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Message-ID: <48625asstr$1090962605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Gina Marie Wylie" <gmwylie98260@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Spitfire and Messerschmitt Ch 6 {Gina Marie Wylie} (Teen, mf, inc, cons)
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Date: Tue, 27 Jul 2004 17:10:05 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Davey Ch 6.doc" begin>

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	The following is fiction of an adult nature.  If I believed in
setting age limits for things, you'd have to be eighteen to read
this and I'd never have bothered to write it.  IMHO, if you can
read and enjoy, then you're old enough to read and enjoy.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	All persons here depicted are figments of my imagination and any
resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly a blunder on my
part.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	Official stuff:  Story codes: teen, mf, inc, con.

	If stories like this offend you, you will offend ME if you read
further and complain. Copyright 2004, by Gina Marie Wylie.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	I can be reached at gmwylie98260@hothothotmail.com, at least if
you remove some of the hots.  All comments and reasoned
discussion welcome.

Below is my site on ASSTR:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gina_Marie_Wylie/www/

My stories are also posted on StoriesOnline:
http://Storiesonline.net/

And on Electronic Wilderness Publishing:
http://www.ewpub.org/

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Chapter 6 :: More Practice

Wanda woke me up, her hand rubbing across the front of my boxers.
 I looked up in surprise, and she laughed.  "Got your
attention?"

"Yeah," I said, not sure what to do.

She let go, leaned over and kissed me on the forehead.  "You
think I'm cheating."

"I'm thinking I don't want to say anything because I don't know
what's going on."

"Pammie and me, that's a lot like you and me.  It's physical,
getting it on.  Making our day, you know?"

That I could understand, so I nodded.

"Emily is sweet, she needs someone close to her, just now.  So we
cuddle; I swear to you Davey, it's just cuddling.  Kissing, to be
sure, hot kissing, but nothing more.  Not even touching.  She's
not able to deal with anything else, not yet.  She's like I was,
back then.  One minute determined to get on with her life, the
next terrified, wanting to run and hide; wanting to lash out in
any direction, to try to get something of her own back.

"That's why you and Dad got banished, Davey, when it was me.  It
was pretty bad for a while.  You'd have never understood.  I hurt
Mom, I hurt Pammie, and I hurt myself.  They knew what was going
on, they kept a firm grip on me, even when I was at the low
points.  I think you can deal with it, Davey, when Emily hits a
low point.  You have to.  Just remember she's sick, confused and
scared.  She's been rejected by her mother; her father left a
couple of years ago.  That's one hurting girl, Davey."

I waved at my crotch, where I was still erect.  "And how is this
going to help?"

She laughed, "Hey, like I said, there's a time and a place for
everything!  Sometimes I like having a guy between my legs.  It's
altogether different than with Pammie.  Pammie says she's not
going to go with guys again, but that's her choice, Davey, not
mine.  I like a good time with just about anyone; I don't mind
admitting it.  I've told her, I've told Emily, that I'm not going
to give up on guys.  I think Emily actually understands best; she
still can't believe that I think she's cute."

"She is," I said.

Wanda grinned; I took her meaning.

"Little brother, you need to get up and get going.  You need to
work out," she gestured at my erection.  "You can probably take
care of that quicker than I can, anyway."

She bounced off my bed and vanished.  I contemplated my
midsection, decided that I'd rather not just now.  A while later
I was doing laps, when Emily came out.  "Can I swim?" she asked.

"Sure," I told her, breaking my rhythm.  "You don't need to ask.
First thing in the morning, I clean the pool, put the chemicals
in and get my shower.  By the time I'm ready to swim, it's ready.
 I try to get it done early."  I decided not to mention that
while everyone had swum for a year or two after the pool had been
put in, I was the only regular user of the pool now.  Wanda spent
most of her time lying in the sun, next to the pool, not getting
wet.

Emily dove in and swam a length, matching me.  Then she couldn't
keep up, and stopped after a lap, while I kept on.  She ended up
sitting on the steps, watching me.  I watched her on the return
trips, lamely wishing I could see her undressed.  About the third
time I thought that, I remembered her comment about her
forthcoming expulsion from school when she started to show. 
Wanda was right, we had to be supportive and loving to the extent
Emily would let us.  Less for me, more for Wanda.

I finally pulled up and moved to sit next to her.  "That was a
lot of laps," Emily told me.

"I kind of meditate," I told her.  "It's nice; I like to do it. 
I don't feel tired afterward or anything.  Just mellow and
relaxed."  That was true, too.

"I could hardly keep up with you for just one length.  I'm glad
you didn't let me slow you down."

"My dad told me the other day that he's never slacked off on me,
when we've gone at it.  Which has been a lot.  I never backed
down from him, either.  He's a lot tougher opponent than a
swimming pool.  I just like to do my best."

Wanda pulled open the sliding glass door on the living room side.
 "Coach Wells was just on the phone, Davey.  He wants you to come
to practice a half hour early if you can."

I tapped my wrist and she told me it was a little after nine.  I
pulled myself out of the water and showered.  Wanda and Emily
drove me to the high school.

I found the PE office from Wanda's directions and Coach Wells
waved me in.  "Good, you could come early, Harper.  You have the
papers?"

I nodded and handed them to him; he spent a minute going through
them, then he dropped them in a tray on his desk.  "Have you
given any thought to what position you want to play?  Today are
the formal try-outs, I need to know."

I laughed nervously.  I saw the question on his face.   "I'm
sorry, sir.  I've been so wrapped up in the novelty of the idea
of playing ball that I never even thought about what position to
play.  Wanda was going on about my batting; Monday I got some
good cuts at the ball..."

"Damn good cuts!" he said, interrupting.

"I never gave it a thought."

"Think fast, you need to make up your mind.  What did you play in
little league?"

I shook my head, "I never played there.  I played sometimes in
elementary school when everyone else did.  Usually I pitched.  My
hitting wasn't very good back then; I wasn't one of the ones
picked first to play."

"I don't recall you bobbling any of the ground balls Tuesday. 
There is a DH rule, but the older players kind of look on that as
their turf.  You'd have to be hitting really well to get that
spot.  As a pitcher, you'd be batting every four or five games
and the DH would have to sit it out.  I don't think that's much
of a plan.  I need some punch to the offense."

"Outfield, then."  I told him.  "I think I should try that."

He nodded, and made a note on a pad.  "Not that you won't get a
shot at pitching," he told me.  "Our power is lacking, all the
big guys go out for football, but good pitching is good pitching.
 You can't have too much of it."

Jack's face from last night flashed through my brain.  I made a
face.  The Coach went on, "I'm curious to see what you'll do,
hitting against real pitching."

I was curious as well.

For two hours we warmed up and then did field exercises.  Then
some of the coaches took guys off for individual tryouts.  First,
it was for fielding.  I stood in the outfield and they hit pop
flies and hard ground balls at me.  I hustled, made all the
catches but one, which was just a smidge too far to reach.  I
stopped a couple of steps before I had to, picked up the ball on
the first bounce and fired it back to the coaches.

A little later, pitching time.  I didn't realize it, but I was
the first person to try out for pitching.  They had a batter and
a catcher, plus a couple coaches, including Coach Wells, who
stood at my elbow.

I threw a few warm up pitches and then the guy catching flashed a
sign.  I turned to Coach Wells.  "I don't know the signs."

He chuckled.  "You got past the first test, Harper!  They change
every game.  We only have four sets, but we change them.  You
always need to ask what they are before you go in."

He cupped his hand to his mouth and yelled at the catcher,
"Simple signs!"

He turned to me.  "He'll sign by pointing with his finger which
side of the plate he wants the ball over.  He'll twitch his
finger once for a fastball, twice for a curve and three times for
a change-up.  For right now, put them shoulder high.  In any
case, aim for the catcher's mitt."

The batter was right handed, and the catcher signed for inside
and fast.  I was a little disappointed, the ball was inside and
fast, but it was knee high.  Nonetheless the guy batting, a
senior, I thought, took a big cut at it and fanned a lot of air
three feet above the ball.

I was signed the same pitch, and this time I got it waist high. 
Again a huge cut, but again at the shoulder.  I couldn't help it;
I laughed softly and muttered to myself, "He has a touching faith
in my ability to get it shoulder high."

Coach Wells must have heard me as he shouted in to the plate,
"Alexander!  You're supposed to adjust to the fucking pitching!"

The batter looked at me, rather a glare, I thought.  He swung the
bat and left it pointing at me.  I'd seen that often enough in
the big leagues.  A challenge.

The catcher signed for a change up, down the middle.  I shook my
head.  Coach Wells immediately spoke up, "You don't get to shake
off the call, Harper!  Just do it like you're told!"

I contemplated things, as I started to wind up.  I'm challenged,
the catcher, a teammate of the guy batting, calls for a slow
pitch over the middle of the plate.  If I did that, he'd crush
it.

I fired the same pitch I'd done the first time.  Obligingly, it
seemed to follow the first groove, low and inside.  And, like the
first pitch, the batter took a mighty cut at it, three feet above
the ball.  Except he didn't start the swing until almost the same
instant the ball hit the catcher in his chest protector.

"Oops!" I said apologetically.  "Sorry, Coach.  That one got away
from me."

"Follow the signs; I've got no use at all for a pitcher who can't
or won't follow the calls."  Coach Wells sounded, though, like it
was a routine comment.

So, sure enough, it was another change-up over the center of the
plate.  I worked it out in my head, I did everything I could
think, and then threw a pitch that had a mild curve, but was slow
and chest-high, down the middle of the plate.  This time, the
batter was wrapped full around, fully extended at the time the
ball thwapped into the catcher's mitt.

The coach called in to the plate, "Alexander, you're out. 
Bradshaw's next!"

I spoke out of the corner of my mouth, "Would that be Chuck
Bradshaw?"

"It would, the last of four brothers.  All fine ball players. 
The best second baseman I've ever coached."

The call was for a fastball, down the middle.  I put it belt
high, and he foul-tipped it against the backstop.  The next sign
was for same thing.  I put everything I could into my pitch; his
bat ticked the ball, and the ball sailed about six inches over
the catcher's head.  A good thing, because it would have rung the
catcher's chimes if it had connected.

I didn't know who was catching but he knew perfectly well what
had just happened.  I got my first call for a curve.  I'd had it
explained to me, and I tried it.  The pitch went about three feet
behind the batter.  I got another call for a curve ball and I
tried much harder.  Chuck sprawled back out of the way, because
that one would have hit him.

"I don't know how to throw a curve ball," I told Coach Wells.  "I
don't want to hit anyone."

"We can fix that, push comes to shove," he told me.

The next pitch called was a high fastball.  I sighed and served
it up, putting everything I had into it.  He really, really
crushed it.  He was going for the fence; you could see it in
every sinew of his body.  Instead, a fraction of a second later I
just managed to get my hand up and caught the ball bare-handed an
inch in front of my chest.

Good God!  Did that smart!

"Good play on the comebacker, Harper!" Coach Wells said.  It took
me a second to realize, his voice wasn't as steady and as calm as
it had been a second before.  "Are you okay?"

My palm stung like the dickens; it was as red as a beet.  My
whole arm felt like it had been dipped in hot oil.  I tried to
shake it off, but after a second, my arm was buzzing.

"Take a break, Harper!"  He pointed to the bench, and I hustled
over there.  Well, a shambling hustle, cradling my arm.

Chuck Bradshaw came over to see how I was.  "Sorry, guy!  I was
going for the long ball.  Just hit it low instead of centered. 
You've got some good stuff.  What's your name?"

"Davey Harper," I told him, "Wanda's little brother."

I sketched breasts.  "Little brother, big sister!"  I put a lot
of emphasis on the word "big."

He guffawed.  "Oh, that's so cool!  Yeah, that's a fine woman! 
Fine!  Wasted on the Ripper!"

"You see Jack, since he got back?"  I asked.

He shook his head.  "I went to a UT camp," he told me, as if that
explained something.

"He was on something at camp.  Steroids, or something.  He looks
like a Neanderthal.  Wanda was supposed to go out with him last
night -- and said no thanks!"

I saw the interest in his eyes.  I realized that Pammie was going
to have a problem with Chuck.  I'd told the truth, but not the
truth Pammie had wanted.  "Are you Chuck Bradshaw?"

He allowed that he was.  "I heard Wanda and her friend Pammie
talking about you a while ago.  Pammie thinks you have a cute
tush."

I saw that caught his interest too.  "You are a font of good
news, Harper!"  He waved at the field.  "What do you want to
play?"

I figured, what the hell, why not tell the truth?  "DH."

He smiled and said sarcastically, "Good luck, freshman!"  There
was a lot of emphasis on that last word.

One of the coaches came over.  "Harper, you up to taking a few
cuts?"

I rubbed my arm.  It was better, so I nodded.

Chuck on the other hand was staring at the coach, then at me.

I hustled up, found a wooden bat of all things on the rack; I
grabbed it.

I had no idea who was on the mound.  All I knew was that he
reared back and fired a fastball, chest high, right down the
middle.  Three seconds later, the ball starting arcing down, and
bounced into the left field stands.

I swear to God, the next pitch was a carbon copy of the first.  I
think if someone had been in that seat, they could have just
reached out and gathered in both balls.

I saw Coach Wells make a furtive motion.  I'll be damned!  He was
the one calling the pitches!  When I thought about it that made
sense.  It made so much sense that when the change-up bounced in
front of the plate, I was still thinking about it.

I hit a couple of foul tips, a few longer foul balls, but most of
the balls I hit were into the outfield.  Another pitcher and I
did the same thing to him.  Chuck Bradshaw came up and tapped me
on the shoulder.  "My turn," I turned to go, and I heard him say,
"You have my vote for DH!  God damn, do we need some hitting!"

"You're not too shabby, yourself," I told him as I headed back to
the bench.

I sat back down.  Towards the end of the practice, a solid four
and a half hours long, I got another chance to throw a few
pitches.  The first couple were like earlier, but after that I
could feel my arm muscles fade, which resulted in the batters
peppering hits all over the place.

"Monday," Coach Wells said later when he'd gathered everyone
together, "is Labor Day.  Party.  Have a good time.  Tuesday is
the first day of school.  It will be a half day.  I want to see
you all, individually, in the afternoon.  We'll hand out a
schedule Tuesday morning in PE; show up at the time indicated. 
There will also be a regular practice at four in the afternoon."

He waved around the room; this time there were about thirty
people standing around, but that included half dozen coaches. 
"We need to get some more depth, if you know anyone who wants to
play, encourage them to come out.  Usually we like to have a JV
as well as a varsity team.  Not this year, there are just not
enough people coming out.  Thanks, men, for a good practice!"

I called home and it was Dad who came to get me.  "How did it
go?"

"Okay," I told him, "I was pitching, though, and I stopped a
really hard come-backer.  It liked to have taken my arm off. 
Stung for ten minutes or so."

"I have some liniment; use it.  Baseball isn't the body killer
that football is, but it doesn't mean you don't have to be
careful.  Other than that?"

"I hit well, I pitched well, although I didn't always follow the
signs.  I realized that the Coach was calling the pitches; it
helped when I was hitting.  I figured out the signs and knew what
to expect.  When I was fielding I did okay, I didn't drop
anything."

"There are things that are cheats; there are things that just use
your smarts.  Be crafty, Davey, not shifty."

"They were trying to set me up at first," I told him.  "Having me
pitch slow pitches over the middle of the plate.  I did that a
couple of times, but another couple of times I did something
else.  I told the coach, 'oops!'"

He chuckled.  "That's the way!  You have to play for the team,
Davey!  But that doesn't give them the right to spit in your face
or walk all over you.  Don't take shit from them, Davey.  When I
started at UT, they painted the freshman on the team with shit. 
They painted me, but a few of them had a lot of shit on them as
well, and I tagged a couple pretty good.  When I was a senior, we
told the new guys it was shit, but it was just chocolate with
crushed peanuts in it.  Then we had some cheerleaders in to help
them get clean!"

The memory of Wanda going down on me, giving me a hand job
flashed in my mind, and in spite of the ambience, I was hard. 
Dad laughed as he parked in front of the house.  "Yeah, it still
gets me a little excited thinking about it too!"

I blushed, but he simply got out and went inside.

I took a shower.  Dad left a jar of liniment on my dresser while
I was inside.  I decided that that could come later.  I went out
and dove into the pool, then just floated, thinking and
relaxing.

I felt someone enter the pool.  After a second, I rolled over and
saw Pammie standing a few feet away, waist deep, wearing a bikini
that wasn't as extreme as the ones in the movie, but pretty
extreme for West Texas.

"I thought you were going to ignore me.  Did you see Chuck?"

I swam over and sat on the steps.  I felt like I was a million
years old.  Pammie walked over and stood in front of me. 
"Well?"

"I'm not the planner and schemer you or Wanda are," I told her. 
"And when it comes to execution..."  I shook my head.

"You did see him, but you messed it up."

"Pretty much," I told her.  "Somehow in the first few seconds we
were talking about Wanda's breasts.  Next thing I knew, I told
him that Wanda and Jack had broken up."

Pammie grimaced.  "I did," I added, "put in a word for you.  I
told him you thought he had a cute tush."

"You did that?" she asked.

"Yeah, I swear to God, Pammie, I was going to talk about you, I
wasn't thinking about Wanda at all."

She reached out and patted my arm.  "Don't take this wrong,
Davey, but you guys think with their dicks.  Odds are he was
talking to you because he knew you were Wanda's brother and
wanted the inside track.  You didn't put Wanda in his mind, he
was already thinking about her.  That you still mentioned me...
that was nice."

"Where's Karen?" I asked, curious... and anxious to change the
subject.

She smiled.  "That time of the month, Davey.  Nuff said, okay?"

I nodded.

"It hits us differently.  Some are grouchy, some are horny; some
are all of the above.  For me, the least little thing sets me to
crying.  I absolutely, positively hate it!  I like to think of
guys being slaves to their hormones; that women are beyond that.
Then someone will mention a lost puppy, a stray kitten -- and I
start bawling.  I don't watch TV or go to the movies that time of
the month!  I make a fool of myself!"

She stopped, and then looked at me.  "Why did I just tell you
that?"

"I think you're feeling sorry for me," I answered.

"Ha!" she barked, "That'll be the day!  Tuesday at lunch, Davey,
you will meet Mercedes d'Silva.  The fighting spitfire of the
Spanish race!"

"This is a person I want to meet?"

"You bet!  If I thought for a second I had a chance..." she
stopped, and crossed her hands over her mouth.

I laughed, "I won't tell, I promise.  A spitfire, eh?"

"Oh yeah!  We didn't know about it until later, but Brian laid
hands on her, a couple of weeks before he and Wanda..." I nodded.
 "He might have laid hands on her, but she laid her fists, feet,
and several heavy objects on him.  She's your age, but went to
the other middle school."

San Angelo had several middle schools.  James Longstreet, the one
we'd attended, was the perennial rival of Booker T. Washington
Middle School.  Oh, did I mention Longstreet was in the upper
middle class part of town and Washington was in the poor part of
town?  Didn't really matter; we all were students at San Angelo
High School now.

"And you think she and I will hit it off?"

"I tell you true, Davey.  The other night I had a dream about you
and Mercedes.  The two of you were all over each other.  There
was something else going on, something I didn't understand, but
it was intense."  She grinned at me.  "You know what Wanda calls
me, when I have dreams?"

I shook my head, clueless.

"Cassandra."

I blinked.  Sure, I'd long thought my sister and her circle of
friends were vapid and brainless.  I kept getting my nose rubbed
in the fact that she and I simply had different interests, and
that it was stupid to judge someone badly because of that. 
Pammie, whom I had thought to be the lightest weight piece of
fluff of them all, had, demonstrably, been there for Wanda. 
Moreover, from what had been said, that seriously predated sex. 
Cassandra and dreams had to mean the Iliad, and that meant she
had at least some knowledge of the book.

"Cat got your tongue?" Pammie laughed.

"Cassandra's got it," I told her.  "I have dreams, too, Pammie. 
Lately," I shrugged, "I don't know.  The dreams have been pretty
intense."

"Sex?" she asked.

It was, I thought an honest question.  I realized I'd been
thinking that rather often about Pammie the last couple of days.

"Not really.  I have X-rated dreams, but these aren't like that.
I don't know how to describe it.  They feel... different."

She nodded.  "Mine too."

She leaned back, lying down in the water, floating with her head
up, and her breasts sticking out of the water.  I my eyes were
drawn to her breasts.  Not the fullness of Wanda, but still more
than a handful.  My eyes wandered to the golden down that covered
her stomach, and vanished under the top of her bikini bottom.

I swallowed, and lifted my eyes away from her, looking instead up
at the sky.  Pammie gave a low laugh, "I keep thinking girls do
it so much nicer than guys.  Yet here I sit, wishing..."

I looked at her; I saw that she was now crouching on the pool
bottom, just her head out of the water.  I smiled wanly; I was
sure she was pulling my leg.

She had a gleam in her eye that reminded me of Wanda the other
day.  She could read my mind too, it seemed.  "Wanda said the
other day, she kissed you and after that it was all over.  Fish
in a barrel."

Well, the second time, anyway.  The first time would have gone
that way, if we hadn't been interrupted.

Pammie stood up.  "Come show me how to test the pool water,
Davey."

She headed for the steps.  I considered the odds of her actually
doing what she seemed to be saying.  With my parents a few feet
away?  Wanda and Emily?  I had no idea where Karen was; some
place other than the pool.  Pammie reached out, offering her hand
to help me up, I decided that I was curious, so I took it and
sure enough, she hauled me up.

She stepped, dripping, out of the pool, took two steps and
grabbed her towel.  "Show me," she said, nodding towards the pump
room.

We had a two-car garage that Mom used and Dad just about never
did.  Off to the side, when the pool was put in, Dad had them add
a room for a pump and a water heater.  We never did get a water
heater, and Dad had put an old picnic table in there, with one on
the benches sawn off so it would fit against the wall.

There was a shelf above the table, where the chemicals and stuff
were kept; like the rest of our house, it was pin neat, because
my mom didn't like clutter and my dad didn't like dirt.

Pammie just dropped her towel on the tabletop, and spread it out.
 "Close the door and come here," she commanded.

I did, still unsure if this was a trick.

Pammie reached behind her back, undid the top of her bikini, and
dropped it on the bench, then slid her bottoms off as well. 
"Well?" she said.

I stood, mesmerized.  She gestured at my own swimsuit, and I
realized she was talking about me getting naked too.  Then she
and I would lay down the table and get it on.  I'd harbored
erotic dreams about Wanda since I was old enough to have those
kinds of dreams.  I'd never, ever, not even once, dreamed about
Pammie.

She stepped close, reached out and ran her hand, palm down over
the front of my suit.  "You're not even hard."

Well, that changed with her hand there, rapidly.  She stepped
back, looking at me curiously.  "You're interested, but not that
interested," her voice was a whisper.  "Are you gay, too,
Davey?"

I shook my head.  "Pammie, I think your breasts are nicer than
Wanda's.  Down there," I waved at her pussy, "you are way nicer
than Wanda.  But I just don't..."

"Do I scare you?" as she said that, she bent down and picked up
her suit.

"Maybe a little.  This is just..."  I couldn't explain it.  It
was not really that different from what Wanda had done, hardly at
all, in fact.  Wanda had gotten my interest and held it, start to
finish.

Pammie stepped close and kissed my cheek.  "Turn around, Davey."

I did.  Part of my mind said it was stupid; I watched her
undress.  I'd seen her undressed the other day.

I felt her hand on my shoulder, but there was nothing in it that
said I should turn around.  "Davey, the reason this happened is
because the urge is on me, and here you are.  It was a really
stupid thing to do, Davey."

Now I felt pressure from her fingers, and I turned around.  She
was back in her bikini.  "I tell you a true thing, Davey; a lot
of guys don't really understand or believe it, but it's true. 
You guys are horny all the time.  You think girls aren't, that we
have headaches, and all of that, a million excuses to put you
off.

"Davey, we have the same hormones you do.  Risks; oh gosh and
golly, are the risks different for us!  But, if you're smart, and
ready, and want it to happen, you can prepare for things, reduce
the risk to about the chance you'll get run over in a crosswalk.
Never forget, Davey, that girls have the same hormones you do."

I nodded; I'd realized Wanda actually had more than I did, and
now I was sure Pammie had more than I did.  The question was, was
I abnormally disinterested in girls?

She turned and left, and it was a few minutes before I went out.
There was no Pammie by the pool, so I went into the family room,
into my room and stripped out of my suit and took what was
intended to be a quick shower.  I grabbed hold of my erection,
imagined Pammie nude, and came in about thirty seconds.

Pretty bizarre, I thought.

I lay back down on my bed, reading more about dreadnaughts, even
if I'd have named the book something else; the focus seemed to be
in large part on Queen Victoria, Prince Albert and her children
and in-laws.  Gradually that changed as everyone around Victoria
started to die off.

My dad stuck his head in the door.  "Let's play some catch."

I sat up and looked at him.  How many times over the years had I
waved a book at him when he'd wanted to play catch, shoot some
hoops or toss a football around?  In effect, telling him the book
was more important?

"Poetic justice, I guess," I said, standing up.  I grabbed the
glove.

He laughed, "No, but about damned time you said yes."

We went outside in the front, and he tossed me a quick shot, like
what I'd gotten all morning coming back from the catcher.  He
waved his hand, "I don't have a glove, and you need to take care
of the arm, go easy."  So, I tossed it easily back to him, and he
came right back.

After about ten throws, even though they weren't very hard, my
arm started to flag again.  As soon as I rubbed my muscles, he
stopped it.

"Here," I said sourly, "I've been talking about what wusses they
are, and after a dozen throws, my muscles are about worn out."

"Different muscles than you usually use, Davey.  Not to worry. 
It may take a couple of months, but long before March you'll be
in much better shape."

"March?"  I asked, like a dope.

"March 14th, the first real game."

I looked him right in the eye.  "There will be intermural games
before that.  To me, they'll be as real as the rest."

He shook his head.  "Davey, you know I'm a big fan of hustle and
giving it your all.  But not in practice games.  Do good, give it
a 100%, even.  But don't go all out."

He saw he wasn't scoring any points, so he changed tack.  "Talk
to your coach, think about it yourself.  Your hardest taskmaster
should be yourself, but don't go overdoing it."

He waved at the house.  "Now, time to get started on dinner."

The next thing I knew, I had a potato in one hand and a potato
peeler in the other.  It was not cool, I thought.  Not cool at
all.  Still, I peeled half a dozen potatoes and then washed
them.

Then Dad showed me how to dice them and then the next thing was
putting them in a pot of cold water.

Step by step, we went through getting dinner ready.  I'd seen Dad
barbeque before, but it never occurred to me that he knew more
about cooking than that.

Dinner was nice, even if I did little more than make mashed
potatoes.  Mom, Wanda and Emily thanked us politely for making
it, then Mom thanked us again for not leaving the kitchen in a
mess.  Dad stuck his tongue out at her, and I could tell that it
wasn't the first time they'd had the discussion.  Wanda had
laughed as well, which meant she knew what they were talking
about.

How much had I missed over the years, wrapped up in my little
self-righteous shell?

<1st attachment end>


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