The Batboy

by Terry O'Reilly

  The Batboy

  By Terry O’Reilly

  Published by Queerteen Press

  Visit queerteen-press.com for more information.

  Copyright 2012 Terry O’Reilly

  ISBN 9781611523737

  Cover Credits: Zagorodnaya | Dreamstime.com

  Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America. Queerteen Press is an imprint of JMS Books LLC.

  * * * *

  The Batboy

  By Terry O’Reilly

  “I’m home!” Thad Stevens yelled as he came into the house.

  Slamming the door behind him, he tossed his backpack onto the small table that stood just inside, nearly knocking over the vase of spring flowers.

  “Did the mail come yet?”

  No one answered, so he made his way to the kitchen and called out again.

  “Mom, hey, Mother! Are you here?”

  He went to the fridge, opened the door, and took out a can of Coke.

  “Mom?” he yelled again, opening the can.

  “What?” his mother said with an irritated edge to her voice as she emerged from the basement, carrying a basket of neatly folded clothes.

  Thad turned and re-asked his earlier question regarding the arrival of the daily mail.

  Mrs. Stevens let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, it came. It’s on the table in the foyer where I always put it so your father can find it when he gets home. How was school today? How was baseball prac—”

  She never got the question out. Thad sprinted for the foyer. There, hidden under his backpack, he found the stack of assorted letters, bills and advertisements. He quickly went through them. Not finding what he hoped, he dropped the pile back on the table.

  “Damn,” he muttered under his breath.

  eHeThad picked up the backpack and headed for the stairs.

  His mother came into the entryway. “Find what you were looking for?” she asked, following him up the stairs with the laundry basket.

  “No,” came the answer in a tone that reflected his disappointment.

  “Well, don’t worry. I’m sure with your fine academic record and baseball experience they’ll give you a chance to try out.”

  Thad paused as he reached his door. “Yeah, but it’s been almost two weeks since I sent in my application.” He continued into his room and closed the door. Dropping his backpack on the floor, Thad flopped onto his bed and took a swig of Coke.

  Two weeks should be enough time, he thought, feeling frustration and annoyance that he hadn’t heard whether he’d be given a chance to try out for a batboy position with the Buzzards, the local semi-pro baseball team. The deadline for applications had been a week ago Monday.

  Thad loved baseball. He couldn’t remember not loving it. He’d seen pictures of himself swinging a wiffle bat and hitting a ball over the fence into the neighbor’s yard. His dad still proudly showed off the pics saying, “Baseball’s in his blood.”

  Thad had been two when those pictures had been taken. He’d gone on to play tee ball little league, pony league, and for his high school baseball team. When he went to college he planned on playing there, too. He hoped for a career as a pro ballplayer after that.

  This would be the last year he would be eligible to be a batboy. Fourteen to seventeen was the age range the Buzzards’ organization had set for their batboy squad. He was seventeen. He’d applied every year for the past three years, and every year he’d gotten a letter thanking him for his interest, reminding him that over a hundred kids applied so not to be discouraged, and to think about trying again next year. This time there would be no next year, however. It was now or never.

  Damn! Maybe I shoulda put in more time on that “Why I want to be a batboy” essay they wanted. Just seemed like a dumb idea to me. I write the same thing every year. Bet everyone says the same stupid stuff. “I want to be a batboy ’cause I love baseball and think the Buzzards are a wonderful team and I’d really like to be part of it” and crap like that. He sighed.

  Just then his bedroom door opened and his mother came in. She set her basket of laundry on top of his dresser, opened the drawers, and started to put away his clean socks and underwear. When she was done she turned, leaned on the bureau, and smiled at her son.

  “Don’t give up just yet,” she told him. “It hasn’t been that long since you applied. I’m sure it will all turn out okay for you.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Yeah, well, I hope you’re right,” Thad said, trying to sound grateful for the encouragement but feeling deep down that it was a lost cause.

  Mrs. Stevens smiled again, went to his closet, hung up a couple of shirts, and then went to the door.

  “Remember, a dream is a wish your heart makes. And wishes can come true,” she said with a cheeriness that rankled Thad.

  He tried not to roll his eyes at her sappy attempt to make him feel better.

  After she left, Thad looked around his room. The decorations were a testimony to the dream his heart had been wishing for as long as he could remember. It was adorned with posters of pro ballplayers, pennants of teams he liked, and some autographed pictures of the guys who played for the Buzzards. One in particular always caught his eye—Ignacio Hernandez, or Iggy as the fans called him.

  Iggy was Thad’s idol. He played shortstop. The same position Thad played on his high school team. Iggy was a great hitter, too; he batted over three hundred. But it wasn’t only his baseball prowess that intrigued the young man.

  After looking at the picture of Iggy in his batter’s stance for several minutes, Thad got up and opened his door. He walked out into the hall and checked to see whether or not his mother was still upstairs. Assured that she wasn’t, he went back into his room and closed and locked the door. He stretched out on the bed, closed his eyes, unzipped his pants, and began his regular afternoon jerk off session with the image of Iggy firmly in the forefront of his imagination.

  It didn’t take Thad long to finish, and when he did, he was beset with his usual reactions: shame, guilt, and fear. He’d been raised in a religious faith that taught indulgences of the flesh outside of marriage were passports to hell and, worse yet, having sexual feelings for someone of your own sex was cause for instant damnation. Yet every day, sometimes twice a day, he gave in.

  However, the most disturbing thing for Thad was not worrying about the state of his eternal soul; it was the way kids at school talked about boys that liked other guys in that way. Fags, queers, homos, they called them. And they, the fags, queers, and homos, were universally, it seemed to Thad, thought of as the scum of the earth. There were a couple of boys at Thad’s school who had been targeted as queers. The dumbasses had been caught together in one of the bathroom stalls. Their lives from that day on were a living hell. Bullied, teased, ostracized, they were the untouchables of Hilton High. Thad didn’t see how they could stand it.

  Jerks, Thad had thought at the time. If you’re gonna screw around, at least get a clue
and do it at home, not at the frickin’ school where you can get caught.

  As Thad made his way to the bathroom to clean up—thanking the Lord that he had the luxury of his own private john—he once more made his customary declarations that this was the last time he would ever masturbate, So help me God! And, if he did, he wouldn’t think of a guy as inspiration. I’m not a fag. I can’t be. Could I? No, I’m not! he thought, trying, for he couldn’t remember how many times, to settle the argument he had with himself every time he jerked off thinking of Iggy.

  * * * *

  The next afternoon Thad rushed into the house after baseball practice. His two close friends, Dale and Link, had shown him their letters that let them know they had been picked for batboy tryouts. His friends’ letters had come the day before, so Thad had run all the way home, hoping to find his invitation waiting for him.

  He dropped his pack as he slammed the door behind him and checked the table for mail.

  “Damn!” he cursed out loud.

  He threw the pile of envelopes back onto the table. Some fell to the floor and Thad stooped to gather them up. He dragged his backpack into the kitchen and slumped in a chair.

  “Someone looks like the world has just ended,” Mrs. Stevens said as she stirred a pot on the stove.

  Thad looked over at his mother. He had one of the few moms that didn’t work outside the home. His dad, who was always quoting the Bible, wouldn’t hear of it. “A woman’s place is in the home,” he would often say, along with other things that were supposed to have their origins in the Good Book. Thad sometimes thought his dad made up stuff just to add weight to his opinions.

  “Might as well,” Thad sighed. “Link and Dale got letters to try out as batboys, and I didn’t.”

  His mother turned from the stove and wiped her hands on her apron. She had an I-know-something-you-don’t-know look on her face.

  “This might make you feel better.”

  She pulled a legal-sized envelope out of her apron pocket and laid it on the table in front of her son. It was addressed to him. Thad stared at it for several seconds, reading and rereading the return address.

  Buzzards Baseball

  Peoria, Illinois 61601

  He raised his head, his mouth open wide.

  His mother smiled. “Well, go on, open it.”

  Thad hesitated. Yeah, Link and Dale had gotten letters saying they were invited to try out but Bobby, another of his friends who had applied, had got a letter, too. Only his had said “better luck next year,” just like Thad’s had for the past three years. What if his letter was one of those?

  “Well?” Mrs. Stevens prodded. “Wasn’t this what you were hoping to get today?”

  Thad took a deep breath and ripped open the envelope.

  Dear Thad,

  We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to try out for the Buzzards Baseball team roster of batboys for the current summer season…

  Thad jumped from his chair and whooped. He grabbed his mother and twirled her around.

  “I made it!” he yelled. “Well, I didn’t make the squad…yet. But they want me to try out!”

  Mrs. Stevens laughed and said, “Didn’t I tell you this was your year?”

  Thad stopped spinning her around and read the rest of the letter. He was supposed to report to the stadium this coming Saturday at ten A.M. He should come dressed in athletic wear. He was to bring his baseball mitt. Lunch would be provided.

  “I can’t wait to tell Dad!” Thad enthused.

  “Tell Dad what?” his father’s voice came from the front hall.

  Thad took the letter and ran out to greet him. “I got picked to try out for the Buzzards’ batboy squad!”

  His dad high fived him and gave him a big hug. “That’s great, son. You’ve waited a long time. But didn’t I tell you the Lord would provide when the time was right? His wisdom and timing never fail.”

  Thad didn’t much care at that moment about the Lord’s timing or wisdom. All he cared about was that he was going to get the chance to be a batboy.

  * * * *

  Saturday took its time getting there. To Thad every day felt like it was two days long. Even baseball practice after school, which he usually enjoyed, seemed to drag. And, of course, as if they were in on some evil plot, three of his teachers scheduled tests for that Friday. Studying for the exams was absolute torture. How the idiot teachers expected kids to concentrate when there was so much more important stuff on your mind was beyond Thad’s comprehension.

  Somehow, Saturday finally appeared. Thad, Link, and Dale arrived at Buzzards Stadium for the tryouts. They stood outside, anxiously waiting for the gates to open.

  Thad kept looking around. By ten A.M. there must have been fifty kids outside the ballpark, both guys and girls. His heart sank. He knew only ten boys or girls would get jobs. He knew many of the boys. They were from the other high schools in town and he had played against them in baseball and basketball over the years. Some were puny little guys and they weren’t a threat.

  Probably got here ’cause they wrote super cool essays.

  But he knew some were good athletes. They were the real competition. Thad knew you had to be a pretty decent athlete to be a batboy. That would be part of the tryout: showing you could run, throw, and catch.

  Before he could get too worried, the gates swung open and an older man wearing a polo shirt with the Buzzards’ logo and slacks came out to meet them. He introduced himself as Roy Dickerson, the batboy trainer. He beckoned the group to follow him.

  They were led to the stands on the third-base side of the ball diamond. Thad and the rest took their seats. As if on cue, the Buzzards ball team took the field and began running around the bases. The would-be batboys and batgirls stood and cheered as the team took their warm-up laps around the infield. Thad, Link, and Dale punched each other, cheering and waving. Thad’s heart skipped a beat. He had caught sight of Iggy. He’d seen him many times when he had come to watch the Buzzards play. But this time, with the prospect of being around him every game day, his reaction to the man was more intense. He felt both elated and yet disturbed at some of the feelings seeing Iggy Hernandez had stimulated.

  Wayne Granville, the general manager of the Buzzards, now stood before the group of hopeful candidates for batboy. He asked them to be seated, welcomed them to the stadium, and thanked them for their interest in being part of the Buzzards family. Thad looked out onto the field once more. The team was now throwing and catching as they continued their workout. Iggy was directly in front of the stands where the kids were sitting. Thad tried not to stare at him.

  The GM was continuing to tell the group about the history of the batboy tradition and the honor of being chosen for the squad. He stressed the commitment to the team and reminded them that the days could be long ones. The batboys were required to be at the field two hours before the game to help get equipment ready and often stayed well after the game was over. There was more to being a batboy than offering a bat to players as they came to the plate, and picking them up after a player got a hit or struck out. Other duties included cleaning a player’s cleats, washing batting helmets, and mudding the baseballs. Thad knew this meant rubbing a special cream called mud on the balls to take the shine off them so they wouldn’t be too slippery. After a game, the batboys were expected to pack up all the bats, helmets, and other player equipment. The GM reminded them that though these might seem like menial jobs, the position of batboy was a time-honored, prestigious position. He didn’t have to remind Thad of that.

  The manager asked if there were any questions. One kid asked what Thad thought was a dumb question about uniforms. Of course the team supplies us with them, Thad thought. What did you expect, your mother to make you one?

  Another asked if batboys traveled with the team to away games. The answer to that question disappointed Thad. The GM said that only under special circumstances, such as going to the playoffs or championships, would the batboys accompany the team. For reg
ular season games the home teams provided batboys to the visiting team. The Buzzards did the same when teams came to play them. That fact, too, made Thad less than excited. How could you support the opposing team? He hoped that if he made the squad he wouldn’t ever have to do that.

  When the Q & A was over, Mr. Granville signaled someone on the field. A whistle blew and several of the players came into the stands to be introduced to the group. Ignacio Hernandez was among them. Thad held his breath. He was now standing less than five feet from Thad. Up close, Iggy was even more impressive than he looked in his pictures. He was a tall, handsome, dark-haired man with a ready smile. He was also a hunk whose muscular frame you couldn’t help but appreciate, although Thad would never admit he thought that to anyone. It made Thad happy and uncomfortable at the same time to have the player he idolized in such close proximity.

  Mr. Granville introduced each player in turn. He began with Don Perone who played first base, Danny Otis, outfielder, third in line was Iggy (Thad didn’t have to be reminded what position he played), and then the catcher, Jack Miller. Finally, the manager asked Roy Dickenson to stand and reintroduce himself to the group. As each of the men was presented they touched the brim of their caps and nodded toward the kids. Iggy added a wink to his smile, which made something inside of Thad squirm. While all the men were hunky as hell, in Thad’s opinion, no one was better than Iggy.

  After the intros were completed, Mr. Granville went on to explain the athletic part of the tryout. Each of the kids would be timed running the bases, fielding some balls (both infield and outfield), retrieving foul balls, and playing a little pitch-and-catch with the players. Did Thad dare to hope he’d be paired with Iggy?

  Dale leaned over and said, “Wow, you’d think we were tryin’ out for the team, not just batboy. Now I know why they asked us to bring our mitts.”

  Thad nodded his agreement. He’d played ball all his life. These were things he knew he was good at, so felt his confidence build.

  The manager was continuing. “Your performance will be judged by these four players, Mr. Dickenson, and me.” He gestured toward the players and batboy trainer standing before the group. The men saluted and nodded once again.