Put Me in Coach, I'm Ready to Play

The summer I had just turned 18 turned out to be the beginning of my sexual awakening. It was nearing the end of the season, and our baseball team was on its way to an undefeated record, maintaining our first-place position in the league. Even though I was now 18, I was still short. Last time I measured I was only 5’3” and still a skinny scrawny lean kid. Every birthday I wished that I would grow taller, but when your father was only 5’6” and your mother 4’11” what did you really hope for? At least I was now taller than my mother!

This upcoming September was going to be my last year of high school before I set my sights on university. I wasn’t sure if I was going to play baseball again next summer, but my coach was trying his hardest to keep me interested and on the team. I was his star second baseman after all, and as the substitute pitcher who no one would suspect that such a little guy like me could throw some wicked curves, I was his surprise weapon as he sometimes called me.

I had been playing baseball since I was 7, first starting off in tee-ball, and then joining the house league in town. Since I was 14, I had joined this league, one step up from our house league, which meant more travel and more towns and more competition. At 14 I was under 5 feet and had to shut all the laughing players up when they saw me on the field. I jumped higher, was faster, could catch any ball that came my way, and had a powerhouse arm.

My coach for the last four years was a giant of a man named Steve Brandt. He was 6’4” and built like a brick shithouse. I don’t actually know what he did for a living, but I know that he was naturally muscled from work, with a bit of a gym thrown in from time to time to keep his shape about him. He had a barrel chest, a flat stomach and big massive arms that I was constantly staring at. I found myself disappointed on the colder evenings when he wore a long sleeve shirt under his short sleeved uniform top. His ass was round and firm, always nicely displayed in our light blue uniforms. And he had big calves, which were also on display as at that time we had the knee length uniforms with the long socks. He had very light brown eyes, and a full beard which amplified his height and power. He was married, had two kids – a girl, and a boy, who was on the team with me and a year younger than me. That year I turned 18, he was 45 and in such great shape for a man of his age.

Even though he was a massive man, he was a gentle one. The first year on the team when I was 14, such a small kid at 4’9”, I found myself up to bat during our final game of the season at the start of playoffs. With 2 out, we were losing by one. The tying running was on third, and the winning scorer was on first and I came up to bat. Now being so short in this league, every pitcher found it nearly impossible to pitch to me as my strike zone was pretty much next to nothing. Coach had told me to crouch lower and was hoping for a walk to get the bases loaded, knowing a powerhouse hitter was after me.

I remember that day vividly, not because of my skills as a batter, which at that point because no one could ever pitch properly to me, were not the greatest. It was the way the Coach treated me afterwards.

Needless to say, that pitcher was the first to find my little strike zone and struck me out, ending the game and sending them on to win the championship. Dejected, I dropped my bat and hung around at the plate, afraid to face my teammates and the yelling coming from the crowds. When I did turn sideways, holding back my emotions, it was Steve, my coach, that was walking slowly towards me alone.

He knelt down beside me, as he was practically two feet taller than me at that point, and took me in his hands, placing both big hands on my shoulders and turning me to look at him. Kneeling down in front of me, we were eye to eye.

“Hey,” he said over the crowd behind us. His light brown eyes were smiling at me. “It’s okay.”

I shook my head, looking into those eyes, trying not to let him see tears well up in my blue-green ones. “I lost the game.”

He shook his head and now his whole face smiled. “No, you didn’t. It just ended this way. We had a whole game of people who missed a ball, or struck out, or didn’t make the steal. Anyone of them could say he lost the game. You hear me?” He shook my little body a moment, lightly, as if trying to let it sink into me.

“I’m sorry coach.” I said quietly.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said again. “I don’t want to hear sorry. If you think you need to fix something, then you fix it. But you did not, I repeat you did not,” and he placed that big hand on my chin and lifted it up to look again into his eyes, “lose the game. You hear me?”

I mumbled and he cocked his ear to the side.

“Say that again?” his deep voice firm, but kind.

“Yes sir.” I said louder.

He slapped my shoulder, which pushed me a little forward as he was so fucking big and built and I was a mere nothing at that point, and he walked me to the dugout with his paw on the middle of my back. I remember that feeling of his hand on me to this day.

The next four years I honed my skills at bat, heading to the batting cage every chance I could get, often with Steve in tow for my own special practice. I learned how to hit at last and vowed I would never go down again with 2 out and the win so near!

Over those four years, I developed into his superstar. I became “Little Brian” or L’il B or Little Guy” but it was just a name as the team knew I could hit, catch, run, and pitch. Coach put me in whenever he needed me.

As we headed to the championship that year, I was starting to notice that I was feeling things for the Coach more and more. Little moments of flutters in my gut as he touched me or feeling proud when he called me out for something I did so well, or when I saw him cheering loudly at anything I did. I also started watching him closely, taking in his built body, watching the way he moved. When he bent over, I would catch myself looking at his ass. When he hit the ball in practice, I was watching the muscles in his arms. I loved the sound of his deep voice calling my nickname “B.” And I loved the way his light brown eyes looked at me.

I didn’t notice how he looked back at me until the pre-championship game when I was hauled off my second base to pitch to save us from a disastrous inning.

It was the bottom of the 8th and we were losing our lead. The bases were now loaded, and our pitcher was tired, and we were now only up by one run. Coach called time and came out to the mound to talk with Justin our pitcher, and then waved me over.

Coach held the ball in his hand as I approached. “Can you get us out of this B?”

I looked at Justin who looked pissed. “Sure.” I took the ball and looked at Justin. “Rest man. You did great.”

Coach slapped Justin on the back and he reluctantly walked away. After a few practice throws, the game resumed, and we played. I stuck out the next two batters, ending the inning without any more runs. We were only ahead by one.

We managed to score another run when we were up, and as we headed to the bottom of the final inning Steve grabbed me. “Can you pitch again this one. Get us out of this.” He was afraid we would lose, and he wanted to go into the playoffs undefeated.

“Put me in coach. I can do it.” I said. He slapped my ass as I walked in, and I felt elated.

First batter no problem. He struck out. The second one was their hitter. As soon as he stepped up to the plate, my team started backing up, preparing for this slugger. First pitch and he swung hard but missed. It was the second that he connected and swung hard, sending a line drive directly at my head.

The ball came flying straight at my head, and knocked me to the ground. The ball bounced off me and fell just in front of the pitcher’s mound, with me collapsed in a heap. I could hear the gasps from the crowd, and my teammates. I could see, hazily, my Coach Steve fly to the opening of the dugout and then stop suddenly, looking at the umpire. The batter was standing at the plate still, looking at me laying on the ground, stunned at what happened. The umpire had flicked his mask off and went to move to me, but he too stopped. My catcher had stood up and was standing stock still. No one was moving. It was as if time was standing still and I was in a crumpled heap on the mound.

But the ball was still in play.

Steve started yelling at our catcher. “GET THE BALL!”

The batter’s coach started yelling at his batter. “RUN! RUN!”

The crowd was confused. The players were confused. I was starting to try to move and the umpire at home was focused on my movements, waiting for the play to end so he could call time and people could come to my rescue.

I could see Steve at the side looking at me as he became extremely frantic, gesturing with his entire body to our catcher. “PICK UP THE BALL!! PICK UP THE BALL!! IT’S STILL IN PLAY!” he was booming, running back and forth along the dugout fence like a caged tiger wanting his food.

I’m sure it was only seconds, but at last our catcher moved at the same time the batter came to his senses and started running for first base. The catcher ran towards me, grabbing the ball in front of the mound and whipped it over to first.

“OUT!” I heard the base umpire holler, followed by the home plate umpire who then immediately yelled “TIME!” and started to run towards me.

I saw Steve LEAP over the fence and come towards me, his big frame moving to me quickly in a few long strides. The home umpire and my catcher were also running towards me now from home plate. I could see the crowd on both sides stand up as I slowly made it to my side. My head was ringing, my eyes were blurry, and I could feel the bump on my head.

It was Steve, my big coach who got their first. His big hands were on me, holding my head and tilting it up to his eyes. His eyes found the giant bump on my head, and then came to mine as the umpire and the catcher came on the other side of me. “You okay?!” he said, half laughing half serious.

“I think so,” I said groggily.

The umpire was at my side. “Jesus!” he yelled when he got down on his knees. “I’m sorry, we couldn’t stop the game until the play was over!” He was trying to explain to me, and to Steve at the same time.

Steve’s hands were rubbing my head, one holding my head, the other gently rubbing near the area where my goose egg was, holding my head directly at his looking into my eyes. “Pupils look okay.” He shook his head. “I thought he knocked your head clear off.” He said quietly. I could sense the crowd of other players beside me, and a parent who was a nurse.

I shook my head and held up my bare right hand. “I tried to catch it.” I showed them my hand, which now had a baseball sized red print on it. Apparently, my reflexes are so good that I managed to get my hand up to stop the ball, which slammed into my hand forcing my own hand back onto my forehead just inches before the ball would have connected full force into my skull.

Coach looked at me, and then laughed a big sigh of relief. “You fucking superstar!” He said and kissed my forehead.

“Is he out?” I finally asked, making the umpire laugh too.

“Yeah, we got him.” My catcher, Todd, said. He slapped me on the back with his glove as I started to stand up.

The crowds started cheering on both sides, clapping and hollering to see that I was alive.

I held out my open glove to my catcher for the ball. Todd looked at our Coach.

“Are you serious?” Steve asked me.

“Put me in coach. I can finish this.” Although I wasn’t truly sure I could. I was still seeing stars, and probably had a concussion. But it was only one more batter if I could manage to see straight and pitch properly.

Todd gave me the ball and ran back to the plate. The ump held his arms up and said he was going to give me a few throws to make sure I was okay. Both crowds were cheering wildly. I threw a few pitches, and said I was ready to go.

The next batter came up, and in four pitches, he was out, and the game was over. We were moving onto the championship game, ending in first place. My teammates on the field rushed me, finally getting the chance to make sure I was okay, as the rest of the dugout cleared the bench and ran out to the field to congratulate me too. I noticed our Coach, Steve, waiting at the fence, his giant arms crossed over his chest in pride as he watched me. I smiled up at him, as if he was the only one that mattered at that moment.

My parents had split up when I was ten, and my mom had just started dating this guy, so she wasn’t even at the game that evening, as had become the norm. I had had no father figure for the last 8 years as my dad moved away. But each summer, my Coach felt like the father figure I was searching for. He had helped me hone my skills and encouraged me. And as I walked towards him at the fence, I remembered that moment four years earlier when he approached me to rest his strong hand on me. I smiled as I neared him, and his smile widened. And then, he opened his arms and pulled me into him embracing me in a giant hug. And it felt okay, just like he told me years ago. “It’s okay.”

I felt his big arms wrap tightly around me and found myself pressed up against his solid chest. His was firm, muscled, his body granite as he hugged me. “I can’t believe you just did that B.” He always called me “B.” But today, at this moment, it felt different. I let my face rest in the fold of his pecs as he put a big paw on the back of my head. “You are a fucking stud.” He said laughing.

He pulled me back now, to look at my head. “Now I’ve got to take you to the hospital to get that looked at!” He said pointing at my head.

I shook my head. “Nah it’s fine. Really. It was just my hand really.” He was holding me out at arms-length, his hands on my shoulders, looking at me.

“You sure?” He said, those brown eyes reading into mine.

I nodded. “Yeah it’s okay.”

He seemed to smile when I said that. “Well I’ll drive you home at least. I’m worried about you.” And he pulled me in beside him, his big arm resting on my shoulder as we started to walk to the dugout. “That was fucking intense. I thought you were dead.” He said as we walked. “I wanted to run right out to get you.” He squeezed me tighter as he talked.

“I know, I saw you.” I said.

He looked down at me, “You did?”

I nodded looking up. “Yeah, you were the first person I saw.”

He looked up as we got to the end of the dugout where all the equipment was out, ready to be put away. Most of the team were still talking with their parents or mingling about in the stands. Steve and I were alone.

He told me to sit as he started gathering up the equipment, telling me I needed to rest. I wasn’t feeling the greatest, so I did. He bent over and grabbed a few things, throwing them in the giant bag and zipping it up. My eyes were on his ass as he did. Suddenly I felt very aware of his body so close to mine, and this sudden intensity I was feeling.

Maybe it was the ball to the head? I thought.

He zipped up the bag and turned to look at me. He looked into my eyes as he found me staring at him. He had a slight smile on his face, and he asked me if I was okay. I nodded, and he looked around and noticed we were alone. Then he looked back at me again, this time the look was different. His eyes stayed on mine. Then he slapped my knee, breaking me out of his gaze.

“Okay, let’s get you home and make sure you’re safe and sound.” And he hoisted that giant bag of gear over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing.

I followed him to his car and climbed in the familiar front seat as he threw the gear into his trunk. His wife came to me at the door and made sure I was okay and took their son (my teammate) with her in her car as she had come later. Steve said goodbye to them, said he’d be home after he took me home, and hopped in beside me, the car tilting as his powerful body sat down.

He turned the car on, and then turned and looked at me again. “Look at me.” He said suddenly. I turned, surprised, but he was just checking the bump on my forehead. But then his eyes came back to mine and held my gaze. I blinked.

“Are my eyes okay?” I asked, feeling a little nervous as the stare lingered.

“Uh,” he stammered, as if he himself was coming out of a trance, “I was just making sure your pupils still weren’t dilated or anything. Concussion and all.” He smiled and put his hand on my knee. “Just worried about you.”

His hand stayed there. It was so big it practically covered my entire knee and thigh all at once.

“I’m good now.” I said without thinking.

He smiled, and patted my leg, more like the inside of my leg and I felt butterflies. “Good.” And he turned and put the car in reverse and backed out and away we went.

As we drove, we chit chatted about the game, how well I played, how he was hoping we’d win the championship again this year, and how upset he was at seeing me hit today. He talked a lot about that. How he felt so helpless seeing me slump to the ground. How he was yelling “so fucking loud” at Todd to “pick up that goddamn ball.” He said all he wanted to do was get to the mound to make sure I was okay.

I looked over at him when he said that. He was starting straight ahead at the road, and I was suddenly overcome at how handsome he was, his profile strong and striking. “Why?” I found myself asking.

He turned and looked at me, not sure if he heard me correctly. “Why?” he echoed back. “Why did I want to make sure you were okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Why?” I wasn’t used to my family paying any attention to me. My mom was never around as she was trying desperately to find a man to marry to take care of her. We were broke and she was getting desperate. My dad wasn’t around. I had no one that truly cared about me, let alone see if I was okay ever. And here was this big, massive man, my coach, the only man that closely resembled a father to me, telling me that he was worried about me, and couldn’t wait to run to me to make sure I was okay.

He shrugged his shoulders, unsure of what to say. “I just wanted to get to you Brian.”

He never called me by my full name. It was always B, or L’il B. And when he said Brian, my heart leapt into my throat, and a tear rolled out of my eye.

He looked over at me and saw that. His eyes softened and he sighed.

I started to cry. I fucking started to cry in his car. Me, an 18 year old, crying beside his behemoth of a coach.

“Oh, hey now,” he said softly, “it’s okay.” He pulled the car off the main road into a parking lot. I looked up to see the Wendy’s sign, before I buried my head into my hands.

“Must be the concussion!” I said, trying to laugh through my tears.

He pulled quickly into a spot, put the car in park, and grabbed me, pulling me across the seat into his shoulders and hugged me tight. “It’s okay, shhhhh, it’s okay.” He just held me as I cried into him. It was the same thing he had said to me four years earlier. “It’s okay.” He was saying it again and it was making me cry harder.

When he started to rock me, I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him back, burying my face more into him, trying to stop myself from crying, while suddenly enjoying the feeling of his big arms around me, and the sound of his soothing deep voice. I could feel his chin resting on top of my head as his deep voice filled the car with sounds of encouragement and shushes as I let it out. He kissed the top of my head suddenly and kept trying to rock me and quiet me down.

When I slowed my crying down, I realized what I was doing and started to pull away. “I’m sorry, I…”

But Steve held me to him. “Don’t. It’s okay.” And he kissed the top of my forehead. “It’s okay.” He said again. Quieter.

I froze in position, half sort of away from him, my head only slightly out, my hand had landed on the top of his right thigh as I was trying to shift away, and I held it there, feeling the hard muscle of his leg, while my other hand was still on top of his shoulder. I was looking down at my hand on his big thigh, noticing how close we were. Noticing his legs in his baseball uniform. Noticing the area between his thighs as we sat there in his car.

He was holding my head in one of his big hands, and the other was now resting on my shoulder as he tried to hold me in place. He kissed my forehead again, and then tilted my head upwards, to look into his eyes. “It’s okay Brian. I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

Our eyes were locked, and I held my breath. I didn’t know what I was feeling, but I was feeling something for this big man in front of me. His one hand was so big it was holding the entire left side of my face. His thick thumb was now rubbing the sides of my face, wiping the tears away gently. His other hand started to massage my shoulder, then sort of rub it, moving up and down my arm.

My hand on his thigh squeezed, and then as if it had a mind of its own, started rubbing the length of the top of his leg.

We held our gaze, and I swallowed noticeably. Steve sort of looked down at my hand, and then at the side of my face as he wiped the tears from my cheek, and then back at my blue-green eyes. “It’s okay.” He said again, quietly.

I found myself nodding, as if he was reading my thoughts. He leaned over and kissed my forehead again, this time a little slower. I felt his beard tickle the top of my head. When he pulled away, I looked up at him, his eyes soft and searching mine. He leaned in again, saying “It’s okay” as he kissed my forehead again, a little lower than the last time as I had lifted my head, his lips feeling so good against my brow. He leaned back again and whispered, “Are you okay?”

I nodded again, feeling quite calm. And as he moved in toward my forehead this time, I pushed up on his thigh and met his approaching lips with mine.

I felt myself shaking as our lips touched lightly. Steve paused, but kissed me lightly, simply, as if I was his own kid, as if he was saying good night. It was a peck, quick, soft. But his head remained in position as if he was surprised what I did. But then his lips reached mine again and we kissed again, lightly, soft, lips on lips. He pulled off again, and I could feel my mouth hanging open, breathing hard as his head remained close to me. My eyes were open, and so were his. We were so close, nose to nose, my eyes looking into his pleading with him. I could feel his breath on me. The whole world froze.

He leaned into my open mouth this time and I could feel his tongue slide in. I squeezed his thigh as I felt his tongue explore my mouth, a shiver ran through me as my tongue touched his, and our mouths connected, his lips covering mine, his hand pulling my face more towards him as he kissed me truly, like his lover.

Feeling his big strong hand on my face, my hand feeling his muscular leg, our tongues connected, and our mouths locked, I suddenly felt a passion I had yet to feel.

And we kissed. Intensely. Deep. Passionately. Right there in that Wendy’s parking lot.