Sully Ch 01

A loosely autobiographical novel of my younger days and nights. Originally written 2001-2002

Chapter One

I know, I know, they say you can't go home again. But after all those years . . . there I was, in my hometown for a day or two with nothing much to do, it was mid-October of 1999 and snowing lightly, not sticking to the streets, but the grassy areas were already a pretty white.

I'd heard Lynch's Bar & Grill had reopened, so I dropped in. It wasn't the run down beer joint I had frequented years earlier and I doubted any of the old crowd would be found here, but I was thirsty and sat down at the bar.

This place catered to what my good friend Howie Freeman called the "Fern" crowd. Yuppies and wanna be yuppies, sorry, just not my kind of crowd at this point in my life, but the music was tolerable and it was lively enough with the under thirty women showing some leg and enough cleavage to keep me interested.

I had made up my mind to have a second drink before leaving when a familiar face walked in the door. I rose up and greeted him by name.

"Hey! Aren't you Sammy DiGenero?"

"Yeah? You know me?"

"It's been a long time, but do you remember playing baseball and touch football in Hamilton Park?"

"Yeah?" His facial muscles strained with the effort to recall my face.

"Jim, Jim Farrell," I said with a smile.

His eyes lit up. "Farrell? No shit!"

Sammy's multi-diamond-ringed hand shot out to clasp mine.

"Christ... what's it been ten...twenty years?"

"More like twenty-five Sammy."

"Shit!" He said, beaming now, and I guess I was too.

"Let's get us a drink," he called to the slim bartender with a shaven head, "Teddy, two drinks over here."

Teddy refilled my scotch and soda, and made Sammy a martini, dry and on the rocks. I glanced up at the television and saw that Phillip Morris, the world's largest cigarette manufacturer had admitted that smoking causes lung cancer and other fatal diseases.

"That's something ain't it," I said.

Sammy stamped his cigarette out, and promptly lit another, inhaled deeply and said, "That's not exactly news. Well, the fact that they admit it is. But people have known for years that you get the big "C" from too much smoking."

"Think of the law suits to come, Sammy."

"Aw, fuck that! We got some reminiscing to do big guy," Sammy said pulling a stool out and sitting down next to me. "You look great! Keep in shape eh?"

"I try to take care of myself Sammy. What have you been up too?"

"Me?" He said pointing a finger at his plentiful belly. "Well," his voice dropped an octave or two, "ya know, I never was too good in school, in fact I dropped out my junior year. Never went back. Those nuns and priests, ya know, drove me nuts."

He smiled broadly. His teeth were good and he knew it. "But I manage to do okay," by now his arm was draped over my shoulder as he closed in and whispered in my ear, "I make book on the sports, ya know. The "vig" pays pretty good."

"I understand how it works Sammy," I said, as his arm returned to his side.

"Sure, sure ya do. Last I heard you'd signed with the Cardinals, am I right?"

Here we go again, I thought, but said, "Naw, the Cardinals used to own the Red Wings. I signed with the Orioles."

"Yeah, yeah," he nodded as though that corrected his error.

"So tell me, what happened? I mean, you were good. Shit, you were very good."

I shrugged his compliments off. They meant nothing to me anyway. But Sammy deserved an answer, so I obliged him.

"Okay, I was signed out of college after my second year. Uh, better make that my second season. The grades and I . . . we didn't mesh, know what I mean?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. Looka me, Tenth grade, right?"

"High school was where they noticed me first; I mean we won the state championship three out the four years I was there." He had me reminiscing now. My mind's eye watched the faces from the past float by, Sneaky Leo, Wisnewski, Big Nick, Sally, Corvath, Blimp Maston, and Hezzy.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"What the hell ever happened to Hezzy?"

His eyes clouded over in thought for a moment until it hit him. "The fuck! Hezzy Bettis . . . of course, I'm sorry Jimmy, I forgot all about that poor son-of-a-bitch."

"Well?"

Sammy emptied his martini. I caught Teddy's eye and motioned for another round.

"Yeah," he said sounding remorseful. "Old Hezzy. Fucker could throw a football."

"And his fastball wasn't shabby either as I recall."

"Sure, sure," Sammy was still trying to recapture Hezzy in his mind as the drinks arrived and he took a quick sip. "Got it!" he said, startling the young woman next to him as she traced her pencil liner over her lips, enlarging them with lipstick instead of collagen.

"Musta been his senior year. You were gone by then I think."

"That's right. I graduated two years before old Hezzy, but as I recall he brought the team into the championship a year after I left."

"Right. They lost that game by two points, close finish though. If I got it right, the clock ran out with Hezzy getting stopped running for the extra points that would have tied it. And the next year he was carrying a shitty football team on his back," he looked into my eyes. "I mean it. The team had nothing. No defense not much offense either, except for what Hezzy and a kid named Bones Barrington brought. A skinny wide receiver," he added for my benefit. "They were something like six and three. Last game of the season, let's see, I was there, who was it they played?" He mused, before snapping his fingers. "Got it! It was against St. Michael's, Union City, a tough opponent that year. Shit, they were tough every year."

"Hezzy was tough too," I said quietly, having played with and against him.

"The second quarter it was," Sammy said quietly before his voice faltered.

"So what happened?"

"It was a busted play. The runner stumbled and missed the hand-off. Hezzy decided to run with it himself." Sammy took another swallow of the martini. "They creamed him, Jimmy. They fucking creamed him. One guy hit him high and another low. I heard the first crack from my seat in the stands. And more bodies hit him after that 'cause the bastard wouldn't or couldn't go down."

"Christ," I muttered, visualizing the scene.

"Aw, it was awful. His leg was fractured a couple a times. Ya know . . . he never walked right after that. Kids called him Gimpy. Fuckin' kids got no respect anyways."

"Damn," I said. So that ended his chance of either college or pro ball."

"Hell yeah, guy's lucky he can move along the street."

"So what's he doing these days?"

"Well, I'm sorry to say I think he's a wino, a crack head, or both."

"God damn it," I said under my breath.

"You got hurt too, didn't cha?"

"Yeah, I got hurt too. But not like that."

"Least ya got some money for ya troubles," he commiserated. Then curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "So what happened to you?"

I rolled out the canned version for him. "Early seventies. After leading the nation in hitting at dear old Rutgers, I dropped out, the grades . . . well they weren't getting any better. Anyway, I signed with Baltimore and went to their rookie school in Florida. I did just fine there. Led the fucking team in hitting and pitched fairly well too. They had me playing short when I wasn't pitching."

"Who was some of the guys there?"

"Actually it was the following season I really met some players I grew to know and like," I said, "like Al Bumbry, Jim Fuller and Roric Harrison. That fucker struck out 16 guys one night at Toledo."

"Any major leaguers?"

"Well Bumbry played center for several years and Bobby Grich was there too. I think he was pretty good."

"Sure was," Sammy conceded.

"That first spring training found me doing very well and they bumped me up to Double-A ball for my first year. After adding some muscle, I began to hit with a little more power, and as the season wound down they promoted me to Rochester." I finished my drink. Teddy was right there with another. He was a very good bartender. I reminded myself to leave him a generous tip.

"So," Sammy nudged me, "You reached Triple-A your first full year, huh?"

"I did. The big leagues beckoned to me. I could almost taste it. In fact, I pitched against the Orioles in an early season exhibition. Went four innings, allowed two hits, a walk and zero runs. Not to shabby, and, I got a double off Palmer. Hit the top of the left field wall. I can still see Marv Rettemund chasing after it as I rounded first."

"Wow!" Sammy said, impressed.

"Oh, yeah." I almost growled, "But two weeks later I got hit in the face with a line drive. That ended it."

"No!" said Sammy.

"Almost lost my eye. Had double vision for about fifteen months. It came and went mostly, but I didn't dare play ball. I'd have gotten killed."

"Gee, that's tough, Jimmy."

"Yeah thanks," I said and looked around the place, signaling Sammy that I'd had enough of this talk. "It's funny, there were a couple of us got hit like that, Herb Score, Conigliaro . . ."

"Conigliaro?"

"Remember, the Red Sox star, Tony C.? Hit a ton of home runs, he was killing the pitchers, didn't matter who was throwing . . . then he got skulled. And there was an older fuck came up with the Dodgers, back in the early fifties, couldn't beat Pee Wee Reese out of the shortstop job; name was Zimmer, same guy's managing the Cubs these days. Has a steel plate in his head. Damnedest thing is we get together every other year or so and commiserate."

"Yeah, yeah. So what do you do these days?"

Evidently Sammy had some tact and I was grateful he changed the subject. "I sell transportation services. Don't ask. It's a living."

"I hear ya," he smiled; obviously he had something else in mind.

"So ya hear from any of the old crowd?" Sammy asked.

"Not fair Sammy, I was gonna ask you that question."

"Ahh, I ain't seen nobody in years," he said with some disgust.

"What about Georgie T?" I asked.

"Nothin'," he said.

"The Bone?"

Sammy laughed. "Fucker got married. Last I ever heard of him."

"Swallowed by matrimonial bliss, eh?" I laughed.

"Yeah, yeah," He shrugged his shoulders, "all them guys and the girls too. They married and left the city. And no one ever sends me Christmas Cards, so I don't or can't keep track of 'em."

We were quiet for a minute or so and I began to check out a petite brunette seated directly across the bar from me. We made eye contact and it looked promising, then Sammy asked, "So Jimmy, who was the weirdest fucker ya knew growing up?"

It was a reasonable question and it took me back into the past. We were a crazy group back then. I gave it some serious thought before answering, and lost interest in the brunette.

"Sully was."

"Sully? I would'a thought maybe J-Boy, or The Bone. Shit, there are a couple others I can think of . . . I never would have thought of Sully. Didn't he go to The Prep?"

"Yeah he did, and maybe that's why you don't recall much about him, but I sure as hell do."

"All's I remember is he left town and some people was looking for him."

"True enough, but there was more to the story than just leaving town."

"We got time. So tell me about Sully."

"Okay," I said, and stopped to inhale my Camel, then watched the smoke soar away towards a ceiling vent. "Some of this I know 'cause I was there. Sully told me a lot too, being a close friend and well . . . umm, Sully liked to brag especially about his . . . sex life."

"Hoo, boy, this is gonna be a good one, I can tell already," Sammy grinned and adjusted himself as though preparing to get laid.

"And," I continued, stamping my Camel out in the plastic ashtray, "his sister Megan also filled in some missing details. So don't mind if I find myself telling this as if I knew more than I should have about Sully."

"Like I give a flying fuck. Come on already, give with the details."

I lit another cigarette, took a drag then placed it down in the ashtray. The details rushed together as if it were yesterday.

Jack Sullivan was his name. Smart son of a bitch. Everyone called him Sully though. He had a big fucking ego Sully did, a really big ego. I recall as a kid of maybe nine or ten, he thought he could fly, and to prove it, he leaped across several rooftops in succession. Of course, the rest of us egged him on. He kept jumping until he missed. Luckily he only fell ten feet before landing awkwardly on a fire escape. Broke his leg ... I still remember signing the cast.

We were best buddies until he went off to The Prep. After that we always hung out during the summer, playing baseball, he was a good outfielder and had decent power. We were always talking about the girls we'd nailed. None of which was true except that I was porking his sister, Megan from time to time. But I couldn't tell Sully that.

We saw even less of one another following graduation. I went off to play for Rutgers and he got a basketball scholarship to LaSalle in Philly. Ah, you know I turned pro. Sully . . . well, he fucked up, got thrown off the team and lost his scholarship, but his old man saw to it that he finished college, got a Civil Engineering degree. Anyway, Sully came to see me in the hospital as I was recuperating.

I closed my eyes for a second, and there he was, walking in the hospital door.

*****

"How are ya Jimbo?" He asked with a sly grin on his face. My head was wrapped in bandages. I looked at him with my one good eye. He was well dressed, in an alpaca sweater, well-creased slacks, and loafers so well shined that you could see the reflection of your face in them.

"You're doing well, I see."

He laughed. "That's funny. You see I'm doing well. It's a wonder you can see anything after what happened to you."

"Fuck you Sully."

Just then a young nurse's aid entered the room. As she checked my chart and made some adjustment to my medication, he eyed her up and down. I could tell she felt his eyes on her. She glanced at me and began to blush then left the room as quickly as possible.

"Well, you scared the shit out of her," I told him. "I'll be lucky if she comes back at all. There'll probably send an ogre in her place. Thanks a lot Jack."

"Bullshit!" He said, as if I'd offended him. "They all love attention."

"I laughed. "You call mentally raping her attention?"

Sully wiped his mouth with his hand, grinned that Irish grin of his. "Like I said, they all love attention. Wait, she'll be back, and when she does make sure you touch her. No, not her ass or tits," he leered, "but maybe her arm or face. Just touch her and watch the reaction."

"Yeah right," I said skeptically. "You know I'm not exactly a virgin."

"Fuckin' A. You played pro ball, ya had to meet those groupies."

I laughed. Indeed, I had. There was a least one girl in each town the Red Wings visited, and several in Rochester, but I seriously doubted I'd ever go back there.

"And, umm, where did you acquire all this expertise, Sully me boy?"

"Mostly in Philly. I love hitting on the younger ones. Easy to score on man, ya know?"

"Get fucked you horny bastard," I said, amused by his sexual thesis.

After a few more minutes Sully left, promising to check me out in the next day or so. Maybe ten minutes later, the nurse's aid returned to my room fussed with my pillow, and was taking my temperature when I thought about what Sully had said. I reached out and ran my hand up her arm to her shoulder.

"What are you doing Mr . . . .?"

"What's your name, nurse?"

Mandy . . . but what are you . . .?"

"Please, call me James. And I needed very much to touch another person. I hope you don't take offense." My hand remained on her bare arm.

"Oh," she stammered.

"Mandy?"

"Yes?"

"Sit on the bed. Please, I'd like to talk to you for a while." I removed my hand and to my surprise, she hopped up beside me.

"We're not supposed to do this you know . . ."

"I really, really appreciate it Mandy," and my hand found hers and covered it. My thumb gently roamed across her knuckles.

"Does your eye hurt very much?" She asked her voice soft and curious. Her hand remained still.

"Oh, yeah. Especially if I shake my head . . . like this." And I shook my head vigorously.

Mandy's hand flew to her mouth then lightly slapped me when I burst out laughing.

"That's not funny," she hissed, but her voice was still low. "You could have . . . ."

"Come here," I said, reaching for her. She offered no resistance, and as I pulled her close I noticed her eyes close, and I kissed her.

Her lips were soft and dry. I ended the kiss and saw her eyes still closed.

"Another," I said softly.

"Ummm," she replied.

This time my tongue probed along her lips and teeth until she opened her mouth inviting me inside. She tasted sweet and fresh and when her tongue cautiously met mine I touched her breast and heard her moan.

"I don't think we need to be caught out here, do you?" I asked.

"What? Where?" Was all a confused Mandy managed before I had the both of us off the bed and into the small bathroom. I couldn't believe how turned on she was, but she was grinding her cunt against me as soon as we resumed our kiss. My hands ran up and down her sides, but I left her tits alone, content to press against her, dry humping in the confined space. I could feel her stiffening buds against my chest as our tongues swirled round and round. I was certain she felt my cock pushing against her too.

We broke off the kiss and Mandy, her voice husky and sexy as hell said, "I don't know what . . . oh, Christ! James, kiss me again!"

With that sign of encouragement my hands were cupping and squeezing her firm ass even as our lips came together. Mandy felt my hands as they wandered under her shift and groaned, "We can't . . . not here!"

"If not here where?" I asked hooking my thumbs inside her panties and dragging them down her thighs to her knees. I pressed Mandy against the wall, kneading her ass cheeks with my hands and marveling at their firm resilience and the smooth, unblemished texture of her skin.

"James! Please!" She whimpered, "We can't!"

I did my best to coax her. "I need you Mandy!" I croaked hoarsely, "Help me prove I'm still a man!"

She didn't respond, but she made no attempt to move away from me either.

"Come on Mandy, you want it too. I know you do!" My undamaged eye filled with tears.

"Noooo!" She groaned as I moved to her right just a little, permitting my hand to find her bushy mons, it was damp and silky.

"Ohhh, James . . . we can't," she pleaded, but her pelvis betrayed her  grinding against my hand  urging it to do other nasty things to her. My finger searched out the folds of her moistened pussy and slipped inside so easily it was as if she'd hung a Welcome Home sign at the entrance.

"My God! Yes! Yes!" She moaned as my finger stirred her juices to a boil.

"Christ, I need it!" She moaned into my neck before lavishing kiss after kiss upon it. And she came, shuddering against my hand. A moment later we renewed our feverish kisses, and I stretched my arm to its fullest and worked her panties down around her ankles, then opened the front of my pajamas, allowing my woody to spring forth.

I sat down on the toilet and guided an unresisting, but frightened Mandy into position, turning her around so she was facing the door.

"Okay baby, just squat down on my pole."

"Oh!" She purred as she lowered herself and felt the touch of my hard cock against her moistened entrance. I let it slide up and down the crack of her ass.

"No! Not back there!" She sniffled in fear.

"Don't worry, I'm going for your sweet, sweet pussy darling," and kissed her back, letting my tongue drag its way down her spinal cord. Mandy arched her back in pleasure at this and rose up seeking more. I obliged by continuing down to the cheeks of her ass.