"Play Ball"
by
Barry Eysman
It was a lovely summer day. The sky was blue. The clouds were fleecy and white and cuddly as little lambs.
He would keep that in mind, he thought, on arising. This airy little cupola bedroom of his. With his stacks of comic books safely in the cedar chest at the end of his bed. There was a breeze, light and soft, coming in his half raised window, blowing on the linen curtains on either side of it.
Today was the big game. With the world in attendance. His name was Timmy. He was the star fastballer and home run king of his middle school. He loved this day. He loved life. He was caught without calumnity and he was beautiful and everybody loved him, as much as if he were the summer day itself.
He stretched his arms and legs. He pushed back the single sheet covering him. He looked at his erection sticking straight up from the opening of his Underroos. It was like a little pogo stick. It was pink and had this interesting small vein to the left of the head of the shaft. He made his dick dance, which made him laugh, then he stroked it and felt summer inside himself. He wished it could be always July. For Timmy was a boy of summer. He was a boy of everything that was cotton candy and circuses and fair play and decency.
Timmy had many friends. He had so many friends he could not count them all. He had white teeth that were strong and had never had cavity one. He was tan from the summer sun in which he played the whole live long day. His eyes were blue and wide, and his smile, and he smiled all the time, was guileless. He was an A student. He was on the honor roll all this past school year. Teachers liked him. The principal liked him. The students liked him.
He was not a blowhard. He was not a bully. He was quiet. He was content within himself. He was horny and believed he would jack now.
So there in his light and airy bedroom, with colorful pennants on the walls, and a shelf of books, with a coconut head, given, through skillful carving, a pirate face, with a bandanna round the top of its "skull," being used as one of the book ends, that his mother had bought for him in Florida on vacation last year, and he not thinking much of anything, for he was at that age, when jacking could be a pleasurable physical experience, even without fantasies or pictures or anything like that, he began.
He lay on his bed and in his blue eyed wonder at himself began to jack. He stretched out his legs, looked out the window toward the foot of his bed and just stroked away, feeling that wonderful bases loaded in the ninth inning and it was up to him to save the day. He felt warm and good and he loved the little ball of itch in his stomach when he did this, and when he came, he felt less wooden, felt more of a boy, at peace with his world and his world at peace with him.
He came only a little, but that never worried him, for he knew big things were ahead for him. He liked boys. He was coming to that conclusion. But he thought since he was such a stalwart boy, since he was himself and no one else, then it was in the constitution of himself that he was what he was and that was what made the difference.
Mary Jane Harkness would mind. But then that was Mary Jane Harkness' problem. Joseph Stillwell would mind. But that was Joseph Stillwell's problem. If there were debts to be paid, then surely he hadn't gotten all of this twisted and off base, for he was Timmy Hartwell, and he could not do anything wrong.
He sighed. He lay still. His pogo stick trembled a little in his hand and then was also quiet and happy. He had never hurt anyone in his life. No one had ever hurt him in his life. He believed in God. He was in the Scouts and could tie a granny knot like nobody's business. He was always patient with showing the other Scouts how to tie knots and how to differentiate poisonous mushrooms from friendly mushrooms. He was ambidextrous and lorded it over nobody.
Sometimes he jacked with his right hand. And sometimes he jacked with his left. He preferred Spiderman underroos, but sometimes wore Superman underroos, so Marvel would not get all the glory of being worn on him, while National Periodicals was left dangling. Oh but it was good to be a boy. Oh but it was good not to be silly like everyone around him. It was good to feel himself and cup his balls in his hands, so warm, and it was nice to be cradled in early morning July sunshine.
Timmy was not silly. Timmy read. Timmy did what he thought was thinking. Timmy was in the process this summer of writing a screenplay of "Dandelion Wine" which he loved beyond redemption and thought the novel would make a terrific movie. It was a book filled with magic and no mirrors. That was important to him. For he was a straightforward little boy. Though he was little no more. He believed that running through his childhood was some sort of supreme blessing. Something that would never let him down or confuse him. Because he was the Timster and better than that he could not possibly get. And he was quite humble about it too.
He rubbed his now soft dick on Spiderman's clothy webbed face. As if saying how do you do, Spiderman, I've shown you my secret, you watched as I did it, and I did it all for you. For Timmy loved comic books. Timmy thought life would be nice if it was a comic book. He especially loved Tommy Tomorrow and spaceships and what John Jones was like as a green skinned alien from Mars and how nice it would be for Timmy to take off his own secret identity. And expose the super hero he was inside to the whole wide world.
He was naked, save for Spidey's web of intrigue, and he fondled his chest and his nipples and made them hard and shooting little bolts of electricity through his chest and abdomen. He was at one with himself. He was getting psyched now for the game this afternoon. Jacking was, he was discovering, like so much that was not jacking. And so much that was not like jacking, was like jacking. Which made no sense, of course.
They called him Lightfoot Lightning, cause he was so fast and was so quick to strike the ball with the crack of the bat and then be off and running bases, scoring who can remember how many? home runs in his little lifetime. He would be scouted for, soon. He was ready to shake hands with destiny at any moment now.
He raised his butt and felt the hillocks of his hips, felt the fullness of it, then he stroked his legs and tickled the slight curves at the calves and starting upward, just enough to send the signal to anyone watching him in his shorts or swim trunks or gym locker room, that here were some pretty wonderful arrows of sex, for this was a boy who did not have toothpick legs or fatty or too muscular legs.
This signaled Timmy and Timmy alone was Timmy listening to the day starting. Listening to the birdsong. Listening to the thrum of a power lawn mower two yards away from his tall protective house. Timmy listened to his mom calling him for breakfast, which reminded him just how very hungry he was, so he quickly put his dick back in Spidey's mouth (ha) and he got out of bed, bounded of course, he being Timmy, then dressed in his cut off jeans and his T shirt that read in red letters on white "I'm Me--What's It To Ya?"--put on his scuffed well lived in tennis shoes and ran over to the stairwell.
Then he ran down the steep staired darkness of it to the hall, thence to the living room, and thence to the kitchen which was bathed in sunshine (did the sun always shine on Timmy even when it rained or snowed?--you betcha, for in his heart there was always sunshine aplenty, for he was a good good boy).
His mom was by the stove, shoulders slumped, one hand on hip, cantilevered standing, putting scrambled eggs and bacon on his plate. He came to her and kissed her cheek and she yawned good morning Timmy sleep well? And he said, like a top, mom, and he took the plate to the table, forgetting to ask why the bags under her eyes had gotten so deep and pronounced this summer that they looked like blue locks under her eyes, locks that needed a key to open them, but Timmy forgot to remember to ask another day, because he didn't want to--well, she would tell him when she was ready. All the kids told him their problems. And he always had a solution. She would tell him hers too. And he would have a solution. And it would work. Because he was Timmy and his solutions always worked. He was not a boy to pry, though.
He drank from the milk glass she had given him as he sat on the wooden yellow chair at the head of the dining table which was also wood painted yellow. There were little blue roses on the inside of the first panel of each of the four chairs surrounding it. The milk glass was blue and made the milk a blue color. Which was awfully nice and funny and like being on Mars--drinking blue milk and all.
His mom blew some strands of her hair off her sweaty forehead, sighed inwardly and sat at the table next to Timmy. She smiled at him. He smiled at her. All was cool. They talked about the game. He thought he was most interesting. He told her about his slow ball pitch and his fast ball pitch and which ball to swing at and which ball not to. It was kind of like dancing, he said. She smiled distractedly and nodded here and there, but mostly she looked at the wall in front of her that had a picture of a beautiful blue bird just singing its heart out soundlessly to everyone near and far.
She did not know her son had started masturbating. She did not know and never would that he was more interested in boys than girls. It had never entered her mind. Especially the boys over girls thing.
She thought he was perfect. And she thought she was a failure. She knew she was a failure. She had been divorced for five years. She didn't need a man around to support her. She had a job. She brought home the bacon. She had raised a brilliant perfect son.
Sometimes, though, she thought, as she drank her bitter black coffee, that she would like to kill her brilliant perfect son, because he could be a royal pain in the butt sometimes. She wondered if he was mocking her. He was always happy. Always had been. When he fell on his bare knees many times, when learning to ride a bike, and bloodied them something awful, he never cried. He laughed as he came to her to doctor them. And when she put iodine on them (cause that stung more--hehehe) he smiled pleasantly, and hugged her afterwards, and said you're the greatest mom in the whole world.
Two summers ago when he had the measles and had to stay indoors most of the season and only kids who had had the measles could come see him, (and there was a regular children's express of them, too) he was relentlessly cheery. She wondered if he was simple. Or maybe he was a jerk. Or maybe he was one of those relentlessly lucky people who go through life thinking the Browning poem "Pippa Passes" really means that God is in his heaven and all really is right with the world. Or maybe he was a true genuine child who had been blessed from the beginning with a deep, intense kindness and warmth and ability to care for others and give love unstintingly and generously. He was not, however, one of those, she knew.
What have I birthed?, she thought, sipping coffee, holding the cup with both hands, wondering why she still bothered getting up in the morning.
Timmy was silent while he ate. He pretended that he was there with his mother. But he was still thinking about his j.o.session earlier. It had never entered his mind he could do it with someone else. It had never entered his mind he could do it to someone else and other things besides. He was in that perpetual country where his body was not yanked from one person to another. He was in that blessed country known only for such a short time where the whole thing was geared toward himself and everyone responded to him.
Mr. Laffingwell had come onto him one spring afternoon, the Math teacher having told Timmy to wait behind at the end of the day. Mr. Laffingwell had put his hand on Timmy's knee, as Timmy sat on the desk top and Mr. Laffingwell was seated before him in his roller wheeled metal chair. Mr. Laffingwell, in a fit of sheer desperate got to know once before I die how this feels horror, sure that he would be struck dead immediately, let his fingers pinch the left knee of Timmy, which made Timmy smile all the more at Mr. Laffingwell. Which pulled at the heartstrings of Mr. Laffingwell, that beautiful Byronic smile the boy had, and emboldened the teacher to put his hand, his whole teacher body trembling as with ague, a little further up on Timmy's leg.
Timmy seemed not to notice. So Mr. Laffingwell who was getting the very beans of himself scared out by all of this, put his hand on the crotch of Timmy's jeans, closed his eyes and waited for Leatherface and his chainsaw, but what happened really was Timmy told him which underroos he (Timmy, not Mr. Laffingwell, though maybe Mr. Laffingwell who was thinly built, wore them also; no one would dare ask Leatherface, or even think such a thought) was wearing this day, and asked Mr. Laffingwell if he would like to see. Mr.Laffingwell's eyes opened and were drawn to that crotch magnetized. He was having trouble breathing. And remembering what planet he was on.
The classroom was awfully stuffy and the air was thick clotted, and Mr. Laffingwell, as if from a distant cistern, right at the bottom of it in the damp damp floor, said as a giraffe being strangled might sound, oh ah okkkkkkk. Knowing the joke would drop like an andiron on the head of Mr. Laffingwell in the role of Wile E. Coyote any minute, but it did not.
Timmy's willing fingers pulled his own zipper down and there revealed Superman's left cheek, and was pulling out his penis (Timmy's, not Superman's, for Superman was sacred as far as Timmy was concerned), thus, the sight of this treasure trove standing already before him, inducing Mr. Laffingwell to get the hell out of the classroom and run the hell to the teacher's lounge and curl up the hell on the red torn sofa in the deserted room, in a the hell fetal position and beg God almighty the hell to please forgive forgive him amen.
All of which left Timmy nonplused. So Timmy rebooted, zipped up, and went on his way. His smile was not the only thing guileless about him.
He smiled at the memory, of spreading goodness along life's troubled way, and Timmy's mother tried to smile at him, though not knowing what he was smiling about, and unawares, she took his left hand in hers, holding it gently, which made Timmy think how good it was of him to make his mom feel so good just with the touch of him, just with him being in her presence. Which was not exactly accurate, because what she was thinking was, I'd like to break every finger in your artistic lovingly crafted fuckin' hand, which made her smile all the more and made him smile a little more too; she knew how to smile, she must keep that in mind, she didn't have to think about smiling, she could just fake automatically doing it, then they released hands and continued eating breakfast.
Then with another peck on her cheek, Timmy thanked her for the scrumptious breakfast and he was out the kitchen door like a shot, off into the day to play until this afternoon when he would once more be the big hometown hero--such a burden for such a small boned boy to bear, but he would not let his town and his world down. The Buckeye Bullets already were hiding in shame, knowing this afternoon they would go down in a pile of Pigpen's glory dust when facing Timmy and--oh yeah--don't forget them-- the Smart Town Racers. hi ho.
Mom in her house coat, underneath which was her mother's old print smock, sat dispiritedly in the empty house. It always felt, she always felt, so empty when her son left. Like someone had kicked the sand out of her and everything around her. Some day he would leave and would not come back. She dreaded the world Timmy would have to face. It was dangerous enough in her childhood, but my god the world today, he could be injured and killed in a zillion different ways that hadn't existed when she was a child. And all the new diseases out there, oh god, she prayed, protect my son, and then she thought, dammit, he's (Timmy, not God) doing it to me again.
She wondered if Timmy was all plastic through and through, and this was some crazed plot by Mattel, was there even still a Mattel toy company?, to take over the world. Or was he an Aurora model, was there still an Aurora model company?, geared in their fiendish plot to do the same. Shoot me, for god's sake, she thought, someone take their Daisy BB gun, was there still a Daisy BB gun factory?, and shoot me and put me out of my misery. She thought of destroying Timmy's computer. But he had lassoed her like Wonder Woman with her yellow lariat, was there still a Wonder Woman?, crap, how the hell old am I? and why don't I know any of these things?
Timmy always left her felling like a jerk. She wished he would stop it. It was annoying.
But the Timster knew none of the angst of mom, as he ran into the summer sun, and under the peaceful shade trees, and along their shadows on the smooth sidewalks that, no matter how cracked for everybody else, was smooth sailing for him. Ah, the delicious taste of a summer childhood day all bundled up with bees and trees and leaves and heat and laundry on the lines and above all else the ecstasy of pure sheer freedom when anything is possible--the sound and the sight of the truly beautiful that had borne Timmy as beautiful as itself. He was forever its grace note.
Timmy had not dwelled in any hurt. Timmy had not come to conclusions that were forged by years of study and contemplation and delving and failing and trying again. Timmy had not carved peace in his soul from a price of high measure and dear cost. Timmy had not come to any conclusions and ridden any dreams that turned to nightmares, and rushed from those nightmares into the clear morning sun. Timmy had not bled and died and forced himself to live again. For Timmy had always been this way. Selfish as hell, in other words. And Mr. Laffingwell could have made Timmy do anything he (Mr. Laffingwell, not Timmy) had wanted him to do. Timmy was not isolated and scared. Timmy was a tree, a rock, a cloud. But not what made these things up. Not enriched by understanding and kindness and forgiveness. Timmy was Timmy.
And that was the way it was this mid July day in Timmyville.
In another part of Gotham city--sorry--I mean, in another part of this small town brightening and burgeoning and burnished under the summer sun, Mr. Laffingwell had smoked already his fifteenth cigarette of the morning. He had drunk his eighth cup of hot black bitter coffee. He could not stop thinking about Timmy of the bedroom eyes and the fun hand that had just without a moment's hesitation reached down to his own zipper and unzipped and whipped that little nipper out. He tried to forget him. He bought DVDs by the carloads. He had a wide screen high definition TV set from RCA which he just knew would last him, as a well and good and perfect servant, the rest of Mr. Laffingwell's days. He bought tons of books and read himself into a stupor that allowed maybe an hour's sleep a night, during which blessed hour he dreamed that Timmy was the very devil that had been conjured up just for him alone and naked and prodding the running man. He woke always, screaming.
He hated his damned name too, he cursed, in his little falling down house--the money they pay teachers is unforgivable--in the bad part of town, over on the wrong side of the railroad tracks. Too damn close to those tracks. A train was rumbling by now, right next to him, shaking his pathetic little house and him and his teeth to wrack and ruin as he held to the TV tray table, and was bounced around on the ratty sofa, his cigarettes and lighter and full to overflowing ash tray and coffee cup knocked off that table, and tried to keep his brain cells in place with all that jostling and all that thunder monster noise, the wheels clattering, the shrill whistle blowing--wanderlust spangerlust, no train whistle set him to wanting to climb on board; mostly it made him want to kill the damn train and the Timmy things it had on board.
He believed that sometimes, there really were Timmy things on those trains that were carrying them to other towns and cities all over the country, and life would be drained out of everyone, and he tried to see Timmy as a plastic toy, as evil, as a test God had put here to drive Mr. Laffingwell nutty as a fruit cake.
To make him (Mr. Laffingwell, not God, but wouldn't it be great to be God with a thing like this?-X ray vision, if nothing else, if God is like Superman--wouldn't it be great if Superman was God? Superman was kind and good--God is not kind or good by a long shot) want nothing more to do with him, to be glad the boy would never be in his class again.
Then the train rattled brain of his remembered he had been promoted (Mr. Laffingwell, not Timmy or God) to teaching high school freshman English, so Mr. Laffingwell, jiggled and tossed this way and that, lay his head on the cool vibrating metal tray, and wept. But boy would he like to see Timmy's penis again. And he probably could. And that was the worst curse of all. Maybe he would watch "The Genesis Children" this afternoon. No, scratch that thought. It would make him feel worse than ever. He would watch "Gone With the Wind"--no boys in that, thank God, and he hated the movie with a passion as well, therefore he would do just that. Oh some people like to punish themselves but good.
However Timmy was not one of those persons. Timmy was over at Morton's house four blocks away. They were at Morton's computer. Looking at porn web sites. Morton was a heavy set boy with buck teeth and thick glasses and eyes that kept straying right to Timmy all the time--but never down there in crotch land. At the moment, both boys were trying not to notice the other one was rubbing his crotch that seemed to bulge more than a little.
Morton loved Timmy. Morton wanted Timmy. Morton would have gone through hell on earth just to have Timmy hold him. Timmy knew this. Timmy did not consider this jacking or having sex or anything. That was still for him alone. This was kind of a nebulous feeling and place. It was just to help someone out and didn't count as far as Timmy was concerned. He was a nice boy and besides he wanted to show his equipment off, the first time ever, so he looked at Morton sitting beside him, and he reached over for Morton's crotch, pushing Morton's heavy sweaty hand away, and grabbed on tight. Which caused Morton to scream like blue blazes and push the hand away, knock over his own chair, and run the hell out of his room.
Well, Timmy thought, am I going to have that effect on everybody? The thought was the very top of a raindrop. It popped in an instant and did not stay around long enough to bother Timmy in the slightest. He stroked himself once or twice more, then got off the site, logged off the server, and turned the computer off. Then he went out to find Morton on the sofa, arms and legs pulled up, crying, his mother beside him comforting him, so Timmy sneaked out of the house unseen by either and decided not to go back there again for a while.
I can still be of help to Morton, Timmy thought, for he never gave up on his friends, none that he could remember.
Anyway, by this time, it was time to go home and suit up for the game. Mom had gone to work some hours earlier. Timmy undressed. Looked at his body in the bathroom mirror. Thought it quite wonderful. And knew that he had made everyone so very happy just by being in their presence. Just by passing their way. Just by holding his mother's hand. And unzipping for Mr. Laffingwell, and willing to ah go to bat for Morton, and Timmy knew in his heart of hearts that Mr. Laffingwell's and Morton's weird reactions to him were their own little ways of saying thank you to the greatest boy who ever lived. He believed they were all three thinking happy thoughts about him right this second. In this, he was mistaken.
So the pretend boy dressed as a pretend baseball player and he hit the floor running, then out the door in to the hot hot sunshine like a lion's silent roar over everything there was, and he ran lickety split to the baseball field three blocks away, and in his mind he was already hearing the cheers for him, and tasting the sweetness of the victory that would soon be his and his alone, though he would let his teammates help a little, just cause he was a nice guy, and knew they wanted to pretend to be a part of it, of the Timmy machine.
So one boy, Timmy, not knowing the knives of hatred that were being sharpened up by three people and pretty much everyone else Timmy had left in ruins and pain and hurt and anger and the need for revenge--which was basically everybody he had ever come into contact with in his entire life--Timmy, the loved, Timmy, the hated, Timmy, the fed up with, Timmy ran to the cars where parents were letting their own star players out; said parents grimacing at the sight of him, and then giving their own kids an extra special hug, and all the teammates converged on Timmy and high fived and laughed and joked, and Timmy would never be any the wiser, for a while at any rate.
And the game was played, and Timmy won it all by himself; the home fans cheered in the right places, and the opposing team's fans booed in the right places; some of the losing team's fans threw Coke cups still with Coke in them at the field and shouted things like--we been robbed--and in truth, the umpire did seem to be on Timmy's side a lot, and thus on Timmy's team's side a lot--and the sky was blue, and the clouds were fleece white and cuddly like little lambs, and not a drop of rain dared fall, in this little cameo of love Timmy had brought them to, in his own golden way, today.
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