A Ballplayer's Revenge

A Ball Player's Revenge

The company softball team gets a surprise

by G. Lawrence

This is a sports fantasy. Though partially based on my college softball days, it did not happen exactly like this, and probably won't happen anywhere else, so let's not overanalyze it. There is nudity but no sex, and all acts are consensual. The characters are over 18 years old.

* * * * * *

I had transferred from California, which didn't make me popular in Oregon. I wasn't interested in the politics of it. Signet Innovators needed a new shipping coordinator for the plant in Longview and I was the sacrificial lamb.

My name is Matthew Garth. At the time, I was 30 years old, six feet tall, 190 pounds, and good at most sports. I especially liked fastpitch softball, and my old office had fielded a team. I began to ask around and discovered the plant had a team, too. So did most of the factories and warehouses near the harbor, forming a twelve-team league.

"How do I sign up?" I asked Mrs. Hoskins in the company recreation office.

"Our team is the Signet Blackhawks. The season has already started," she replied. "What position do you play?"

"Usually 3rd base or outfield, though I can play shortstop in a pinch."

"Those positions may be filled, but I can put you on the roster. They've scheduled a practice for this afternoon."

"Tell them I'll be there," I happily agreed.

Wearing my gray sweats and cleats, I found the Blackhawks assembled in a small baseball stadium near the factory. The company fielded a fifteen-man team. That is, twelve men and three women. Two of the women were pitchers and very good, having been college all-stars. Phil Strauss was the manager and 1st baseman, a tall, robust man in his mid-40s, the hair at his temples already turning gray.

"Can't promise much playing time," Phil said. "Our team is pretty good, but let's see what you can do."

I followed him out on the field, getting friendly greetings. At first.

"Let's see how you are at the plate," Phil suggested.

"Thank you, sir," I said. "Would you like me to bat right-handed or left-handed?"

"What's your best side?" he asked, surprised, for switch-hitters in their league weren't common.

"Right-handed for power, left-handed for average," I answered.

"You were in the Angeles League?" a young woman asked, attractive with long red hair and deep hazel eyes. By her equipment, I suspected she was the catcher.

"Yes, for three years," I said.

"I've heard that's a tough league. What did you bat?" she asked.

"From the right,.375. From the left,.530," I happily bragged. There were whistles. And several jealous looks.

"Son, we might find a spot for you after all," Phil said with a happy grin.

I spent an hour at the plate proving that I wasn't boasting. I was feeling sharp, swinging with power. Long balls and line drives. I spent time at 3rd base and centerfield, showing a good glove and a strong throwing arm. Annie Jenkins, who was their catcher like I thought, asked me to try shortstop. Apparently Bert Dreyfus had been slipping. But all of the players were good. In such a competitive league, they needed to be.

Annie wanted me at shortstop, which didn't make Bert happy. Coach Strauss wanted me in centerfield, which displeased Paul Chase. Hank Carey wasn't happy that I wanted to play 3rd base. At least the pitching positions of Michiko, Hiroko, and Scott Morton were safe. I could pitch a little, when necessary, but I really didn't want to.

Each team would play another team twice in a 22-game season. The Blackhawks had already defeated the Bees, a team fielded by a Signet subsidiary. Many said the Bees were the second-best team, and intense rivals.

"We really needed to beat those guys," Annie said in an Irish bar after practice. "I wouldn't want to lose that bet."

"Bet?" I asked.

"Phil and Walter Burrows made a bet. If we win our division, the Bees have to streak Mile Park. Across and back. Two miles, during the day." She laughed.

"Streak? As in naked?" I questioned.

"Completely naked. Not even shoes," Annie replied. "We beat them in the first game and we've won six more since. They've won their other games, too, so we're first and second place."

"I like playing for winners," I mentioned, relieved that I wouldn't be streaking the park.

* * * * * *

The Tuesday before my first afternoon game against the Seaviews on Wednesday, I was approached by Bert, Paul, and Hank in the company parking lot. It was getting late, but working overtime wasn't new for me. The guys mostly did domestic shipping and receiving, though we didn't work in the same building.

"Let's have dinner and talk," Bert said, a big friendly blond.

"Has Phil said what position you're playing?" Paul asked, a tall, skinny redhead.

"Nothing. He mentioned DH but I like being on the field," I answered.

They drove to an Italian restaurant not far from the downtown area. The food was good. We had drinks. They seemed very genial.

"There is something you need to do," Bert said, leaning forward. "Our team has an initiation. Every member has done it."

"What is this initiation?" I asked.

Such a thing was not new to me. I'd had initiation challenges in high school, as a fresh recruit in the coast guard, and while pledging an engineering club in college. The sailor's initiation rite for crossing the equator for the first time had been rigorous.

"You need to streak 4th Street," Hank said, a stocky man with a crewcut.

"It's the theater district near the park," Paul added. "Three blocks."

"Are you saying I need to run down these three blocks without clothes?" I asked.

"Yes. Like we've said, we all did it," Bert explained. "We'll drop you off at Madison Street and then swing around to pick you up at the park gate on Jackson Avenue."

"I don't know, fellas. I haven't done anything like this in a long time," I demurred.

"We want you to fit in on our team. This is the only way to do it," Hank insisted. "Are you too good for us? A superstar above the rest?"

"No, of course not," I said.

"Then you'll do it?" Bert asked.

"Okay, I'll do it. What time is this show?" I answered.

"We'll get in position at 10 o'clock and be out of there by 10:20. You can run three blocks in twenty minutes, can't you?"

"That won't be a problem. Expect me sooner," I replied.

"Don't worry, we know what we're doing," Bert promised.

* * * * * *

The corner of 4th and Madison had restaurants going one way and suburbs going the other. It was brightly lit, though being a weeknight, not as crowded as it might have been.

"Here we go," Bert said, stopping at the curb. There were no pedestrians nearby.

I started stripping in the backseat, piling my clothes on the floor.

"Can I take my phone?" I requested.

"No. Nothing," Hank replied.

My shirt, pants, and shoes were off. I slowly pulled down my boxer shorts, feeling the leather seat under my bare butt. Paul rushed to open the door for me, looking around. Soon Bert and Hank were there, too, keeping close as I got out, standing in front of them completely naked. It was awkward.

"One last thing," Bert said.

Suddenly, my arms were grabbed and bent behind my back. I felt something being wrapped around my wrists, like a rope or thick cord, and secured with several knots.

"What the fuck, guys," I complained, pulling away too late.

"It's tempting to cover yourself during a streak, and we can't have that," Hank explained. "This is to make sure you don't grab something and hold it in front of you."

"That wouldn't be good," Paul said. "We hate cheaters."

There was no way to talk them out of it. It had been their plan all along. Though I had been in this situation before, it didn't mean I wasn't mad.

"Just don't be late," I muttered, turning toward the corner. I saw them get back in the car and drive away. I didn't know which one of their positions on the team I would take, but wished it could be all of them.

I needed a deep breath, feeling embarrassed, but I had nothing to be ashamed of. I was in great shape for a 30-year-old. Lean, strong, and well-proportioned. All of me was well-proportioned. I never owed the ladies an apology on that score.

Getting from Madison to Fremont wasn't hard. I kept close to the buildings, walking nonchalantly, only speeding up to pass open doorways. I generally kept my head down, but did not hunch over. As I had learned, that would only attract attention. There was sporadic shopping, though most of the stores were closing. I nodded to one elderly woman walking her dog, pretending nothing was amiss. There was no reaction. Maybe her eyesight wasn't good?

Admittedly not being able to cover myself made the next block harder. There were several crowds. Open patios. People attending a play taking a cigarette break during intermission. The entire stretch was lit with bright signs, neon lights, and flashing displays. Dashing into alleys or ducking into doorways wasn't an option. I needed to reach the end of the street for my ride, not hide out the rest of the night. I moved out into the street, which wasn't busy, using parked cars as a screen. Sometimes stepping aside for surprised drivers. It was only partially effective. Dozens saw me walking briskly. Others tried to look, only to discover it was too late.

I passed several bistros, a theater that was getting out, and a rowdy bar. Perhaps ten or fifteen patrons noticed, turning for a better view. A few phones were raised, but I was moving fast enough to avoid close-ups.

Just as I crossed Dunston, I was unhappily surprised to find three familiar faces sitting in the corner pub. It was John Schnee, the Blackhawks' leftfielder, utility man Rocky Lincoln, and Michiko Hasagawa, a pitcher. They were seated at the patio railing drinking beer and eating pretzels, only a few feet from where I needed to pass. Michiko looked up, shocked to see me, her thin eyebrows arching. John and Rocky pretended not to notice, at first, and then they raised their beer glasses, nodding in my direction as they tried to hide their clever smirks.

I pushed on. This was no place to have a conversation. Or a confrontation. The last block wasn't so hectic. Only three restaurants, all on the same side of the street. Which allowed me to walk on the other. I hadn't seen any cops, the area being upscale, and doubted they were lying in wait for me. If worse came to worse, I'd duck down an alley and disappear into the apartment buildings beyond. I'd done it before.

The path was not without obstacles. A group of college kids suddenly poured out on the sidewalk, bringing me to a halt.

"Fuck, that guy's naked!" one said, jumping back. By their clothes, I guessed they were nightclubbing.

"Is this a fraternity hazing?" a young woman asked with a frown.

"He's too old for that," her girlfriend said.

"I think he's tied up," another youngster speculated, going behind me.

"Handcuffs?" a pretty girl asked, stepping forward with a grin.

"No. Some kind of rope," the first kid said. "I doubt he's running from the cops."

"He's not a shoplifter, that's for sure," the first woman giggled.

And then they all raised their phones, flashes going off. I ducked my head and pushed through them, running. There was a dark stretch where the lighting was poor. I paused for breath, seeing a park at the end of the street only twenty yards away. It had high brick walls and a big iron arch.

I looked in every direction. The street was not well-traveled. There were half a dozen curiosity seekers standing on 4th Street looking for the strange apparition, but they were too far away. I crept along the wall, emerging on Jackson Avenue with a sigh of relief.

There was no car waiting for me.

The bank on the corner had a big clock. It read 10:16. Was I four minutes early? I doubted that was the problem, and feared what the problem was. Nevertheless, I dashed across the street into the park, squatting just inside the gate with a good view.

Five minutes went by. And then ten. I tried scraping the rope on the brick wall, but it was tough fiber. It could take hours. Pedestrians went by walking their dogs. The college kids briefly came in my direction and then veered off into a noisy club. There were fewer people as the night got later. A soccer game in the park ended, scattering a large crowd, but most went to the parking lots. The few stragglers who passed my way saw nothing as I crouched down behind a park bench.

Finally, the clock said 11 o'clock. The guys weren't coming back, and I doubted they ever intended to. Too late, I realized they were the three players most threatened by my addition to the team.

There was an Irish pub on the corner across the street. I had been there once before with the Blackhawks after my tryout. With nothing to lose, I entered slowly, working my way toward the back hoping not to be noticed. If I could reach the kitchen and find a knife, it wouldn't be hard to cut through the rope. I was unsuccessful.

"What's this, Miles? A peep show?" a drunken patron yelled. I counted eight men and one woman, all generally middle-aged or older. The bartender was a big Irish guy with Popeye arms. Probably 50 years old, bald, and getting flabby.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, rushing up to me.

"I'm sorry, sir. Some false friends stranded me like this," I apologized. "I would like to get untied, borrow some clothes, and find a ride home."

"And why should I help you?" the cantankerous barkeep said. "Coming in here naked. Offending my customers."

"All I can do is ask politely, sir. No one says you have to help me," I answered. While memorizing his face and the tone of his voice. I was having a bad night. Thoughts of getting even with someone were creeping up on me. Even naked with my hands tied, I could still kick the living shit out of this asshole. Taking on the whole bar was a different matter.

"Tell you what," he finally decided. "I'm Miles O'Flynn, this is my place, and if you want any help, you'll need to earn it."

"Washing dishes?" I asked.

"Entertaining my customers in your natural state," he said with a grin.

"I'm not singing or dancing, so you can forget it," I said, starting for the door. If anyone tried to stop me, they'd regret it.

"No singing or dancing, as much as that would be fun. Sit on a stool in the corner. Over there, next to the pool tables. Answer sports trivia questions. If you're mostly correct, you get free drinks. If my customers are better, they take photos with you."

"That sounds embarrassing," I replied, though it was better than running around on the streets in the middle of the night.

"Take it or leave it, sweet cheeks," Miles said.

I accepted his kind offer, spending the next two hours talking sports with half a dozen patrons, all crowded around drinking heavily. The only woman, a chunky 55-year-old named Hanna, started getting handsy with me until Miles told her to knock it off. She wasn't a bad sort, just drunk.

The beer had to be lifted to my lips, and though deliberately spilled once followed by much laughter, the mood was respectful. They weren't fools. Naked and tied up, yes, but not a whimp. None of them wanted me coming back for them later. Which I would have.

The evening ended pleasantly enough, though Miles had grown quiet. He closed the bar, waiting as I came out of the restroom. He led me to the front door but did not cut the bindings on my wrists like he promised.

"Do you know a man named Bert Dreyfus?" he asked.

"Unfortunately," I replied.

"He paid me $1,000 not to untie you. Or give you a ride home. I'm sorry. I know you're in a tough spot, but that's a lot of money for me. For my family."

To say I was in a cold rage is an understatement. I had sympathy for his position, but more for my own. I studied his face, and his posture, to see if he'd change his mind. It wasn't likely. There were times in my life when $1,000 sounded like a lot of money.

"I understand, sir," I respectfully said.

We went outside and he turned to lock the front door. It was quiet now, one o'clock in the morning. No pedestrians. No traffic. As he turned around, I drove my knee into his balls. His eyes went wide, the cheeks puffing. Air exploded from his lungs. As he curled over, I pressed my foot down on his neck, pressing him to the sidewalk. I hoped there weren't any security cameras.

Miles kept a Swiss Army knife on his belt. I turned backward, squatted, and pulled the knife free of the sheath, opening the largest blade. A few seconds later, my hands were loose. My former captor looked up in fear.

"Here's your knife back. I'm glad you keep it sharp," I said, tucking it in his belt. And then I took his wallet. "I kept my part of the deal tonight. You didn't keep yours. I'm taking $50 in payment for my time. Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, Matt. No problem," he answered, hands held up to protect his face. I threw the wallet with the rest of the money back at him.

"Tell me about Bert Dreyfus," I demanded.

"His team comes in here after games. Fans, too. Good customers. He called tonight and said we might see you. I was supposed to keep you here until late, and then put you back out on the street."

"How is that working for you?" I asked.

"Not so good," he admitted, still finding his breath.

"I understand the $1000. And needing steady customers," I lectured. "But we still have a score to settle. I'm not going to kick your ass again. I really don't like that as much as I once did, but we'll have an understanding next time. Won't we?"

"I would rather be your friend than your enemy," Miles admitted. I reached down, helped him to his feet, and brushed him off. He was a tough old Mick.

"Are you okay? Do you want me to call anyone?" I asked. "I'll need to use your phone, mine seems to have gone astray."

Miles laughed, looking at me in a new way.

"I'm okay. Want my shirt?" he offered, starting to take it off.

"No, I'm good, just call an Uber for me. I've got this."

* * * * * *

It was a quiet Wednesday morning when I appeared at the office in a comfortable brown suit. The receptionist gave me a grocery bag with my phone, wallet, shoes, and keys. My stolen clothes did not make an appearance. I was supposed to play my first game with the Blackhawks at 5 p.m. that afternoon. I showed up with wraps around my sore wrists and told Phil I wouldn't be playing.

"What happened?" he asked, looking disappointed.

"Ask your team, Mr. Strauss. They know all about it," I responded.

Annie came running, along with Michiko and Hiroko. All three of the team's women.

"We heard the strangest story," Annie said. "Is it true?"

"You don't know? Am I expected to believe the whole team wasn't in on it?" I replied.

"No, I didn't know. Either did Hiroko," Annie insisted. "We heard what Michiko saw at the pub. And what John bragged about a few minutes later. That was horrible."

I wanted to believe her but wasn't sure I could. And I wasn't playing, so I had no business being on the field. I walked away without saying anything. Coach Strauss briefly caught up with me.

"Look, Matt, I know that was a mean prank the guys pulled, but it wasn't out of bounds," he said, trying to sound fatherly. "They just took it a little too far. Don't let it throw you."

"Thanks for everything, Phil," I replied, shaking his hand. "When it's time to play, I'll be ready."

The Blackhawks were playing the Seaviews, who were totally outmatched. Other games were in progress around the gigantic park. Ballfields, soccer fields, basketball courts, tennis courts, and a golf course. One entire section was a forest with running trails.

The Signet Bees were playing the Frazer Rockhounds, already up 4 to 2. I sat in the bleachers for a few innings, watching. Evaluating. And then I approached Coach Walter Burrows, their 50-year-old leader.