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“This’ll be fun,” Scout says, rushing past you toward the pitcher’s mound, bucket of baseballs in hand. As you enter the diamond and find your way to the home plate, you can’t help but notice the sun is scorching. A wavy haze floats above the sea of red sand. Already, sweat lurks wherever it can within your mock uniform. Scout seems fine, however, picking up a ball and tossing it in the air, waiting for you.
“Did you notice the heat?” you question, playfully dumbfounded. “I think I’m ready for a break.”
Scout grins, chuckling lightly. “Do you remember how to stand?”
“I think so,” you trail off, looking at your feet. Both of them are grounded, knees bent slightly, parallel with the direction Scout intends to throw. You grip the handle of the bat, your pinky awfully close to the end, with your other fingers wrapped closer to the barrel.
“So, what I’m gonna do, because you’re new to this, is toss it sorta upward, rather than just whip it straight.”
You take a breath and nod, bat over your shoulder. A noticeable droplet of sweat creeps its way out from your baseball cap and onto your nose. A terrible itch.
“See, cuz,” a smile grows, and he begins to hop, now jogging backwards up the mound, “normally I’d be back here. But that’s too far.”
“Yeah, I’m not in the big leagues yet,” you respond.
“And I’d have to throw it super-fast, in more of a straight line, for it to reach ya.”
You nod, keeping your position, understanding the logic but allowing him to gleefully explain it. You can tell he is having an incredible time getting to explain one of his passions. Looking down, he pauses, then returns to his original position. “Anyway,” he says, “are you ready?”
You offer a final nod of acknowledgement, gripping the bat tighter. You begin to focus on the general image of Scout as he hangs his arm, ball in hand. Taking a step forward, he tosses it upward, and you twist your torso as per his instructions, swinging the bat pre-emptively. There is a woosh as the bat cuts through dry dusty air.
“Oh,” he laments, “that’s okay. Let’s do it again!”
Early, you think to yourself, with slight embarrassment. He reaches for another ball and repeats his pitch, but this time you swing a bit later. You’re not entirely sure what it is – something instinctive happens, and you’re able to time it properly – though not as professionally as you would hope. Your bat hits the ball with a metallic clang, as though the ball were slamming against a motionless wall.
“Fuck,” you blurt out, not immediately understanding why. A sharp pain emerges from your wrist.
“Hey, that’s okay,” Scout begins, but quickly realizes it isn’t in poor sportsmanship. He abandons his pursuit of another ball and hurries to you. “What is it?”
Your wrist is fine, suffering only a momentary sting from the bottom of the bat jamming into it, as per your grip. “Oh, oh man, wait,” Scout assesses, standing across the base. “How were you holding your bat?”
“I think I was,” you begin, demonstrating the rest visually. “I think I may need–”
“Yeah,” he continues, “you’ve gotta hold your left hand a little more up the bat. You’ve also gotta twist your wrist the other way.” He begins to reach for the bat, but hesitates, his gaze flicking between the metal and your eyes.
“…Do you mind if I…” he begins to ask, and you nod enthusiastically. With a smile of contentment, he takes a step forward, less than a foot away from you. Distracting you from your diminishing pain, a rather frustrating instinct kicks in – you find yourself evaluating him. It occurs as an instant experience and understanding. You notice his height, which isn’t monumental, but is enough to overshadow your own. He’s got youthful features that blend into masculine ones – a sharp chin, sharp jaw, sharp nose that flicks upward, but soft skin that fills in those rigid lines like watercolor. His smile is typically wide, but here, is restricted to a tight line with one end flicking upward. And in your momentary assessment you notice the subtleties of his arms. They are long, and not those of a body builder, but layered in thin muscles like that of a climber: secret strength in hidden places.
He grabs onto your hands, both of you gripping the bat now. As a result of your evaluation, you find this sends a rush through your body, a flight-or-flight response, the all-too-familiar condensed anxiety.
“Try putting your hand like this,” he suggests in a softer voice due to your proximity. He plays with your fingers, unpeeling them from the bat and repositioning them properly, then guiding your wrist in a similar manner. You find yourself too nervous to look up and make eye contact, so you nod along with his little explanations as he orchestrates a superior hold.
“Okay,” he says, stepping back. “Try that!”
As he leaves, you feel a sense of deprivation, wishing that had lasted longer. Finding himself in front of the mound once again, Scout prepares another toss, and you huff out a breath and bend your knees. As Scout tosses it with a scooping motion, you wait a second before twisting into the swing. You feel the bat vibrate upon contact, seeing the ball bounce back to Scout like a reflection, only it goes further. Scout flinches upon the successful hit, and jumps up with excitement, chasing the ball like an eager Golden Retriever. You let out a cheer as the bat settles on your other shoulder, seeing Scout scramble in the red dust to pick it up.
“We have others!” you exclaim with a laugh of pride.
“I know!” he huffs, rolling on the ground, ball in hand. “It’s your first hit though!”
You pause. “Why does, wait, why does that mean you have–”
“Because!” at this point, he is jogging back to the mound, “it’s a special ball!”
This brings a warmth to your face, somehow welcome in the sweltering heat. Seemingly in joint realization of the weather, Scout absentmindedly removes his shirt, carelessly tossing it on the mound behind him. You, of course, in continuation of your previous instinct, get that little rush. This is the first time you’re seeing him without the shirt, and that realization compounds the surrealism. His shirt had been concealing broad shoulders and a torso that got a little smaller at the waist.
Unexpectedly, Scout winks, and though you witness it, you instantly question whether you did.
Did, did he just wink, you scramble to decipher, or was that him blinking? You begin to worry that perhaps you were observing too long, and in the punishing heat, cannot tell whether you’ve been concealing your exploratory thoughts well enough. With feet planted in position once again, you bend your knees and lift the bat, gesturing for him to throw. He obeys and tosses it, and you hit it again, though it slams to the dirt, as though you were hitting a nail with a hammer.
“How about we switch,” you suggest, upon this failure. Scout appears to be caught off guard but welcomes the swap gleefully. As you cross paths, he leans down and says in the exchange, “get ready to run,” his shoulder brushing your arm. This sends another one of those cursed shivers through your body, only serving to making you more sluggish and overheated. Without much thought Scout assumes the position, his muscles now apparent as they lift and contract to support the bat. At this point, you admire the form as though it were a sculpture, and blink longer than normal to force yourself out of it. With this juvenile (but natural) desire to impress, you anxiously toss the ball and pray it actually reaches him.
The toss is successful but the hit even more so, as Scout whips the bat outward. A crisp crack erupts and echoes in the diamond, the ball finding speed far beyond that of your throw. It soars into the outfield and into the grass, and you simply watch it in awe in the way children admire planes flying overhead. You don’t even attempt to run.
“Wow! That was fucking amazing!” you exclaim, an inescapable smile taking over. This compliment prompts a mutual smile, and he tosses the bat in his hand like a baton.
“I told ya, I know what I’m doing!” Scout maintains the eye contact, and through the youthful excitement you see his eyelids begin to fall, very subtly. He pauses. “You gonna get that?”
Although you know there are endless baseballs in the bucket, you are enticed by the idea of doing something, anything else, to get you out of your questionable trance. You spin around and begin the jog to the outfield, eyeing the baseball beaming in the grass like a pearl. The sound of footsteps, fast footsteps, breaks through the sound of your own breathing as you approach it. Scout whips past you, scooping it up with his lengthy arm, and something in you understands that it is a game. Quite subconsciously, you feign sadness, hurrying to where he stands.
He stands upright with the ball above his head. Expecting him to back up, you throw yourself forward, and upward, and in his stillness, you wind up colliding your torso into his. Alarmed at such direct contact, in fear of scaring off who might just actually be oblivious, you remove yourself and jump up. Your acknowledgment of his height, in contrast to yours, finds pure fruition in your inability to reach the ball; against your wishes of prudency, this anatomical detail makes you giddy, and whether a result of that or just in general, a giggle escapes you. He chuckles back, and the hopping continues.
“Come on,” you grumble lightly, finding some confidence. You grip his shoulder as support for a higher jump, knocking the ball out of his hand. It tumbles to the grass and you, too, find yourself scrambling to claim it.
“Nope,” you hear Scout say nonchalantly, as arms wrap around your torso, stopping you in place. Within one breath, you are lightly tossed to the side, and through confusion you witness the blur of green without defiance. Seated dumbly on the ground you reach out for his ankle, pulling him down, consequently crawling on him, seating yourself on his back. Scout baffles you with his hidden strength as he lifts you upward, as though doing a push-up, and you tumble off. Within a flash, you’re on your back, and Scout straddles your waist.
Breath heavy, you stare up at him, excitement and embarrassment flooding to your cheeks. The ball is to the side, and as you wonder whether or not to grab it, you’re transfixed by the shock of the moment. It now becomes a social game, and you are at a stalemate. You’re relieved by the fact that he straddled you, and not the other way around, eliminating the burden of choice. Except, how should one react?
You decide to let out a chuckle, seeing him mirror it with his own. Your heart rate skyrockets as you take in the sight, the entire sight, of this newly discovered crush and what appears to be a growing mutual interest. His eyelids shift again, the upper ones hanging with that subtle laziness, and you think you see him flick his gaze to your lips for a moment. Like a jolt of electricity, that prompts another pulse of exhilaration.
The eye contact holds for a few seconds more, and Scout lets out a huff and scoops up the ball. “Got it,” he exclaims, rolling off of you, getting up. As you sit up, grass clinging to your clothes and hair, he starts to jog backwards. “Let’s go again!”