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Seventh Inning Stretch

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It’s in the blood, this passion that I have for baseball.

It all started on an oppressively humid August day in central Alabama, when I was all of four years old. I was sitting on Aunt Roberta’s porch, two houses down from my own, dressed in a gingham dress and enjoying a tea party with Lily, my favorite rag doll. Aunt Roberta had noticed a yellow-jacket nest in the eaves on the far end of her porch and started swatting it with a broom. The next thing I knew I heard shrill shrieks as the swarm of wasps lit into her. Aunt Roberta instructed me to run home to Mommy to get help, but that wasn’t needed. My parents had heard the screaming and were already on their way over. Mommy took Roberta to the hospital right away, leaving Daddy to care for me.

Dad looked over at my mom, and said, “What am I supposed to do with Casey? I have to work.”

Mom said, “Take a coloring book. She’ll be good for you.”

So, that’s the first day I went to Ramsey Stadium. Our Middletown Knights, a Double A team, shut out the Glenwood Fielders, 3-0, that day. I should know. You see, Daddy was Knight’s announcer.

He took me up into the announcer’s booth, pushed the crayons into my hands and emphasized that I had to be quiet, particularly when the red light was on. I think I colored for all of three minutes, and then found myself sitting on a tall stool next to Daddy, watching the game. Between innings, when the microphone was silent, I peppered Daddy with all sorts of questions. That day the Knight’s manager, Mr. Bardsley, came into the booth. He kept on telling Daddy how I was extraordinarily well behaved and enchanting. And at the end of the afternoon, Mr. Bardsley presented me with a black and gold Middletown Knights cap. Sixteen years later, that hat still rests on a nail in my bedroom at my parent’s house.

After one game, I was hooked. I rarely missed a home game from that point on. During the spring and fall, Mommy said I couldn’t go to the game unless my homework was completed. Needless to say, I became a very good student. And I was devastated when I came down with the chicken pox at age 8, because it kept me away from the ballpark for the opening week.

Because I was so good and followed the rules, I had run of the ballpark, including the bull pen. Many of the players took me under their wing, as if I were their little sister. But I spent most of the time in the announcer’s booth, sitting on Daddy’s right side. I was fascinated with the electronic equipment, and at age 13 was able to take over for the sound engineer, Bud, when he was sick. I deviated a bit from his selection of music … less organ music and more rock. One day I snuck a Backstreet Boys CD into the booth, thinking that the folks in the stadium would like I Want It That Way as much as my middle school friends. I didn’t make that mistake again.

The freckled red-head girl in pigtails slowly morphed into a young lady, with all the appropriate teenage body parts. I seemed to have one big growth spurt between my junior and senior years of high school. When I returned to the ball park in the spring, many of the younger players looked at me differently. I was no longer their little sis, but rather a short tomboyish girl who looked hot in cut-off shorts and tight tees.

A year later, I had a huge crush on Bruce, a 19-year-old centerfielder from Little Rock with killer blue eyes and jet black hair. At first he was very sweet to me; I just knew that we would be married at some point. But then his teammates started teasing him, saying that I was “jail bait.” I was hurt when he turned cold on me, and I needed to prove that I wasn’t just a kid. On a Saturday night in September, we smoked some joints in the stands long after the ball park had closed. A few hours later, I lost my virginity to Bruce on a squeaky wooden table in the equipment room. Until the season ended, we met up in secret. He fucked me as often as he could. I was heartbroken when the season ended and he returned to Little Rock to work at his uncle’s car lot.

As spring approached, I called Bruce. He was strangely distant to me, said that he was promoted to Triple-A. I felt like a fool, being so chaste while he was away and waiting for a return that didn’t materialize.

The following summer, no longer “jail bait”, I was more accepted by the players. After most games, I hung with the guys. I was gaining the reputation as team nympho, the redhead tomboy who would spread her legs for a ballplayer in need.

A few days before I headed off to college, with a freshly minted fake ID in hand, the guys took me out for pizza and beer. After the place closed, five guys and I headed to Kevin’s apartment where we finished off a few more six packs and watched a West Coast game on cable. Sammy said they wanted to give me a good send off, and set me up in Kevin’s bedroom. One at a time, they would empty their seed into me. Once the fucking starts, I tend to cum easily and loudly. They nicknamed me “The Alarm Clock”, because the boys could predict kartal escort when the next should be ready for action. It was a non-stop fuck fest until the wee hours of the morning; most guys came 3-4 times in me that night. God, if Daddy only knew what his diminutive red-headed tomboy was doing.

My sex life didn’t let up once in college. But I always looked forward to the summer. College boys were fine, but baseball players were finer. They tended to be quite muscular, and I grew to enjoy the smell of clay from Ramsey field.

Most days I worked the concessions in the summer. And if Bud wanted to take some time off, I’d act as the sound engineer, back in the announcer’s booth with Dad. I had to be close to the sport I loved and the boys who played it (and me) so well.

When this summer started, I felt a bit of remorse. A year from now I’d be finished with college and would be looking for a real job. I knew I would miss my summers at the Ramsey Stadium.

When working the concessions, I would take a tall cup of sweet ice tea up to Daddy in the slower periods. One early June day I entered the announcer’s booth quietly and slid the tea over to the table in the front of the booth. The red line was on, but Dad signaled for me to stay.

Between innings, Daddy started, “Casey, I got a call from Brad Keeler earlier.” Mr. Keeler was the owner of the Bloomington Redwings, another AA team a few hours away from here. I had met him a few times, and he was one of my favorite owners. “Brad tells me that their sound engineer is out for a month or so … emergency appendectomy. I thought you might be up for the job. It pays a bit more than you’ll be getting from the concessions. Brad says he’ll put you up in the same hotel where he houses the players. Not the Hilton, of course …”

“Oh, I don’t care about that, Daddy. But how much does it pay?” I enquired, thinking about how I would need to spend a small fortune on textbooks in the fall.

“About double what you are making now,” he answered. “Now, it’s only for a month or so.”

The inning was about to start, so the red light went on and Dad started announcing again. I reached for a scrap of paper, scrawled a note and passed it to Daddy. It read, “Tell Mr. Keeler I’ll do it.”

I can’t believe how quickly things progressed. I was on a bus to Bloomington the next morning. Mr. Keeler told me that I could walk to the hotel and the stadium from the bus stop. I was to report directly to the announcer’s booth at 4:30 and introduce myself to Mark Tyson.

At 4:15 I stood in front of Redwing Park. It was larger and more modern than Ramsey Stadium, and also a bit more intimidating. With almost three hours before the game was to start, the place was deserted. Yet I managed to find the announcers’ booth easily. I hadn’t thought about knocking … just walked right in.

A man in his late 20s turned around and looked at me quizzically. He was a tall and lanky, appeared to have a shaved head under his ball cap. He had what I can only explain as a kind face … warm, caring eyes.

The man began, “Uh, I don’t think you are supposed to be here. Who are you looking for?”

I extended my hand out, “You must be Mark. I’m Casey Crofton, your very temporary sound engineer.”

Mark lifted his eyebrows and said, “Wow. Casey. It never occurred to me that you could be a girl. And such a hot one at that.” Funny thing was that I didn’t feel particularly “hot”. My shoulder length red hair was pulled back in a pony tail. I had no makeup on, and my clothes consisted of a tight t-shirt and some cut-off shorts. Mark shook my hand and then offered, “Oh, I’m so sorry. That was kind of rude. I’m so sorry. Really. ” He paused but continued, “How old are you? Did you finish high school?”

I laughed, “I get that a lot, because I’m so short. It’s cool. I’m 20 years old. I’ll graduate college next spring.”

Mark smiled at me, seeming a bit flustered.

“If it’s any consolation,” I continued, “I didn’t expect you to be so young. I think you are the first announcer I’ve met that’s under forty. Exactly how old are you?”

Breathing easier, Mark replied, “Twenty seven. But you … you look so young. It’s like you’re my little sister or something. Got to watch what I say.”

“Tell you what,” I started, “After the game we’ll throw back a few brewskies and shoot some darts. Trust me; I’m not anything like your little sister.”

Mark held his gaze at me, still smiling. I instantly felt an attraction to him. Any hesitation about taking this job was now gone. Looking around the room I saw a massive console.

“Wow, this is much different than I’m used to. Can you show me the ropes?” I asked.

“Sure, sure.” Mark replied. “Sit down, please.” He pulled a chair over and placed it behind me. For the next half hour or so he patiently explained things to me, at times touching my hand, my shoulder. His touch wasn’t comfortable. It was electric. I liked that.

Mark was a good communicator, and I quickly acclimated maltepe escort bayan myself to the sound system. Mark quizzed me on the features, and when he was sure I had it down, he stated, “We have a new computer system, too.” He slid over to his chair and stated, “We are networked and both of us have two monitors. One monitor is for our own use. The purpose of the other monitor is to see what the other is doing. We both have access to all the stats, so if you see anything interesting, flash it up on the screen and I’ll think about using it.”

“Can I send you instant messages to you?” I enquired.

“Yes, absolutely. This box at the top of the screen is for that. And the internet is available, too. So if you find anything else, flash it up on the screen.”

Anxious to try the new feature, I typed,

Casey: This could be rather entertaining … I could fill my screen with jokes and porn

Mark typed back,

Mark: You want to trip up the announcer on your first day?

Casey: Not to worry. I am very nice (wink)

Mark: I’m worried

I turned around and faced Mark. “This is so cool, Mark.”

“Yeah, I’m a bit of a techie,” he admitted.

“You designed this system?” I asked. “Dude, this is genius.”

Mark smiled at me again, saying, “Thanks.” He paused and said, “Listen, I have to prepare for tonight. Less than two hours until game time and I have to review the stats.”

“Gotcha,” I replied, “I’ll be good.” As Mark poured over spreadsheets, I rifled through the CD collection, also pulling a few CDs out of my own bag. I started to queue up songs that I would be using that night. I was a bit anxious about the new equipment, so I spent a lot of time testing and practicing.

I was deep in thought and was a bit stunned when the silence was broken. “Five more minutes still show time, Case. You ready?” asked Mark.

I glanced over at Mark, whose eyes were still focused on his monitor. With some hesitation in my voice I replied, “I think so. It’s just quite a bit different than what I’m used to.”

Mark’s eyes darted from the monitor to the field, and then back to the monitor. “I still get a bit antsy before games myself. I need to make sure I can pronounce all the players on the opposing team. It was pretty humbling when I referred to Mario Herrara as Whore-era.”

I giggled.

Mark continued, “I think I pulled out some interesting stats. And I’ve got tonight’s shtick figured out.”

“Shtick?” I asked.

“You’ll see soon enough, Case,” he stated, his eyes still darting wildly from field to screen.

I sensed something in Mark at that moment … intelligence … some creative genius perhaps. Instead of checking out the hunks on the field, looking for targets for post-game action, I found myself fixated on the lanky, hairless guy. It was as if I was drawn into him. As he tapped his pencil on the table, I asked, “Have you got a girlfriend, Mark?”

Mark stopped tapping and looked directly into my eyes, a bit perplexed with the question. “No.” He stood up and looked down towards the home team bullpen. “Not a steady or anything at least. There was this girl, but we broke it off last fall. I’ve been seeing this middle school English teacher, but it’s not serious.” He paused, but I had nothing to say in return. He continued, “What about you, Case? Anyone back there in Middletown?”

“Just the entire Knights team.”

With that comment, Mark looked over at me and then slowly smiled. “You had me there for a while, Case.”

I returned his smile. God, did I really say that? Thankfully he thought it was a joke. I didn’t know why I cared what he thought, because I hadn’t cared before. Well, not since Bruce. But for some reason it mattered.

The door opened and a young girl from the concession stand entered, tray full of food in hand. There were hot dogs, cheese fries, chips, two large cups of ice, and a half dozen cans of soda. She placed it on the table behind us.

“Wendy, you didn’t forget me!” Mark exclaimed. “You’ve cut it close before, but this must be a new record. One minute until the game time.”

“Sorry,” the teenager replied, “We’ve got quite a crowd tonight.” Wendy looked over at me and said, “We bring up complimentary food every night. I didn’t know what you wanted, so I just brought double what I usually get Mark. But I didn’t know the new sound engineer would be a girl. If you prefer a diet soda or salad, whatever really, let me know and I’ll fix you up tomorrow.”

“This looks fine, actually,” I acknowledged, “Thanks.”

As Wendy left, she locked the door behind us. Mark explained, “Wendy will flip the sign on the door that says DO NOT ENTER. It’s just a precaution. Until the game ends, it’s just you and I. Oh, and if you have to use the bathroom, there’s one on the right.”

“OK,” I replied. I lifted up the soda and stared at it. “Redwing Rebel?”

Mark explained, “Local soda. It’s cherry cola, with a bit of a kick. Good stuff.” Mark looked over at escort pendik the field and continued, “Showtime, Case. You got the first tune queued up?”

I nodded yes. The red light turned on. I turned to the console and played a few lines from Born to Be Wild. Mark turned towards me, gave me a toothy grin and the thumbs up sign. Obviously, I was a bit more adventurous that the usual sound engineer — and he approved. To my surprise, that acceptance meant a lot to me. For a girl who usually doesn’t care what other people think, I wanted him to like me.

Mark began, “Welcome to Redwing Airlines. I’m your captain, Mark Tyson, and my co-pilot today up here in the sound booth is a sassy little red-head all the way from Middleton, Miss Casey Crofton. Soon our flight attendants will be visiting your aisle with beverage service. We have coffee, tea, and of course, Redwing Rebel.”

Mark looked at me, hoping that I would be amused. I grinned back at him and typed,

Casey: Ah, so that’s the shtick

Mark noticed my comment on his console, winked at me, smiled broadly, and turned back to the console. Nice teeth, I thought. Teeth? I care about teeth now, I mused. My eyes remained fixed on him. He fascinated me. It was the energy, I decided. Baseball players have a certain type of energy too. In physics they called it “potential” energy; it’s stored and explodes when warranted. But Mark had this nervous “kinetic” energy. Even seated, Mark’s in motion. His head shifts constantly. His eyes dart. He taps his pencil on the table. I knew that his brain was working in overdrive, too. The guy was brilliant, I decided. I think most people would find Mark’s constant motion annoying. To the contrary, I found it very attractive, almost hypnotic.

The game was about to start.

“Ladies and gentlemen please stand for the National Anthem,” Mark announced. He looked over at me and I gave him the thumbs up sign, assuring him that I was ready to let it roll. It occurred to me that he hadn’t really rehearsed or talked about timing. Somehow it was all working out, though. After the National Anthem finished and the fans were returning to their seats, I played a few lines, from Born in the USA.

Mark: Impressive Case

Casey: Thanks

Mark: I can’t wait to see what you have up your sleeve next

As he started introducing the players, I continued,

Casey: If my sleeves were rolled up any higher, my shirt would be off

Mark: That works for me

I decided to have a little fun, so I pulled off my t-shirt. It really wasn’t a biggie. I had a razor back sports bra on. Mark sensed the commotion in my direction and looked over.

Mark: OMG

Mark looked back at me. Feeling a bit playful, I placed my hands on the lower half of my tiny breasts, as if I were holding them up. And then pinched my nipples.

Mark: Must … concentrate … on game

Casey: LOL. Sorry … I’ll be good … only talk about baseball

Mark: Thanks … need to focus

Casey: Gotcha. You know, there’s nothing I like more than hard balls.

Mark looked over at me and shook his head. I’m not sure if his expression was one of amusement or disgust. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

Casey: The harder the better

Mark: Case …

Casey: And to be honest, I love a double header. Once is never enuff …

Casey: Just talking baseball, of course

Casey: Like bats … what I wouldn’t give for the feel of stiff wood in my hands

Casey: Yes, I like it soooo hard

The first half of the inning went quickly. It was 1-2-3. The red light went off. Mark turned towards me and exhaled audibly. “Casey, you are one wild girl.”

I laughed out loud, “Oh, Mark, honey. You have no idea.”

I glanced down at his khakis and noticed a bulge. I realized how distracted Mark must have been, but he kept his composure throughout. I decided to turn it up a notch. “Is that a baseball in your pants, or are you just glad to see me?” I scooted the chair towards him, extended my left arm and dropped it on his lap. Through the fabric in his pants, I started stroking him.

“Case, you’ve got to stop this. I need to focus on the game.”

My hand continued to stroke him. “I’d really like to go down on you. Say, Mark, is that something your little sister would tell you?”

Mark paused and said, “OK, Case. You want honesty? I’ve spent the last five minutes thinking about how I wanted to fuck you. I can’t think about that, though, Case. Not now. We have a job to do. I need to be on top of my game. Can we pick this up after the game?”

I continued to stroke his pants and said, “I’m not going to last that long, Mark.

Mark pulled my hand from his crotch and said, “Be good”. Within seconds, the red light went on. Mark announced, “First batter up for the Redwings, shortstop Bobby Jones. Bobby is red hot right now, seven for ten in the last three home games.”

I stood up, unzipped my cut offs, and let them drop to the floor. Mark looked over at me, in disbelief of my actions. I returned to my chair, pulled my panties to the side, and started stroking my pussy. I knew Mark was watching, so I decided to give him a show. I slid my right index finger across my cunt, held up my wet finger for him to see, and then seductively licked it.

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