Amazin'

I started writing this story early in the baseball season, but stalled. Then, it was going to be a Summer Contest entry, but I didn't finish it in time. And now that we have reached the end of the baseball season, with the Mets ending another lousy season, I decided to finish it. One of the reasons that it took so long is that I have found myself increasingly uninterested in writing sex scenes, so I kept stopping when I got to the obvious point for the characters to have sex.

One of the reasons that I started writing here was to force myself to break out of an aversion to writing sex scenes. My first story,

The Lake House Lessons,

was an attempt to "go for it," and prove to myself that I could. Based on the feedback that I received from that story, I did pretty well. After that, I have enjoyed writing erotic fiction, and for the most part, I've been gratified by the responses. But I think I'm getting a little burned out. So, I hope you enjoy this story, even without any explicit sex. And I think that I'm going to take a break from

Literotica

for a while. I do have a few partially written pieces, so maybe I'll come back down the road. But, if not, thanks for reading my work and providing me with mostly positive feedback.

Another note, on this story—it is fiction, about the frustration of being a fan of the New York Mets. I'm actually older than the main character and therefore have lived through even more mostly disappointing seasons than the main character. So, the action that takes place in the present is fictional—the players' names are all made up, but the history is all accurate. Unfortunately.

*

It was the bottom of the first, and Ramirez struck out, ending the inning and stranding Gordon at third. Just like he had yesterday. My buddy Bill took a slug of his overpriced microbrew and shook his head. It was another long season for the Mets—and tonight's game was not starting out auspiciously. I drank from my beer, carefully trying not to get any on my tie, before realizing that the work day was over, and I didn't need to wear the fucking tie anymore. So I took it off and jammed it into my suit pocket, then took the jacket off and folded it over the back of the empty seat next to me. In the heat, it was nice to be able to feel even a little breeze on my neck.

Bill and I were hooked. Mets fans to the death, and had been since we were kids. There had been a few good years, but mostly it was disappointment, collapses, injuries and false hope. Unfortunately, false hope was my stock in trade these days. Not only with the Mets, but really with everything. And being the idiot that I am, I rubbed my nose into it by dragging my ass out on the 7 train to CitiField, which still, even after these years, wasn't Shea Stadium, which was a dump compared to CitiField, but it was the dump of my childhood. The dump where I saw Mike Piazza blast homers.

Even on my lawyer's salary, I couldn't afford to go to too many games because the Wilpons charged so much for so little, so Bill and I would pick a couple of games and wait until the prices on StubHub dropped for good seats. And then we would waltz in and pretend to be high rollers, even though we still didn't get the seats with the free food. Instead, it was tacos, or ribs, or sandwiches, which were pretty good—a big upgrade from Shea, of course.

And I tried to forget about how much I hated the job I thought I would love, the constant nagging and second guessing and micromanaging, which took whatever joy there could be from the law and made it a painful slog each day through repetitive discovery responses and stupid motions.

I realized that I wasn't paying attention, and the Cubs had two on, with one out, and Nelson was struggling on the mound with his control. Again. Bill had finished his beer and had flagged a vendor for another. His gut had definitely started to get a bit too big, but at least he had a nice wife to go home to. It had been a year since Anya had dumped me, in public, at dinner with some friends. Her friends, as it became clear after the breakup. I mean, she was a Yankees fan, so I should have expected it from her—the arrogance that comes with having too much damned money. The Yankees and her, both. It had started so well with her—we liked the same music, loved baseball, and the sex was great, although I realized it only was great when I did what she wanted. Fucking entitled Yankee fan bitch.

The unmistakable thwack of a well struck baseball caused my head to snap to attention, as I saw a white streak heading toward left field, eluding both Jones and Blackmon and skidding to the wall, as two runs scored and Pacheco slid into third. It was my turn to shake my head and drink. Bill and I never left games early, except for that one time, when we were losing 13-2 in the 7th in the freezing rain, and even then we never discussed our perfidy, so it looked like it was going to be a long night.

To make it worse, the empty row in front of us was about to be filled. It took me a few seconds to notice that it was a group of 6 women, and they weren't bad looking, so maybe it wouldn't be all bad. Hope springs eternal, right? It has to, when you root for the Amazins. So five of the women were dressed like they had come straight from work, skirts, blouses, whatever, but the sixth was wearing a Benny Agbayani jersey. Benny Fucking Agbayani—a mediocre player, at best, who had somehow become a key guy back in 1999-2000, when we were, briefly, good under the arrogant genius Bobby V.

Those were the good old days, and they weren't even that good—losing to the Evil Empire in the 2000 World Series 4-1. I cried that night, but hoped for better times to come. But that was it—we sucked again until 2006, when the Cardinals beat us in the NLCS even after Endy made that great catch, but Molina homered, and Wainwright struck out Beltran looking to end the game. Poor Carlos Beltran—one of the best Mets ever, but never appreciated by the fans, because of that one at bat. Sometimes, that's just the way it goes on the job—one bad day and that's it. Of course, Beltran ended up doing just fine—with the Mets, and then after we traded him.

The girl in the Agbayani jersey had auburn hair, with some curls down to her shoulders, and she and her friends were drinking beer and chatting as the Mets went down meekly in the second inning. After Bryant grounded out to first, she stood up, and I happened to notice that she had a pretty nice ass, in tight jeans, and when she turned, I noticed that the jersey jutted out prominently at the letters. My first thought was that it would give her a pretty odd shaped strike zone, and I realized that I was maybe missing the point. I glanced up, but she was gone before I was able to get a good look at her face.

Instead, I focused on the game. The Mets had a man on second. Valdez danced off the bag, trying to distract the big lefty on the mound for the Cubs. But Shanks wasn't biting. He threw a curve that broke a foot to Hanson, and the so-called slugger actually lashed the ball down the third base line. Valdez ran on contact, and was easily doubled up when McGee made a great diving catch and simply had to hold the ball up and let Valdez slide into it. Inning and rally over.

I thought about getting some food from the food court behind the scoreboard, maybe some tacos and the corn with cheese, but the Agbayani fan was returning, empty handed, probably from the bathroom. She was cute. Not beautiful, but far from ugly. A pleasant face, not too much makeup, yeah, cute, I'd say. And for sure, the jersey looked much better on her than it ever did on the somewhat lumpy Benny. I wasn't thinking of her strike zone any more when Bill punched me in the arm, and I whipped my head around to face him. He hissed at me that I was staring, and suggested that I return my tongue to my mouth. I genially suggested that he fuck himself.

So, the Cubs were up, and it looked like Nelson was settling down. They always said that you need to get to good pitchers early, before they get into their groove. Maybe that also was true about mediocrities like Nelson. We had hope for him a couple of years ago, when he came up from the minors mid-season, and went 5-2, with good peripherals, but, of course, he hurt his arm and was struggling to regain whatever form he had. Nelson got a weak grounder and a lazy fly, and was battling Powell, who was fouling off pitch after pitch, before finally striking out.

I checked my phone, and there was an email from the asshole partner who kept riding my ass, about some stupid thing that we had already discussed that morning, as if our conversation wasn't important enough to stick in his brain. I replied, and engaged in a brief flurry of back and forths, at the end of which, he agreed that what we had agreed on earlier was agreeable.

The Mets were up, and Bolden was waggling his bat, waiting for the pitch. I hated Bolden. The guy was feast or famine, and lately mostly famine. I heard the woman sitting next to Agbayani Jersey, a bleached blond, by the roots that I could see, say that Bolden looks cute, and, to my utter shock, Benny-girl agreed but pointed out that his OPS sucked, and that they should be playing Bradley, who got on base, even if he lacked power. The blonde looked at her like she had started speaking Hittite.

I guess I must have actully said, "Exactly," out loud, maybe louder than normal even, and they turned to face me. The blond was hot, if a little slicker looking than I usually find attractive, but the Agabayni girl was really in my wheelhouse, if I had a wheelhouse. It was a little embarrassing, and Bill turned away, leaving me to deal with this gaffe on my own.

Sometimes, the best defense is a good offense, and I rattled off a bunch of stats comparing Bolden and Bradley, and agreeing that Bradley was the clearly better choice. The blonde, clearly not a sabremetrician, shrugged, turned back and watched Bolden whiff, again, but the girl in the Agbayani jersey smiled at me and said that decisions like that were why she hated Moreno as a manager.

Which led to a discussion of Bobby V, and even Art Howe, and Willie and Collins. And whether the Mets would have been better had Gil not died. Finally, she stuck out her hand and said that her name was Carla, and had been a Met fan her whole life. Displaying more game than usual, I introduced myself and suggested that she climb up and sit next to me, so we could talk about the game. Shockingly, she stood up, reached out her hand, which I took, and helped her balance as she climbed over the green plastic seat to our row. I stole a look at Bill, who hid his grin with a sip of beer.

It turned out that Carla was also a lawyer, a little junior to me, but at a big law firm. None of the clients wanted the firm's Mets tickets, so they gave them to the employees, and the group in front of me were lawyers, paralegals and secretaries from the firm, the rest of whom didn't really care about baseball, but thought it might be a fun night out. Clearly, though, Carla was a fan, and we watched the Mets' continued futility together, sharing stories of games we had been to over the years, with actually some overlap.

Then, I realized I was starving, so I suggested that we go get food, and Carla agreed. Nothing good was happening on the field, so it seemed like an O.K. time to get something to eat. We slid out of the row, up the aisle to the concourse and walked to the food court behind the scoreboard. The line at Shake Shack was, as always, obscenely long, but Carla, like me, wanted tacos, so we got on line, ordered up the tacos, and the corn with cojita cheese, and beer, and she refused to let me pay for her half. There was space at one of the green standup tables, so we cleared away the prior user's crap and put ours down in place.

We stood next to each other, so that we could watch the game on the big screen on the back of the scoreboard while we ate. The Mets were still down 2-0, and nothing seemed to be happening on the field. We made small talk, discussed the heat, some cases we worked on, and the Mets, past, present, and our hope for the future. And after we cleared our garbage we walked back to the seats. Carla sat next to me again.

Meanwhile, Gordon had gotten on base again, and stole second. Blackmon grounded out, but it was a good out, advancing Gordon to third. The crowd was getting into it, and Carla was chanting, "Let's Go Mets," loudly, her face contorted with the effort. Shanks got two strikes on Jones, who fought off the next pitch and dunked the ball into the opposite field, as Gordon trotted home. Down 2-1, man on first. Carla turned to me and smiled, and we high-fived, before I turned and did the same to Bill. Ramirez continued his awful run, striking out looking, but Valdez lined a single on the first pitch, and Jones moved to third. The crowd was clapping and screaming, trying to urge our team to tie, or even take a lead.

I noticed that Carla's friends, in front of us, were just sitting there, watching, drinking and chatting, but Carla was nearly vibrating with excitement next to me. I watched a drop of sweat slowly roll down her neck, and into the collar of her jersey, and it reminded me that she seemed to have a nice set, but it was still kind of hard to tell for sure. Hanson came to the plate and worked out a walk, loading the bases for fucking Bolden. I started chanting, "C'mon Bolden, C'mon Bolden," quietly, as the big guy entered the batter's box. Shanks started him with a big breaking curve, and Bolden swung so hard that I could almost feel the breeze from his whiff, which would have been welcome, because the air was so thick it was hard to breathe. He took a low fastball outside for a ball, then fouled off a pitch. A strikeout seemed destined to happen, and we were hoping against hope for a different result.

Shanks delivered a heater high and outside, and Bolden crushed it. We stood, screaming as the ball traced a parabola toward right center field. Powell ran back to the wall, jumped, extended his glove hand, and fucking came down with the ball. Fucking Powell, robbed Bolden of a salami. I noticed for the first time that Carla had grabbed my arm, and was squeezing it, but after Powell caught the ball, she let go. We exchanged some kind of look, and she said, "Fucker," which immediately endeared her to me, because I knew that she was referring to our own Bolden, and not the enemy Powell who had robbed him of glory.

We sat down, shaking our heads. I felt the adrenaline seep out of me, yet again. The game continued on in pretty much the same fashion, and Carla and I kept up a running chatter about the game. I had never met a woman, and frankly few men, who had the same knowledge of baseball, in general, and the Mets, even stuff that happened before we were born.

The beer guy came by, and I flagged him down. I looked at Carla, and noticed the sexy way that her hair was plastered to her forehead, and she nodded, so I got two. I handed her a plastic cup, and took mine and pressed it to my head, enjoying the cold, before taking a deep slug. Bill turned to me, pointed to the beer and shrugged. I realized that I had forgotten that he was even there, and that etiquette and tradition had demanded that I buy him a beer before. But I was clearly distracted.

The game went on, and neither team threatened until the bottom of the ninth. The Cubs closer, Garcia, was on the hill, bringing his customary wild heat. Carla leaned into me and said, quietly, "He's been hittable lately," and I nodded. Her scent of shampoo, beer and sweat was distracting, but I focused my energy on the field.

Blackmon stepped up to the plate and worked the count full. Garcia was throwing hard, and Blackmon fought off some tough pitches, before fisting a looper into short right. We were in business. Jones squared to bunt, and Carla gasped. "No, swing away," she pleaded. But Garcia was wild, and the count went to two balls. Jones squared away again, and Carla shook her head. But when Garcia released the pitch, he pulled the bat back and tomahawked the ball into left.

It was first and second, and fucking Bolden was getting ready to hit. I turned to Carla, and said, "So, whadda you think?"

"We are going to win," she said, with more confidence than seemed reasonably.

"You seem pretty sure for a Met fan" I replied.

"We never lose when I wear my lucky panties," she whispered.

Despite the heat, that sent a chill up my spine. I'm not sure that I had ever heard anything sexier, so I looked at the field and tried to regain my composure. I guess that my silence was interpreted as a question, because right after Jones took ball 2, Carla reached behind her, and stuck her hand into the back of her jeans. She leaned forward and I could see that she had pulled out the elastic of her underwear, displaying the familiar blue and orange logo on the sheer fabric. She let go, sat back, looked at me and smiled, which made her look really cute.

"Never?" I was able to say.

"Never," she replied with certainty.

I briefly considered that Carla was flirting with me, but then Garcia dealt, and Bolden missed badly on a curve, then took strike two on a heater up and in. I really hated fucking Bolden, but he watched a close pitch outside for ball 3. It was a full count, and we were down to our last strike, with the king of K's at the plate. I turned to Carla, who was staring at the field, sweat dripping down her face, smudging her makeup. "Never?" I asked.

Without turning away from the field, she said, "Never. Ever." Then she reached over and grabbed my leg, above the knee, in a death grip as Garcia rocked back into his delivery. I could feel her nails digging into my flesh. Blackmon and Jones took off as the ball sailed in, so high that even Bolden couldn't swing, although he probably wanted to.

As Bolden trotted down to first, Carla turned to me, smiling, and she winked. "Not over yet." Her hand had not left my leg, and I had no interest in seeing that happen, anyway. Then, something surprising happened—Bradley was announced as a pinch hitter.

I mentioned that maybe they wanted someone who could make contact, and Carla whispered, as if the Cubs could hear, that maybe it was going to be a squeeze play, which I thought would be pretty incredible. And, in fact, Blackmon was dancing off third, trying to distract Garcia, who kept looking over. I was still distracted by Carla's hand, which was now resting lightly on my thigh, not moving. I tried to figure out whether to touch her, and if so, where, but I didn't want to break the spell.

Garcia threw a heater, and Blackmon feinted down the line, while Bradley pretended to bunt, causing the crowd to gasp. Either it was a fake, or a safety squeeze, but either way, it was ball 1.

The catcher tossed the ball out to the mound, and Garcia looked off Blackmon, who was still dancing off the bag. I didn't expect that they would actually squeeze after showing it on the last pitch, but you never know if that was what they were trying to do. Garcia tugged on the brim of his blue cap, shook off Pacheco before nodding. He tossed what looked to be a hook, and Bradley just stuck out his bat, which hit the ball.

We all stood up, watching to see if it would be caught, but the ball just eluded the second baseman's glove and landed with a thud in the grass in shallow right field. Mets win, game over.

Carla turned to me, and yelled over the crowd, "See, my underwear never loses," and before I could formulate some sort of witty response, she leaned in and tilted her head up, so I leaned down and kissed her. As her tongue pressed against mine, I could feel her breasts, hiding behind her Agbayani jersey, crush against my chest, and I sensed the expected reaction between my legs. What there was of the crowd was going wild around us, and I felt like I was in one of those movies, where the hero and heroine are kissing, while all hell is breaking out. But eventually, she pulled back, and looked at me with a twinkle in her eye.