"Doc" The Athletic Trainer
"Doc, I tweaked my hamstring in the field today."
Joey limps over to the massage table, grimacing. He is the starting shortstop on the varsity baseball team here at Boston College. At about 5' 9", he's about my own height and probably the smallest guy on the team, but he is a brilliant defender. Not a lot of the guys who go the college route get drafted by professional teams, but I think Joey will. He's twenty-one and we're nearing the end of his junior year.
Having studied Massage Therapy in college, I was hired as the team's Athletic Trainer just this year. All of the guys call me "Doc". I get a kick out of it, especially because I'm barely a year or two older than most of them; I only graduated a year ago myself. But I have a degree and a license. I completed a six hundred hour program of hands-on classroom work. I also studied anatomy, physiology, theory and the practice of massage therapy and ethics. I have no idea if the guys on the team realize any of this, but it was a lot of work. I know that "Doc" is just a nickname bestowed upon me, but I like it. Which is good because even the coach calls me Doc. Truly, I don't think any of them know my real name.
My job is important. I help reduce pain and speed up the healing process for many minor injuries. In some cases, I can stave off a problem from turning into something bigger. My massages promote recovery and reduce the opportunity for muscle injury. And all of the guys spend time on my table in rotation because even without an injury, I help with the routine stress from competing and training. I improve the athlete's overall performance by monitoring their muscle tone and improving their blood pressure and heartrate. I do important work. And the guys realize it. That's why they like me. They call me "Doc" and they make me feel like part of the team.
With all of the one-on-one time that each player gets on my table, and with me being so young and just out of school myself, the guys can relate to me and they talk to me while I apply my therapy. I know them personally and they all text me to schedule additional sessions as injuries arise. It is not my place to challenge what any one guy says he needs. Coach made that clear when he hired me. I guess it's important on the mental side. If a guy thinks he needs attention on his throwing shoulder, then I give him what he asks for, even if I think his shoulder is fine. There's no harm physically and his mental health is protected.
Joey is fresh from the showers, his light brown hair still wet, and wearing nothing but a towel cinched only by his fist. He opens his towel before flopping face-down on the table and burrowing his face into the face port. He does this so quickly that he has no time to see me blush at the flash he gave me of his naked man parts. I shake off the tingle as beads of sweat form on my forehead.
"This is from that diving stop in the seventh inning, isn't it?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"But you got your man."
Joey mumbles something that sounds a little like
He's about to get me
, but I don't quite catch it. "What was that?"
"Oh, um. I just said, nothing gets by me."
"Right. That line drive was ticketed for left-center field."
"I felt a little something at the time, and it's been tightening up since then."
"Let's see if we can do something about it." I push the towel up, exposing his thigh from the top to the knee. "It was a beautiful play. We need you out there on the field, not on the bench for two weeks with a pulled hamstring."
"You're the man, Doc. Work your magic."
A sports massage is more targeted than a regular massage or a deep tissue massage. It focuses on the areas of the body that are most stressed during physical activities. That's where my extensive training comes in. And baseball is different from other sports in unusual ways. I always wondered as a kid why baseball players get injured as often or even more often than football or basketball players. The answer is that more so in baseball than in any other sport, there are instant reactions. The body goes from a still rest to surging motion in the blink of an eye. Sudden movements, torque, etc... Things like hamstrings are more likely to pay the price in baseball than in other sports.
As I go to work on Joey's thigh, he softly moans. It happens all the time and I've told the guys not to worry about it. It's a natural reaction to the physical sensation. I do not take it personally. After a while, I give the thigh a break and walk to the head of the table where I do some regular work on his shoulders, arms and back. I guess his eyes are open in the face port because he says to me, "Those kicks are sic."
He can't see my face, but the compliment makes me blush again. I am a little bit of a sneakerhead. I could wear a different pair every day for two months. I am currently wearing my newest pair of DC high-tops, black, grey and white. They are pretty "sic". I clear my throat and manage to squeak out a, "Thanks."
Joey says, "You're about my size. I'd ask to borrow them sometime, but my girlfriend just broke up with me so I'd have nowhere to wear them."
I would loan them to him without zero hesitation. The mental image of Joey's feet in my shoes is suddenly giving me a bit of a hardon. The thought and the feeling both take me by surprise. And who is the girlfriend who broke up with Joey, the star of the team? Is she crazy? Whoever she is, she should be bending over backwards to keep this man happy.
Again, where are these thoughts coming from?
I move back down for another go at the strained, but not pulled, hamstring. Joey confirms that it's already feeling a little better as I do my work. He instructs me that he's sore a little higher up the thigh too. I find this suspicious as there is no thigh higher than where I've been massaging. I remember anatomy class well and he's asking me to massage his ass. Glute massages are a real thing. I don't mind doing them, it's just that there's no way that Joey's glutes got injured during that play. But when the team hired me, the manager told me to do whatever the guys needed. I said I would.
So, I don't challenge or question Joey. I do as he asks. I remove the towel and begin massaging his glutes. As I do, my eyes travel the length of the naked man on my table. There is a thing called baseball shape. It's the perception that baseball players do not need to be in the same athletic shape as athletes in other sports - like football or basketball. Joey defies the stereotype. He is in shape to play any sport he desires. Fortunately, baseball is his love and he's on my table. Getting a butt massage. From me.
The whole length of his body is taught tanned skin over the contours of his muscles. Not the exaggerated muscles of a bodybuilder, but those of a well-toned physical specimen. My erection strengthens. Since I am wearing sweatpants, it is not particularly discrete.
It's time to work on Joey's throwing shoulder, so he needs to turn over and lie on his back. I pick up the towel and hold it up so he can flip over, unencumbered and I make a point of looking away. I can tell that Joey sees me "not looking" and he giggles. I've seen him before and I'll see him again, but still, I try to remain professional.
Joey elbows me gently in the stomach, "It's okay, Doc. We have doctor-patient confidentiality. I trust you. Besides, you've seen it before and you'll see it again."
He raises an eyebrow and elbows me again. "You're in pretty good shape yourself there, Doc."
Two more nudges and I have to step out of his reach because it's a sensitive spot and it tickles. Plus, I'm blushing more now than before. I'm not sure if it's worse to be caught "looking" or to be caught intentionally "not looking". I drop the towel across his body and turn back to him.
I gasp, "Oh, my God!"
He laughs.
The towel is tented by the tallest erection I have ever seen in my life! It actually scared me a little bit. I am dying to take the towel away and get a good look. I have only ever seen him in a flaccid state before, and while he has nothing to be ashamed of soft, he is without a doubt a "grower". I think I could grip him with two hands, ironically, like a baseball bat.
He says, "Sorry dude. You told us before that it's a normal reaction to physical stimulation."
I told all of the guys that on their first turn on my table. I told them all preemptively as a "just in case". The thing is that a sports massage is not a gentle, tickling kind of experience. It is therapeutic and very NOT sensual. Most of the time. I haven't been on the job long, but right now is the first time it's come up. Literally.
"That's right," I reassure the healthy twenty-one year old young man on my massage table with a towel tented over his nine-inch nail.
I reach for the massage oil and I accidentally graze against Joey's head. Not with my hand or my elbow, or my hip... No. I grazed him with my own erection. Shit! Maybe he didn't notice. He's still smiling, but that might just be from before. He must think I bumped him with something boney. But not that bone. Fuck. My face has never been so red.
I squeeze some oil and begin to massage his shoulder. As I work, I can't help but notice that his erection does not subside in the least. Neither does mine. Eventually, my hands begin to roam, as if they have a mind of their own. I'm suddenly rubbing oil into his pecs, his ribs, and his beautiful eight-pack abs that frame a concave shallow innie belly button. Touches around his lower abdomen make him quiver and giggle and I should stop, but I don't.
He bites his lip then says, "Doc, I need some work lower."
My fingers slip under the towel and follow the treasure trail of short light brown hairs that lead south from his navel. But I stop short and trail back up.
Joey makes eye contact and says, "Doc, please?"
The towel moves by itself as his dick twitches beneath.
I ask, "What's your injury?"
