It's Only a Gamebykromen©
Whenever someone mentions Bill Buckner, I get an erection. Not a simple half mast salute like when one shakes longer than necessary at the urinal; I'm talking about two inches away from bumping into a vagina type of raging boner.
It's not that I find him, or any man for that matter, attractive. While same the incident that befell him one Saturday night back in 1986 made him a pariah in certain sporting circles, I remember as one of the most spectacular events in my lifetime.
The October nights in Harlem were cold enough for overcoats and watch caps, but I shoved open the pane of glass in the living room anyway, keeping it propped open with my girlfriend's high school yearbook. The heat inside was stifling. Between the stove still hot from Saturday dinner, somebody cranking up the thermostat in the eighties, and my anxiety; the apartment was hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock.
The 1986 World Series had the Mets facing the Boston Red Sox. Could the new kids on the block make a name for themselves against the Beantown Bombers? Over 55 thousand in attendance and I couldn't score one lousy ticket. At least, I couldn't afford the scalper's prices.
My own cousin wouldn't come down thirty measly bucks for a nosebleed section. When he wants something, it's all about the family. When he has something, it's all about his bills. After ten hours of shoveling ice down at the Fulton Fish Market, all I wanted was a beer and good reception on the nearest television, which placed me at my girlfriends apartment.
I was extremely antsy about game 6. The Miracle Mets seemed like they were fresh out of them . Dropping the first two at home, winning them back at Fenway, just to lose another at home. The Red Sox were one win away from breaking their curse and they had our asses pinned the wall like a first-time inmate on the first day at Rikers Island with Roger "The Rocket" Clemens starting on the mound.
"Raheem," called Lupe from the kitchen. "You gonna freeze me out, close the window." The smell of dinner hung in the air, remnants of rice, beans, and jerk chicken replacing what little air there was in the cramped apartment.
"Y'all use to much Adobe, L," I replied as I twisted the cap off my first Miller High Life. "That shit is killing me."
"Please; you ate thirds." Lupe appeared in the doorway. "You trippin."
She smirked, dish towel in one hand, spoon in the other as I fanned the smoky scent out the window with an old copy of Newsday. She was an uptown girl through and through. Giant door knocker earrings, gold rope chain, hair scraped back into a perfect ponytail.
She wore a t-shirt emblazoned with the Puerto Rican flag, 100% in black type stenciled at the top, set between a firm set of island grown breasts, nipples making an brief appearance from the chill. Her shapely hips squeezed into a pair of Jordache jeans, so tight I could read her driver license through the back pocket.
As easily as she looked like one of the honeys on the block, on the inside, she was a girl with bigger plans, leaving the concrete jungle for greener pastures. She was born as Guadalupe, but shortened it as she grew older. Lupe in middle school segued into Lu by the time Junior year started, till everyone around the way just referred to her as L. Except her mother. Mothers will never call you by anything less than what named you.
We met at a block party back in June, sparked right away, becoming a couple within a week. We hit all the local scenes; parties, movies, and the Apollo every once in awhile, but there was no real consummation. Other than kissing or a quick grope under the shirt (over the bra), she was mum on doing the nasty.
She played the Catholic card constantly despite the fact that she missed Mass more than I missed away games. I couldn't blame her; both her older sisters had three kids between them, their tenement becoming more crowded by the season. She started the year at City College of New York, but was attending the University of Florida next year on scholarship.
"I thought we were going out tonight." She watched as I wrestled with the rabbit ears on her family set.
"Game 6 is starting."
I swiveled and pointed at my cap before go back to the task of bending the metal rods and adjusting the aluminum foil on the tips till the static lessened.
A commercial for the Crazy Eddie electronic store faded to black and a view of Shea stadium popped up on the screen. Vin Scully welcomed the viewers to the start of the game. I likes it when he called games. A Bronx native, he could make the blind see when describing the action on the field. He also had no fear of dead air; letting the ambiance fill in the gaps now and then.
"Aw, Papi," She began the pouting routine I was very familiar with. "I wanted to go to the Latin Quarter; it's Saturday."
Any other time she thrust that bottom lip out, I succumbed to her will, but nothing was changing my plans tonight.
"It's only eight, we'll have plenty time for pop locking and body rocking. Chill out, Nena."
She abruptly turned back into the kitchen and started banging the dirty pots and pans around to show her frustration. I sat on the couch, adjusting the stiff manufacturer plastic that has yet to be removed, taking another swig from the bottle. The static dissipated as the channel 9 signal strengthened. I adjusted my cap, shifted more in the seat so the plastic wouldn't scratch at the back of my knees or rip into the material of my new velour sweat suit as my plan came into fruition.
The symphony of pots clashing lessened as she finished cleaning the kitchen. Usually she had help, but her mother dragged the rest of the family out to Saturday Mass. I knew this would be the quietest place I could find to watch the game since our set at home burnt out three days ago.
L reappeared after getting a quilt from her bedroom. She threw it over the plastic before kicking off her suede Pumas and sitting down next to me. Her mother bought this couch over two years ago and never unwrapped it in hopes of preserving it. Plus, they still had a couple of payments left.
As Paul Simon belted out the last notes of the National Anthem, I let out a belch, producing a giggle and slap on the arm from her. I leaned over and gave her a kiss on the forehead before going back to the game. That was all the intimacy she was gonna see out of me until the end. She sighed, picked up a copy of Fresh magazine, thumbing through the glossy pages. She produced a Charms Blow Pop, her favorite candy, and began to unwrap it.
"Want a lick?" she held it out to me only to snatch it away. "Psyche!" She giggled and began to eat it. I glanced at her sideways as she swirled her tongue around the hard red shell, before putting it in her mouth for a couple seconds, drawing in her cheeks as she ferociously sucked the flavor off. She kept repeating the action as she flipped through the magazine. I imagined that I was that lollipop, adjusting my sweats so she wouldn't see my arousal.
I was already down in the dumps by the first inning. Bob Ojeda started off slow; giving up a double to Dwight Evans, bringing Wade Boggs home for the first score. I started on my second brew as I watched the Rocket barely break a sweat, taking us out three in a row to end the inning. Clemens didn't fare so well in his last outing and was pitching like a man possessed.
The second inning was a repeat of the first. Sox 2nd baseman Marty Barrett hit a short line drive to right, scoring Spike Owen and I started thinking about the Yankee fans that would give me shit next week at work. The Mets are still the red-headed stepchild of the Big Apple and losing to the nemesis of the Bronx Bombers, at home, was liken to having your big brother watch you take an ass whipping in the backyard, laughing at you the whole time.
I was left on the couch to my doldrums by the third; L said something about picking out some clothes. I grunted a reply, squeezing the the bottle like it was a Louisville Slugger, size 33. I saw a glimmer of hope by the fifth; we tied it up at two. Those cocky sonuvabitches from Bahstin wouldn't give us much joy, gaining a run in the seventh. Clemens left the game with a one run lead, his work completed. We tied it up again in the eighth, but clearly was out of gas.
She returned by the ninth; I heard her giggling on the phone in the back with a girlfriend for the better part of two hours, WBLS blaring from the radio. Mr. Magic's rap attack program was starting which meant it was past ten already. Mets outfielder Leo Mazzilli scored on a sac fly, tying it at 3, giving me a little breathing room.
The Jordache were peeled off, replaced by her old high school gym shorts, just as tight but exposed more creamy butter pecan thighs. Clearly a distraction tactic aimed a me. She leaned in the door jamb, watching me for a few minutes, before trying to sit on my lap.
"Not now, L." I pushed her off.
"You wack." She moved to the other side of the couch, glaring at me. I knew she was just feigning anger. Watching baseball is the only time I'm not pawing at her and she knew it. She might have been saving herself, but she was an expert cock tease. Another Crazy Eddie commercial dominated the airwaves. His secondhand TV is the reason I'm over here now.
"Shit. We gonna miss the parties."
I tried to keep a vigil on the screen, but felt something on my thigh. I looked down to find ten perfect toes, painted pink, wiggling inches from my groin.
"What are you doing?"
"What do you care," she chortled. "You only interested in the stupid game." I smirked at her pronunciation of stupid, the u replaced by multiple o's. She only resorted to ghetto dialect at home with her girls; seven years of private school gave her perfect diction, yet she hid it on the streets.
"You ain't gonna do nothing, no how." I turned my eyes in her direction. "Cock tease." "Fuck you, Raheem," she spat. "You think you so cute."
I blew her a kiss, wiping the faux anger right off her cocoa smooth face. I raised my arm and she crawled into it, resting her head on my chest. I massaged her collarbone, kissing the top of her head. She hummed her approval. The game came back on and I was focused again, immediately stopped with the rubbing and the kissing.
It took two pitches before Sox center fielder Dave Henderson blast a home run to left field. I was crushed. My hand sliding off Lupe's shoulder, I slumped further down in my seat as I watched Boston celebrate. It only got worse as Boggs scored again on a single.
I shot up to go to the bathroom, leaving the raucous celebration coming out of the TV and Lupe on the couch. I wanted to to tear my hair out, scream from the rooftops, commit murder. The game was over; we weren't coming back from two down with the 2-3-4 order.
I plopped back down on the couch in a serious funk. L draped my arm over her, inches from her breast, but I didn't notice.
"It's just a game," She rubbed my chest. "Don't be so sad,Papi."
I gave her a hug, but my mood didn't change. The last inning was starting and I was tempted to turn it off, but I couldn't quit just now. L didn't say much, her head now resting on my lap, playing with the drawstrings on my pants.
It only took three pitches for Wally Backman to pop out to left. I gave a little grunt in acceptance. L kept playing with the strings on my pants.
"Do you really think I'm a cock tease?"
I sat up, eyes still glued to the television. She traced patterns on my thigh with a manicured nail.
"Well, do you?"
"No," I sighed. "I just trip on you to watch you flare up."
"I don't want to lead you on," She squeezed my leg. "I really like you, but I don't want to end up stuck like my sisters. I want to go to Florida and I can't do that pregnant."
I heard but wasn't listening to her as Keith Hernandez sent one deep to center for the second out. Shea stadium was dying as the Mets' catcher Gary Carter took some practice swings in the on-deck circle. Fans were already filing out and the station broke away to commercial. She shifted again until she was facing me.
"Why do you stay with me?"
"Where is this going?" I looked away from the TV.
"We been going out for awhile, but we ain't, you know, did anything." She sighed.
"Why, you wanna?" I grinned.
"Cabrón," she slapped at my chest. "Fellas round here will break out the second they gets no pinocha, but you're still here."
"You really wanna know?"
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't." L sat up, looking me in the eye.
I took a deep breath, fixing my mouth to say the words.
"Cuz, I haven't done it either."
She stared in amazement, mouth agape, eyes bigger than saucers. It was easy to put on a good front. Yeah, I had a lot of girlfriends all through middle and high school but with the exception of little games of stink finger in the darkened piss-stained hallways, I was still a virgin. With L, I didn't worry about the pressure of having sex because she was so adamant against it.
Sure, I walked with the swagger of a Harlem player, but I dared not risk exposing my inexperience to any of the sex veterans on the block. Reputation went a long way down 7th avenue and 19 year olds with no mileage on their fuck stick got crucified in the streets.
"So, what if I wanted to do it?"
"It wouldn't matter because you couldn't tell if I was good or not."
That broke us up; peals of laughter filling the room. I leaned over and kissed her on the lips, reddened deeper from the lollipops. The candy only made it sweeter and I lingered for a couple seconds.
"We're still not doing it." she stated when I broke for air.
"I know," sighing as I leaned back. Vin Scully came back from commercial, giving me the reprieve that I needed. L lay down again, propping herself up on her elbow, right next to me.
"I think about you when you're not here." Her fingers retraced patterns on my thigh. "More than I've thought about any boy." She got bolder, moving further north.
I tried to tune her out, watching as Carter took two balls, putting him ahead of the count. L rubbed on my flaccid penis through the velour until it began to respond.
"I see someone doesn't care about the game." She chuckled as she kept rubbing her fingers up and down against the rising bulge in my pants.
I would've have been shocked at her boldness if it weren't for Carter's desperate line drive to the left for the first single of the inning. I sat up suddenly, pushing groin right against her face.
"Aye, Cabrón, she hissed, pulling away for a second.
My heart pounded in my chest; Kevin Mitchell was pinch hitting for the pitcher Rick Aguilera and he looked like he wasn't ready to join Hernandez in the clubhouse. I moved her head back down, so I could see the screen. She pushed against me until I leaning back on the couch again. I felt her tug on my waistband, but I was getting too caught up in the game to care.
"Dios Mio," She breathed. "You ain't even hard yet."
I finally tore away from the game to see what she was doing. Head now resting on my stomach, she had my sweats pulled up, taking her first look at what I had to work with. Reaching in, she took a grip on the firming shaft, squeezing like it was her own Louisville. She had a wicked smile, lips still shiny from the last lollipop.
"Watch the ballgame,Papi."
To say I had mixed emotions was a severe understatement. We were one out away from the end of the season and L was taking intimacy matters in her own hands, literally. I ran my hand down her side until I reached the hem of her shirt. Sliding my fingers underneath, I gingerly trekked upwards until I grazed the bottom of her right breast. When she removed her bra, I never knew, but it wasn't there now. I didn't hesitate, palming the warm flesh for the first time, nipple thick and firm, faint murmur of a beating heart, her life in my hands.
"Your timing sucks, Chica."
"Watch the game, stupid," she whispered. "Before I chicken out."
I looked up to see 3rd baseman Ray Knight take a ball. I didn't even realize that Mitchell got on base with a single, sending Carter to second. I fiddled with Lupe's nipple, savoring the softness of her hand stroking me to fullness. It wasn't as much stroking as much as it was exploration. She rolled it between her fingers like a cigar, traced the vein that ran from the base with her nail, running her thumb back and forth over the top.
Knight cloned another single to bring Carter home, bringing a smile to my face at the same time. The Sox called for a pitching change as Mets left fielder Mookie Wilson stood on deck. L's exploration became braze when she kissed the patch of skin between my navel and pubic hair, shaking me from my core, overheating in the frigid apartment. An upsurge of my own fervor produced a bead of precum; she used her forefinger like a brush and began to coat the head of my cock.
"See, that's enough to give me babies." She said to nobody in particular, rubbing the rest on her hand, darting out her tongue and sneaking a taste.
"Come on, come on," I pleaded to Mookie Wilson. I was ready for the game to end; for Wilson to make the giant red apple in right field rise in jubilation like I was rising.
"Don't push it." replied Lupe, giving a firm squeeze. "Consider yourself lucky."
Mookie faced a fresh armed Bob Stanley on the mound. The first pitch was foul and I gasped with the thousands in attendance and millions watching, but my reaction was from the liquid blitz of heat as she took me inside her mouth for the first time.
She only put in about two inches, but it was the best two inches of wetness I ever felt. I groaned in appreciation as she suckled, her soft lips increasingly becoming a steadfast vise. I kept a handful of breast in my hand, squeezing every once in awhile, a little harder than I should when I saw Mookie foul off two more to right.
The pitch count was full; the crowd on their feet, people in the aisles frozen in place. Mookie already had eight pitches thrown and they were either foul or ball. I couldn't tell who was more frustrated; him, Stanley, or me. L took another inch in her mouth, cupping my balls for stability.
I banged my head against the back of the couch from the sensitivity of her swirling tongue. The open window blew in a steady stream of cool; chilling my exposed parts before they were heated up again with her mouth in motion. She pulled my pants lower for better access, turning to face me at the same time.
She rubbed her saliva over parts of me that her mouth didn't reach, plying tender kisses on my places that never felt lips. I was so thankful that I showered after work.
I could no longer form words; I watched the screen through slitted eyes, my hand traveling south to her round ass. She opened her legs slightly, allowing me to feel the hot crevice between her legs. She was throughly heated, humming approval as I rubbed on her mound through cotton shorts.
"Si," The word hissed out as I manipulated the chocha to her liking.
Bob Stanley lost the frustration battle as he let a pitch slip during his release. Mitchell boogied from second in a flash, scoring on the error and the place was in an uproar. We were tied up with the winning run on second.
"Let's go Mets! Lets go Mets!" Stamping and whistling, the stadium rocked to the point of exploding. I slapped L on her ass in celebration.
"Hey," Lupe wasn't watching and had no idea what I was doing. "Stop that, stupid."
"Sorry, sorry," I apologized. I couldn't sit still now, twitching from the excitement on the screen and action between my legs. Mookie took a practice cut or two and stepped back in the box. Lupe took a lick or two and put me back inside her mouth. I became that candy that I was so envious of earlier; I just hoped she wouldn't start chewing.