her face that much. Could be that her beauty is heightened due to her attitude. Her angry demeanor dares me, like a pretty spy in an interrogation. Her dark eyes smolder and taunt: So what are you gonna do? Huh, big man? Arrest me?
The busty hottie's face is more on the cute side. Where the flasher is pissed, the busty babe looks bored. She looks completely bored—as if she simply cannot believe she has to be stuck in this dump. The gall of us men to take her away from the action of a post-game happy hour in a nearby bar, where she'd be surrounded by male fans drooling over the boobs pushing at her lime-green tank top.
Her bored expression is actually sexy. Like a model lazily gazing at you and saying, "This place is totally lame. Why don't you take me away, show me something exciting." Adrenaline would charge as you eagerly rose to the test of fulfilling her need for entertainment.
Who is this big-boobed babe? Is she a partner in crime or innocent bystander? Impossible to tell why she was dragged here.
Then there's Leo Mackey.
Talk about a party pooper. I'd love to be alone with the two women. I'd show 'em a good time, erase that bored look from Miss Jugs, and that frown off the boob flasher.
Ah, well. Down to business. Leo stands from behind his desk, introduces himself, and shakes my hand. Strong grip. He's a middle-aged man with broad shoulders and thick chest underneath a light blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Maybe an ex-cop who got sick of pounding the streets and traded them for a baseball stadium.
"Nice stuff out there," he says. "You ever want to play for a good team, you come up to Columbia."
"We'll see tomorrow night who's got the better team," I reply.
Leo seems to enjoy my jab back at him, that I didn't lie down at his crack at the Mudcats. He sits down and says, "This young lady says you had her pulled out of her seat for no good reason."
"Yeah," the boob flasher spits out, "and I missed the end of the game. I've been sitting here for two whole innings. I paid to see the whole game. Not be taken away from my seat." Her words rush out, like they've been itching for the chance to put me in my place. Her voice is a little husky, and yeah, it's kinda sexy. Even though her message is incredulous.
I fire back, but in a calm tone: "If you wanted to see the whole game, you shouldn't have flashed me. That's fan interference."
"Yeah, that's what this guy claimed." She stabs a thumb at Leo Mackey. "But that's total bullshit."
"I didn't flash you or anybody. Ask Lynn. She was sitting next to me."
"Nope. No flashing." Lynn weighs in. So the busty one is a friend. Her voice is smoother than the flasher. Not as angry.
"You're lying," I seethe. "Both of you. I saw you"—I point to the flasher—"pull down your top and flash your... your... chest." With so many names for tits to choose from, I need to lean on a safe one.
"Bullshit," the flasher replies. "Why would I do that? Why would you say such—"
"Okay, okay!" Leo holds up a palm like an ump calling for a pause in the game. "The way I see it, it's her word against yours. Well, it's their word against yours. That's a pretty big accusation you're making, Joe. Did anyone else see this alleged flashing?"
Leo adding "alleged" grates my ears. I think about all of the Mudcats, and unfortunately I can't come up with one who admitted to viewing the tit debacle. Maybe there's a fan with a cell phone camera who saw her commit the crime?
Then it hits me. The boob tube. Aptly named this time. You've got countless eyes staring at you from the stands, but TV cameras give viewers close ups of every emotion on your face: concentration, frustration, exaltation, anger. Outside of stadiums, you learn to be wary of cameras. On the field, you accept their reality. This time, that reality might give me an edge.
Even though we're far from the major leagues, the stadiums have cameras. We have a small but devoted following who visits the games and watches them on local TV channels.
I fold my arms against my chest, soak in the lovely nipples on both ladies for a second, then turn to Leo. "TV cameras. There's always one showing the pitcher's back and the hitter. Deny all you want, but I bet you that a camera picked up her alleged flashing. In tonight's game and last night's game."
My blow's impact is marvelous to behold. Leo nods, impressed at my ingenuity. Lynn and the flasher are so clearly shocked and disheartened that I have to clear my throat to stifle a laugh.
"Last night too, huh?" Leo says. "Good idea. I'll check." He picks up his black phone and pokes the buttons.
A couple of seconds tick slowly. The chicks look nervously at each other.
"Tommy?" Leo asks the phone. "Leo here. Yeah. Overtime's fun when you win, right? Yeah. Listen, I've got a favor to ask. Could you pull the video for the game?"
"Wait," the flasher bitch says, leaning forward with her hand out in a plea.
"Huh? Hold on." Leo cups his hand over the phone's receiver like I want to cup Lynn's tits.
"Fine," the flasher spits out. "Okay? I did it. Yeah, I flashed him, all right? Both games. For all the good it did."
Victory! How sweet it is. I force myself not to gloat. But damn, it feels good to be right.
Leo lowers his cupped hand from the phone. "Hey Tommy? Forget it. Problem solved. Yup. It's nothing. Have a good one."
"Can we go now?" Lynn sighs.
I love the way her voice sounds so dreadfully bored and how her tits rise and fall in that oh-so-bored sigh she gives.
"Not yet," Leo says. He clasps his hands together behind his head and mulls over the situation.
"Oh, come on," Lynn gripes. "She owned up to it. She'll never do it again."
"That's right," the flasher chips in. "Never again."
"Show him your breasts." Leo's fastball catches all of us looking blankly.
Did he actually say that? Show your breasts? What? Let's go to the replay.
The flasher can't believe her ears, either. "Huh? Are you fucking crazy?"
Leo smirks. "Sometimes you gotta be crazy with this job."
The flasher's steaming mad. "But he's already seen by boobs. One, yeah. But he's already seen it. What are you talking about?"
Leo leans forward. "Look, lady. You pull a stunt like that, seems fair to me." He shrugs and sits back. "But it's your choice. Show 'em and I'll let you back in the park. If you don't, I'll tell my boys to escort you right on out of here if you take one little itty-bitty step in this stadium."
She glares at him.
"I'll even turn around. You don't owe me nothin', lady."
She lets out an exasperated breath. "Fine. I'll do it again. And stop calling me lady. My name's Ashley."
"Gotcha." Leo swivels his chair around, showing us his back.
Ashley glares at me as she tugs up the bottom of her peachy tank top to blast me the full frontal of both boobs. They're not as small as I had thought. Now that I'm seeing them closer up. What impresses me is that this is no flash. Her fists hold her scrunched shirt above her tits and allow me an extended eyeful. Her glare challenges me, as if to say, "Get a good, long look. That's all you'll ever get." Finally, the tank top descends like a curtain.
"Very nice." Least I could do after she indulged me.
"C'mon, Ashley, let's go," Lynn mumbles.
"Wait," the flasher says. "He grabbed his crotch at me. He should have to do the same thing."