This story is copyrighted and the sole possession of the author. No duplication is permitted without the express written consent of the author. It will contain graphic description of consensual male to male activity, which may or may not include sex and may be offensive to some. If this is not something you wish to read, please look elsewhere. I am not Danny Graves, nor do I know him. I am not associated with the Cincinnati Reds in any form. All events in this story are purely fictional. I do not know the sexuality of any of the characters and can not assume such, I can only wish based on fantasy. Constructive email can be sent to Dakotajoe2000@cs.com
The Closer, chapter one.
I'm a hilljack. There, I've said it. For years I've tried to deny that fact. I don't know that it's such a bad thing, the city life doesn't hold a whole lot of promise anymore. I'm sitting on the back steps of my grandmother's porch. Well, it used to be her porch...it belongs to me now. I wish it was still hers, but unfortunate circumstances have placed it in my hands for upkeep.
She was wonderful, that much I remember. She would sit and tell us stories, the other half of "us" being my sister. We would be in the kitchen sitting at that magnificent blue table. It was mesmerizing. It had these nifty silver edges and you could see your reflection in it. We would be eating toast, toast that had been cut perfectly into corners at an angle. Sometimes it had melted butter on it, and those days we would have powdered cinnamon or strawberry preserves to go with it. There were other days when it was just plain toast, and I liked those days the best. She always was up early to feed the birds, but on special days, she would wait until I was up and I would get to help. We would crack the kitchen door and sneak onto the back porch. She would lift me high into the air and I would pour the little half cup of seeds into the feeder. They must not have been hungry birds, because there were always seeds in there. Maybe she just got up early and gave them some without me seeing. She was special.
I remember the night of the fight. My cousins always came up from North Sixth Street when we were in town. It was mostly my aunt that I always heard, but it was my cousin Arthur that I associated with most, being closest to my age of anyone in the family. He was still significantly older though. Grammy would take the adults into the kitchen. She, my mother, my aunt Barbara and Arthur would all sit down and play cards until early in the morning. Sometimes they would order Wallys Pizza. I liked those nights....Arthur would sneak me a piece into the living room when the older folks took potty breaks. They always had coca-cola and I was always allowed to have a small taste before I had to go to bed.
On warm summer nights I was allowed to stay up later, but I still wasn't invited to play cards. I guess I understand that now as an adult, but I was seven and felt left out. Dad would make it up to me by letting me go down into the field and catch lightning bugs. Once it got dark though, I had to come up into the main yard. It was still big enough to catch bugs in and I would happily run barefoot through the prickly grass. As dark settled in, dad would corral my sister and me and it was off to bed. Well, she had to go to bed anyway. I would sit on the front porch and wait for him. I would slide back and forth on the wooden panels seeing how dirty I could get my feet. This was always after my bath, of course. Dad would return soon after and he would sit in the big wooden swing and listen to the radio. I counted the big trucks that rumbled up and down old US route 22. Every now and then, dad would relax a little bit and some loud guy on the radio got really excited. He explained the excitement of baseball to me and I was hooked. I later found out that we were listening to the evening broadcast of Cincinnati Reds games.
It was really hot that night. Sleeping was going to be next to impossible so I just lay on top of the covers and looked up at the ceiling. The card game ended, although I'm not sure what time it was. There wasn't as much laughing as I was used to hearing, but I didn't think a thing about it...there were big bugs in the corner of the room and I was busy watching them. I slowly began to drift off into a peaceful sleep when I heard my mother crying. It never took much to get my mother to that point, but it was unusual for her to be crying here in Cambridge. My eyes opened and I looked over at my sister...she was still sound asleep. I crept to the edge of the bedroom and looked down the hallway towards the front room. Grammy and my father were yelling at each other. I don't remember what was being said, but I know my mom was trying to get them to stop.
Grammy went out onto the porch and slammed the screen door behind her. She yelled at my dad through the screen and said that this was all his fault. What was his fault? I ran down the hallway and my mother grabbed me.
"Go back to bed sweetie," she said.
I stood there for a moment as my dad paced around the room. Grammy took off down the street in just her slippers and her nightgown. Dad went after her and brought her back to the house. She had rage in her eyes. For a nine year old to see rage, you know it was intense. Dad informed us we were leaving, to which I promptly replied that I was staying with grammy. She was about to let me when dad stepped in and said that he wasn't about to let her influence me. I was confused, tired and scared. We ended up going home in the morning.
It wasn't long after that episode that I found out grammy had lung cancer and didn't have long to live. They had fought about whose fault it was she had it. She had accused my father of causing it. Things were patched up in the family, but I think everyone knew it had to be that way for my sake. I had seen too much to not be affected by all of this. She died in March of the next year. It was a quick illness period and I was told she was pain free, or virtually so for the disease's nature. It wasn't any comfort to me. The house sat empty for a long time. Mom couldn't garner up the strength to go in and take care of business.
Months rolled by and turned into years. Mom and dad slowly drifted apart and got a divorce shortly after my sister graduated. They had always promised us they would stay together long enough to see both of us through. Always looking out for the kids, what good parents they must have been. I don't have enough paper to refute that idea but that isn't the point anyway. Mom was involved in a serious car accident during my sister's freshman year of college. She was left paralyzed and unable to perform any daily activities. Her motor skills were seriously hampered as well, but mom made the best of the situation. We took some precautionary steps and I became the executor of my mother's financial affairs.
I had a wonderful job in Seattle at the time. I even had a boyfriend that I was deeply committed to. He was wonderful enough to understand the situation when I was forced to move home. We still talk and I wonder if I'll ever have anyone as special as him. I didn't really look for a relationship when I got back to town, I wasn't sure that it was a smart idea with my mother being in the shape she was.
I took a job as a bank teller in Cambridge. Mom still hadn't gotten around to taking care of the old house up on Highland Avenue and it needed to be done. I decided that it would be a nice project to keep my mind off of things, mostly Joshua back in Seattle. I was still close enough to Columbus that I could be at her place in two hours or less if she needed me, but far enough away that we both felt we had our independence. My sister continued school and life went on as normal.
Normal, to a degree. Here I was, a 22 year old guy living away from the city for the first time ever. I wasn't used to small town living. The fact that I was gay made the situation that much worse. I felt a need to escape, so I started doing something really stupid. I began to write letters. I would take a special memory from my past, usually from my grandmother's house or Cambridge and I would put it on paper. I always made it personal, almost like a love letter. I would address it in several ways, sometimes "to my boyfriend", other times to "my wonderful future husband."
Writing definitely addressed my emotional needs that weren't being met, but the lack of someone to hold me at night nearly drove me nuts. I figured that if I sent the letters out, to a real person, that I could hold on to the dream that he would in fact be reading them and dreaming about me as well. It was a fantasy at best, it was a nightmare waiting to happen at worst. What did I have to lose?
So the letters kept flowing and I kept sending them. It was just as I had figured, and probably for the best: I never got a response. Through all of my years of admiring baseball and being a devoted Cleveland Indians fan, I had only found two players that were even remotely attractive. Jose Cruz played in the outfield for Toronto and Danny Graves was a relief pitcher for Cincinnati.
That was how it all started. Once a week, usually on Friday evening after a week of mindless transactions at the bank, I would sit at that magnificent blue table in the kitchen and I would write. I would seal the envelope and address it to the Cincinnati Reds, attention Danny Graves, the Closer.
************************************************************************ That's all for the introduction. Chapter Two will start the actual letters that were written. If you have any comments, send them to Dakotajoe2000@cs.com.
I have another story posted on here, in the college section. Its entitled Hanging By A Moment. That's just if you're interested, of course.
Thanks for reading, Nick