“Oh, Presley, look!” Denise exclaimed suddenly, grasping her friend by the upper arm. “It’s Matt Walsh from
Tempest
! God! I used to watch that every day when I was in college.”
“I used to schedule my classes around that show,” Presley agreed. “Oh Gawd, what a hunk! Too bad he’s playing for the other team.”
“Yeah,” Denise sighed heavily.
“His real name is Tom Ford,” Todd O’Connor informed them. “He’s a real nice guy.”
“You
know
him?” Presley demanded, turning her eyes from the opposing team’s bench to stare, bubble eyed, at Todd.
“We got our pilot’s licenses together,” Todd told them. “I was a student at Columbia and he had just started on
Tempest
. He went to Columbia, too, you know. Maybe that’s why we hit it off. I’ll introduce you if you like. He said he was going to go with the teams for pizza in the North End after the game.”
“That would be
so
cool, Todd,” Presley gushed. “Thanks.”
Dave silently rolled his eyes at the way the two women were acting like star struck teenagers. You would think that Denise, at least, would be immune to celebrity and a pretty face.
Just then Paul Lund walked over and stood in front of the bench, motioning for his team to gather around. “We’re almost ready to start. As the home team, we’re going to let them bat first. Presley and John, you should probably start warming up. Everyone else, don’t take them too lightly. They may look like pieces of fluff, but I’ve heard that they’re a tough team to beat. Try not to embarrass the station too much, huh?”
Presley walked off with John Froio, the team catcher. “Good luck!” Denise called after them. Dave eyed the now empty space on the bench next to Denise. This was his chance. He stepped over the aluminum bench and into the gap left by Presley’s departure. “Do you want to work on your swing a little more?” Todd asked as Dave began to lower his behind onto the bench.
“Oh man, yes!” Denise replied with a blossoming smile. “I’m going to embarrass myself out there, I just know it!”
“Nah,” Todd replied casually as he rose to his feet. “We won’t let you.” He picked up a bat off of a nearby cart and extended it out toward her. “Let’s see your form.”
“I’ve got the form of Jell-O.” She grinned, walking a few feet away from the bench. “I didn’t think I should play at all, but Paul Lund insisted that I should because I’m such a visible part of the station. I may be a decent deejay, but I majorly suck as a softball player!”
Todd took his place a couple of yards away from her. “Okay, let’s see your stance.”
Dave watched keenly as Todd gave Denise a batting lesson.
“Nope,” O’Connor told her after watching her take a few swings. “You’re still thrusting your hips out when you swing. Think about keeping them tucked under you. Don’t be afraid of the ball. It’s not going to hit you … Probably not, anyway. Here, try it again.” Another pitch, another thrust.
Todd shook his head again. “I’ve got it. Dave, come over here, would you? You pretend to pitch while I help Denise with her swing and follow through.”
Dave frowned, grim. He didn’t want to aide and abet any interaction between Todd and Denise, but he couldn’t see a graceful way out of it. He stood up grudgingly, trying to suck in his gut at the same time but knowing that he really couldn’t compete with Todd’s washboard abs. He smoothed down his own shirt as he walked over, tugging the ends down a little in a futile attempt to emphasize his own bodyline. Yeah, he thought grimly, he was sporting a six pack himself. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite the same kind of six pack that O’Connor had.
Todd came around behind Denise and stood close behind her. “Here, get in your stance,” he told her. As Denise once again hefted the bat onto her shoulder, Todd’s arms reached around her. Dave felt something surge inside him. Todd carefully placed his hands over Denise’s. “Okay,” he told her. “I want you to try to swing again, only this time you’re going to keep your hips in.”
“I am?” Denise laughed, looking back over her shoulder at him.
“You are,” came the certain reply. “Either that or we’re both going to get a really cheap thrill.”
Denise laughed again and turned to face the pitcher, looking at him with sparkling eyes. His heart lurched. She was having a wonderful time. “Go ahead, Dave.”
Maybe it was childish sprite, but Dave didn’t think anyone would know the difference. He cradled the imaginary ball close to his chest, went through the windup, and then pitched the invisible sphere hard in the general direction of Todd O’Connor’s head.
He froze in his follow through, watching carefully to see what would happen next. Denise kept her focus — he could see her eyes tracking the trajectory of the non-existent ball. She pulled the bat back just a fraction and then swung hard — and the two inches of space between the soft curve of her behind and the taut denim of the jeans that covered O’Connor’s crotch diminished slightly but remained in place.
Todd looked down. “Good!” he beamed. “You got it. Now you just have to pretend I’m pressing against the back of you every time you get up to bat.”
“Now I just have to hope I come within a country mile of hitting the ball, you mean,” she amended.
“Don’t worry about it,” he told her. “You’ll be great.”
• • •
They may have looked a bit fluffy, but the Soap Opera Stars played like they meant it.
A double by their fourth batter drove in the first run for the Stars. It was hit by a puffy haired blond who looked like she was all of twelve years old. Dave watched the play unfold from the bench, feeling a pang of relief when Denise managed to catch the ball at second base, keeping the barely five foot tall woman from advancing further.
The WMTR team was kept scoreless in the next inning. Todd O’Connor hit a long fly ball in the second inning, and Dave hid his delight when it was neatly fielded by the tiny blond who had hit the double in the first inning. “How old is their outfielder, anyway?” Dave asked Presley, who was sitting between himself and Denise on the bench.
Presley glanced at Denise. “I remember when her character was born — I was in college then. So it must have been about six years ago, don’t you think?”
Dave peered at her critically. “That’s no six-year-old.”
“No, no.” Presley explained. “She’s a teenager now on the show. The last time I saw it, it was last Labor Day — she had just started college.”
Denise got up to bat in the third inning. Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, but she fanned the ball mightily on three consecutive pitches and was out. She went with grace, through, laughing out loud at herself and turning to bow to the fans who were calling out their commiseration and support from the stands.
Dave also got up in the third inning. He took his practice swings in the batting circle, trying hard to look buff, flexing his arms as he hefted the bat, keeping an assessing stare at the players on the field and, above all, trying to hold his stomach in. He glanced over at Denise as he stepped up to the plate, gave her a cocky grin, then brought the wooden bat up to his shoulder.
The pitcher on the Soap Opera Stars team was the man Todd O’Connor knew from flight school — Ford Walsh, or whatever his name was. Even from sixty feet away, Dave couldn’t help but notice the exceptional build and classically chiseled features on the man. Dave squinted at the man on the mound with his best intimidating glare. The pitcher sized him up, nodded, and then went through his windup and delivered the pitch.
Dave swung mightily and caught the ball on the edge of the bat. A resounding
crack
! shot through the ballpark as the ball fired away from the plate, straight over the heads of his teammates, and into the stands behind the third base line. Foul ball. He scowled and shook his head, then resumed his stance.
The next pitch came straight and fast. He swung, but his timing was off by a fraction of a second and the bat sliced through the air with a faint
whoosh
! but no contact. He glanced over toward the ’MTR bench as the catcher tossed the ball back to the pitcher. O’Connor was sitting between Presley and Denise, pointing out someone in the stands behind the plate. They weren’t even watching him. A flash of anger arose in him. He stepped off the plate and rolled his shoulders, waiting until he saw the attention of those on the bench turn back his way and then resuming his stance. The pitch was perfect — straight, fast, and just where he wanted it. He held his breath as he waited for the exact moment he needed, lifted the bat slightly and then swung as hard as he could.
It connected with a resounding
thwack
! He dropped the bat and started to run to first base. This was it, this would show her. He hoped it would clear the fence and bring both him and Paul Lund, who had made it to second base, home, giving the team both the tying run and the lead. He barreled down the baseline, his eyes on the plate. He poured on the speed, glancing toward the field to see exactly where the ball was.
Thwump
! The sound of horsehide hitting leather was not as loud as when it connected with a wooden bat, but it was just as resounding in Dave’s mind. “
Yeeeee’re out!
”
Well, it was only the second inning. There would be other chances.
Presley held the Stars scoreless for the next three innings. WMTR scored when Todd O’Connor doubled, stole third, and then was hit home with a line drive belted by John Froio. Dave forced a smile as O’Connor jogged up to the plate, to receive the welcomes and back slaps of his beaming teammates. Later in the inning, John advanced on a base hit by the morning show producer, only to be left stranded when Denise, once again, struck out.
The score was still one to one when Dave got up to bat in the sixth inning. He waited out the first pitch, not finding it to his liking. Denise yelled out something encouraging from the bench. At least, he thought it was something encouraging. He didn’t quite catch exactly what it was she’d said. The second pitch was more to his liking — clean, straight, and just over the plate.
Denise’s voice sounded in his ears. “Come on, Dave!” He hesitated just for a split second as he registered her words. A split second too long. His timing was impaired. He swung and connected, but it wasn’t the solid hit that he had hoped for.
Tom Ford, the Soap Opera Stars’ pitcher, close personal friend of Todd O’Connor, Greek God, and despoiler of dreams, took a few careful steps forward off of the mound, held up his glove, and neatly snagged the pop up.
Out.
Denise patted Dave’s shoulder consolingly as he returned to the ’MTR bench. “Nice try, Dave,” she sympathized. He couldn’t think of anything to say to her in reply. He didn’t want her sympathy. He wanted her admiration, the thunder and the glory, to be a hero in her eyes. Not sympathy. He pressed his lips together and took his place on the end of the aluminum bench to wait out the rest of the inning.
• • •
Denise walked up to the plate in the ninth inning, grim faced. She knew that this would probably be her last time at bat, and while it was no disgrace to go down swinging, she didn’t want to be the only one on the team who hadn’t registered at least one hit during the course of the game. They were down by one run; she could be the tying run if she could just hit the damn ball. She wondered how hard it would be to get walked, then discarded the idea. The Stars’ pitcher was too good and Denise only had a faint notion of where the strike zone was anyway.
The first pitch came blistering by after a windup that left Denise dazzled.
Strike
. Darn! Why couldn’t the station have taken on the Soap Opera Stars in bowling instead? At least in bowling a strike was a good thing. She stepped up to the plate again and drew up into her stance, trying to do it just the way Todd had showed her — knees bent, shoulders forward, butt out. Keep your eye on … the ball was already hurtling toward her. She barely had time to blink before swinging, but by then it was too late — the bat fanned aimlessly after the ball.
Oh well
, she thought, shaking her head. At least she’d go down swinging.
Someone on the Stars’ bench yelled something encouraging to Tom Ford, who laughed and smiled. The laugh annoyed Denise. If she was going to be humiliated, she wanted it to at least look like they had to work to do it.
Then the Stars’ pitcher made a major mistake. He got cocky. He wanted to show just how bad a hitter Denise was. Instead of a wind up, he lobbed a slow, underhanded pitch.
Denise saw it coming. She recognized that this pitch was different. She kept her eye on the ball as it flew towards her. She watched it as she swung. She saw it as it caught on the bottom edge of the bat and felt the impact as it vibrated up her arms and to her shoulders. She kept her eye on the ball as it fell to the ground and rolled feebly in front of her. It was funny. She was so focused on the sight of the ball that she didn’t register any sounds; not the crack of the bat, not the roar of the crowd, not even the angry exclamation from the Star’s pitcher.
Nothing, until Presley screamed “
Run!
”
Denise suddenly snapped back into real time. The catcher was rising from his crouch and the pitcher was starting forward from the mound. The first baseman planted one foot on the base and extended her gloved hand forward, yelling, “Throw it! Throw it!”
And Presley was still screaming “Run!”
She ran.
She had no idea what was going on behind her as she tore her way up the baseline. Her boobs bounced, her ponytail flapped behind her, and she kept her eyes fixed on first base as she pounded toward it. She thought briefly of trying to slide into first, but was afraid she’d stop cold in the dirt and sit there like a giant clod, so she ran, getting there pretty much at the same time she heard the ball slap against the leather of the glove. Her momentum carried her over the base and beyond as she struggled to come to a halt.
“Safe!” bellowed the umpire.
The WMTR team exploded into wild cheers and applause. Denise laughed and bowed, first to her teammates, then to the fans in the stands. The ’MTRs gave her a standing ovation. She gave her first real smile of the day and felt the excitement and adrenaline coursing though her body, but more than anything else she felt relief.