index


Message-ID: <49430asstr$1097640604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Gina Marie Wylie" <gmwylie98260@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Spitfire and Messerschmitt Ch 17 {Gina Marie Wylie} (Teen , mf, Cons)
Lines: 903
Date: Wed, 13 Oct 2004 00:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d




_________________________________________________________________
Is your PC infected? Get a FREE online computer virus scan from McAfee(R) 
Security. http://clinic.mcafee.com/clinic/ibuy/campaign.asp?cid=3963

<1st attachment, "Davey Ch 17.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, cons.

	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/

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

Spitfire and Messerschmitt

Chapter 17 :: Four Turns to Five and Then Six

We arrived a minute or so early for English and Mercedes nodded
to Shellie who was standing next to the door.  "Catch up with you
in a minute," Mercedes said to me.

I smiled at Shellie and went inside and sat down.  Again, there
was a brief period at the start of the class where Mr. Murello
had to deal with two new students.  It wasn't until he was nearly
done that Mercedes and Shellie came in.  And came in for the evil
eye from the teacher, even if he didn't say anything to them.

Then it was time for algebra.  Ms. Churchwood took almost no time
to do the paperwork for Emily and Karen, but she did take the
time to say a few words about what they had missed.

"Once upon a time," she told them, "I was a wannabe gymnast.  I
fell off the balance beam the day before school started and broke
my hand, wrist, and arm in two places.  I spent a week in the
hospital and then another week at home.  I walked into a
classroom like this, taught by the teacher I admired the most.  I
stayed two weeks behind the entire semester.  The only thing that
saved my grade for the year was that we had two weeks off for
Christmas break and I did nothing but study.

"In those days I thought I was self-sufficient.  It never
occurred to me that I could have talked to others, sought their
help.  If I'd done that, I'm sure I could have made up the time.
Here in my class, if you go it alone you only have a week to make
up."  She grinned sardonically.  "But you might find a week of
Churchwood time a lot more than you expect."

She waved to the rest of us.  "On the first day I told them that
they needed study partners; you don't just need study partners,
it's the stuff of life itself in this class."

Emily stood there and nodded. "I live with Davey Parker; he said
he'll help."

There was a chorus of snickers in the room which I could see that
Emily didn't understand.   Probably a good thing, I thought.  She
can ruminate on it for a while and maybe not be so embarrassed
later.

Then, it was Churchwood mathematics: differential equations and
the graphs thereof.  It was true, I thought, looking at the
bewildered expressions on Emily and Karen's faces.  Starting a
week late and already Ms. Churchwood might as well have been
talking Greek.

I looked around the class, something I'd never done, being intent
before on note taking.  Mercedes and Shellie were paying
attention, maybe a half dozen others.  A couple  others looked
frustrated, but were furiously writing notes.  Maybe half the
class wasn't listening, either zoned out or doing something
else.

I swallowed.  Half the class was going to bust.  I looked at Ms.
Churchwood's back, as she wrote an equation on the board and then
graphed it.  She'd made a white board that had permanent graph
lines on it and she used that to graph on.   She frequently
turned to the class and would call on someone for an answer...
and she never called on the half that didn't know.

She'd written them off.  Just like she erased graphs or
equations, she'd applied the eraser and swiped them out of
existence.  They weren't disturbing the class, but there was no
doubt in my mind that they were being ignored.

How could a teacher do that?  Write off half the class?  I
watched her eyes when she looked at us.  She made eye contact
with those of us looking at her and didn't look at the kids who
weren't.

I bent down and hastily sketched in the curve she'd been talking
about.  I'd seen something in her eye there, just for a second. 
She had looked at the ones who weren't paying attention.

Two thirds of the way through the class, she finished her latest
equation and stood looking at us.

"Mathematics, when you love it, is a beautiful temple; one I find
I can stare at for hours and hours; nothing ever seems to look
the same way twice.

"Today is Tuesday.  Thursday we will have a quiz on the material
we covered on the first two days, only.  Tomorrow I'll review the
material.

"If you don't pass the quiz, I suggest you give serious thought
to transferring out; you have until a week from today to do so. 
I don't believe in grade inflation or social promotion.  Perfect
attendance will not keep you from flunking.  And in the honors
program, anything less than a C is a flunk.  I might be a
mathematician, but I don't grade on the curve, I have an absolute
scale.

"I hate Brussels sprouts with a passion.  My roommate would have
them three times a week if I let her.  She's not nearly as fond
of rutabaga as I am.  I don't expect her to have the same tastes
as I do, and I don't expect you to have the same tastes.  For
heaven's sakes, if it's not your cup of tea, don't try to pretend
it is!  Take regular algebra and save yourself a lot of
headaches!"

Then she drew a right triangle on the board, and spent the last
five minutes defining sines, cosines and tangents.  We broke up
then, to go our separate ways; the only one in the next class
with me was Shellie.

We walked together, but we didn't talk; I was still lost in
thought about a teacher leaving half the class behind.

Mrs. Saunders, the woman who taught Office, had a droning nasal
voice that set my nerves on edge every time I heard it.  She
would pass out an exercise at the start of the class and then
recap what was in the book on how to do it, then would leave a
little time at the end of the class to work on the exercise.

Since we each sat in front of a computer, I would start typing
almost at once.  Again, I looked around the class.  About
two-thirds were beavering away at their keyboards; a couple were
listening to Mrs. Saunders.  There were a couple of kids I was
sure that were blowing the whole thing off.

I looked at Mrs. Saunders again.  She was just like Ms.
Churchwood in that way, only not so many kids weren't with the
program.  Yet she showed little or no interest in the kids who
showed little or no interest in the class.

Someone in the back said something aloud, obviously talking to
the person next to him.  Mrs. Saunders did as she'd done several
times before, told the person to stop talking.

That was it, I thought.  It was simple, really.  The teachers
wanted to teach; if you weren't disruptive, you could stay.  I
nodded to myself; if all I had to do was take the tests for this
class, I was sure I'd pass them fine; I'd been using Word since
5th grade to do my papers, and Excel since 6th to do my math on.
My father had blown a cork when he found out, thinking I was
using the spreadsheet to cheat.  I wasn't.  I worked out the
problems, and then used Excel to check myself.  I didn't make
many mistakes and most of those I did make were dumb ones.

If you wanted to learn, that was what she was there for.  She
wasn't going out of her way to help, though.  And you'd better
not disrupt the class, either.

I remembered what Mercedes' father had said about how he faced
the fact that while he thought he was a good teacher, too many
kids weren't getting educated.  Was it because he taught to those
who wanted to learn, and ignored the rest unless they were a
disruption?  Was it even a conscious thing, but something you
fell into because it was easier?  I figured if I was looking to
commit suicide, I could ask him.

After class Shellie came joined me again.  "Mercedes said I could
sit with you at lunch."  She stopped and blushed.  "With you
all."

"Sure," I said with a laugh.  "And you can sit next to me if you
want."

She looked at me.  "You and Mercedes are going together."

"The alternative. then, would be to sit next to Mercedes."

"You wouldn't mind?"

I remembered what Mercedes had said about Shellie; in fact, it
had been running through my mind a lot.

"No, of course not."

I was still musing about Shellie's question when we got to the
table.  Everyone was already there and I sat down next to
Mercedes, who was sitting in the middle of the three-person
bench.  Shellie sat down next to her and the two of them traded
looks.

I couldn't see much of Mercedes' expression, she was facing
mostly away, but I could see Shellie's eyes when she looked at
Mercedes.  I wasn't sure if what I saw was hero worship or
something closer to how I felt about Mercedes.

Rob Oliver appeared and stopped next to our table.  He spoke to
Emily.  "I would like to sit with you guys.  I was going to sit
next to Davey..."

"It's okay," Emily told him.

Rob looked across the table at us.  "Ready to kick some
upperclass butt this afternoon?"

I laughed.  "Yesterday, Mercedes and I were talking about doing a
science fair project, wondering where we would find the time.  I
haven't thought about baseball since practice Saturday.  My glove
is home, on the shelf of my closet."

Rob shook his head.  "Good thing I have a spare!  Coach makes you
do four laps and twenty chin-ups if you forget!  Last year, no
one got to twenty reps on the chin-up bar."

I looked at Mercedes who stuck her tongue out at me.  "I left
mine in my locker.  I have another one at home."

I made a mental note: get another glove, and keep it at school in
my PE locker.

Emily spoke up.  "Davey, could you help us in algebra?  I mean
later tonight, because you have practice after school?"

Karen chimed in.  "Pammie, Wanda and I are going to be working on
our sewing projects this afternoon.  I could stay late, too."

"Sure," I told them.

Mercedes added, "I'll come too, I don't have to baby sit
tonight."  She turned to Shellie.  "You want to study with us
this evening?"

"Please!  I'm right on the verge of getting lost!"

"Half the class already is," I said, recalling earlier.  "They
sit there doing something else, not listening.  I think that's
why the quiz and why the limited scope.  I bet you anything we
have to show how to go through algebra to do a derivative."

"My brother is a college junior, he's studying to be an
electrical engineer," Shellie said.  "I was talking to him on the
phone over the weekend and telling him about math.  He said that
I should be careful about derivatives of equations with a higher
power than two.  Anything that is still a curve can have a
derivative taken of it, too.  And those are very important in
math, particularly in electricity, geometry and physics."

Mercedes leaned down and pulled a piece of paper out of her
backpack and started writing on it.  I bent over and looked.

The first line was "4/3 pi r cubed equals v."  Then she wrote "4
pi r squared = ?"  Underneath that she wrote "8 pi r = ?"

"That second line is the area of a sphere's surface," I told her,
trying to be helpful.

"I was thinking it would be the area of a circle."

"Pi r squared, the derivative is 2 pi r.  The circumference of a
circle."

"I was thinking the derivative of the volume would be the area of
a circle," she told me.  "And the derivative of that would be the
circumference."

"Evidently it's the area of a sphere.  I would have thought it
would be harder to calculate.  And the derivative of the area of
circle is the circumference," I said.  "And you know what?  The
area of a square is side squared.  The derivative would be twice
the length of a side.  That's half the perimeter of a square. 
That doesn't compute."

Shellie spoke, "Derivatives are the slope of a curve at a point.
Lines aren't curves, so maybe the rules are different."

"This conversation is too bizarre for words," Rob said, shaking
his head.

"It's just that I think I see what Ms. Churchwood meant when she
said that math is the foundation for everything else," Mercedes
said.

Karen nudged Emily.  "We have a lot of catch-up to do!"

"We will get you through it," I said firmly.

"You bet!" Mercedes added.

We talked for the rest of lunch about other bizarre things; Rob
was a source of a lot of stories and anecdotes that reduced all
of us to laughter.

"I collect them," he said when Emily asked him where he'd heard
so many stories.  "I read the Internet, I talk to people.  I take
notes."

I could see Emily's eyes tighten.  "Like you wanted to talk to
me?"

He turned to her.  "When I talk to people for funny stories, I
tell them what I'm doing.  They expect them to be repeated. 
That's the kind of story you read on the Internet.  When I want
gut spill from someone, it goes no further, not one inch further
than they want."

"Gut spill," Mercedes said, shaking her head.  "I'd come up with
a better word for it."

"But that's what it is.  My cousin says it's like going to a
shrink; it's good sometimes to get it off your chest.  You get
someone to tape it, and then a few days you sit and watch
yourself.  It's a completely different perspective.  She did it
to me; it's awesome, really.  Since then, I'm not nearly as
scared around girls."  He laughed.  "Why, now I can walk up to a
table of people I don't know, including girls, and sit down and
talk to them.  This time last year, I wouldn't have even been
able to accept an invitation, much less invite myself."

The bell rang and I squeezed Mercedes fingers and she headed off
for her class.  Shellie and I fell in step, heading to geography.
 Once again we didn't talk; we just walked together.  We were a
little early and Shellie put her hand on my arm.

"That boy at lunch."

"Rob Oliver, he's a sophomore; he's on the baseball team with
Mercedes and me."

"I know what he means; Mercedes had to ask me four times to sit
with you."

"She's really persistent when she wants something," I told her.

"I've never been part of a group, even once."

"Well, you're welcome to sit with us.  None of us bite, we are
all very nice people."

It was getting close to the time; in fact, we were the last ones
inside, just taking our seats when the bell rang.

"Glad you could make it," Colonel Terrell growled.

"We were seated before the bell, sir," I said coolly.

"Tell me, Mr. Harper, what state of our great country extends the
furthest west?"

I tried to make a mental map, finally I just guessed.  "Hawaii,
sir."

"Wrong!  Anyone else want to guess?"

Shellie didn't wait to be recognized.  "Alaska.  And it's also
the state farthest east."  There was a second pause and she
added, "Sir."

"And why is that, Miss rude, interrupting Gerrold?"

"Because Alaska straddles the 180 degree line of longitude. 
Where east meets west.  I wasn't being rude, sir.  I was
answering the question you asked."

"Does your knowledge extend to know the southernmost state?"

"Hawaii, sir.  Alaska is the farthest north.  Of the lower
forty-eight, Minnesota is the farthest north and Florida is the
farthest south."

He turned to someone else and asked him to name all the states
that started with A and their capitals.  It took a few minutes to
get through the A's, and more than one person contributed names
of the capitals.

One guy just shook his head.  Colonel Terrell walked right up to
him, and asked again for the one state that started with an L. 
"Don't know," the guy said.

"Sure you know.  Try it with the word "sir," too.  Where's New
Orleans?"

"Louisiana.  New Orleans is the capital.  Sir."

"No, pick a town with some good college ball teams, Mr.
Woleski."

The guy shrugged.  "Who cares?"

"Knowing who has good ball teams is good when the guys you work
with decide to have a little pool for the NCAA basketball
tournament.   Or the college bowl games.  You do bet, don't
you?"

"That's for chumps," the guy said derisively.

"Do you know what a chump is?  It's someone who's ignorant;
someone a guy with some smarts can clean up on."  Colonel Terrell
pointed at the geography book the guy had on his desk.

"In the back is a list of states, their capitals and sizes.  Look
up Louisiana and tell me the capital."

When the guy didn't move, Colonel Terrell took a step closer. 
"Open the book and look it up, Mr. Woleski.  Then I'll get out of
your face.  I'm going to be here until you do."

Sullenly, the guy opened the book and looked it up.  "Baton
Rouge."

"Baton Rouge, sir," Colonel Terrell corrected the guy.  But he
didn't wait for a reply, he turned and went back to the front of
the room and started on M's.

It was a hoot; after that people had their books open and would
read the answers.  He didn't seem to mind; he'd listen and then
go on to someone else.  I got the T's.  "Austin and Nashville,
Texas and Tennessee, sir," I rapped out, without the book.

He grinned at me.  "That's surely going to disappoint the people
of Memphis, Mr. Harper."

I was taken aback.  I was positive Nashville was the capital.

He laughed at my expression, "Memphis likes to think they should
be the country music capital of the world."

He was jerking my chain.  I'd never had a teacher jerk my chain
before.  "I didn't know that, sir."

"Well, you learned a few things today after all, then."

The first half of the states had taken two thirds of the period,
the last half, with books open, took the rest.

Shellie and I left together, still walking in silence.  Both of
us had PE the same period as did all the other freshmen and the
jocks.

In PE we did a lot of drills, stretching and general exercises. 
It was fairly mindless, and I had a chance to think.

Colonel Terrell was different from the other teachers today.  I
hadn't noticed in Ms. Weaver's class, but I had in the others. 
If kids were disinterested, they were left alone unless they were
disruptive.  Not so in Colonel Terrell's class.  Whether you
wanted to or not, even if he had to spoon-feed someone the
answer, you participated.

The politicians talked about 'No Child Left Behind' but it sure
seemed to me that most of the teachers were doing just that. 
Except for Colonel Terrell who, it seemed, was determined to drag
you along, whether it's what you wanted or not.

There was a difference between my first three classes of the day
and the rest of my schedule.  The early classes were the honors
classes.  The kids in them were smart and knew that being
disruptive would mean a trip to the office.  That wasn't going to
happen very often!  Geography, on the other hand, was a class
everyone had to take.  Which meant that there were losers in it.
Like the guy Colonel Terrell had singled out.

I pursed my lips.  Colonel Terrell didn't go up and down the
rows; he seemed to pick on people at random.  But he didn't, not
really.  There were probably other guys, and maybe a few girls
who would be disruptive or disinterested.  The guy, Woleski, I
didn't know him, but he didn't have as much backbone as Shellie.
Had Colonel Terrell known the guy was going to fold that easy? 
Was that why the guy was doing a letter with just one state?  We
had reached the last state at the end of the period.  Was that an
accident?

I contemplated someone who could be a Colonel in the Marines. 
Odds were, he'd had discipline problems to deal with.  Odds were,
he'd dealt with them.  Did he think Shellie was a discipline
problem?

Or maybe he'd realized Shellie needed a little courage?  And if
she could face him, then she'd have that courage?  By the end of
PE, I was sure Colonel Terrell did nothing by accident.  He
understood us a lot better than I had ever imagined someone
could, someone who just stood up in front of a class of
thirty-some-odd kids every period and talked about geography.

Spanish started with a snap quiz on vocabulary.  A simple sheet
of paper with twenty nouns and twenty verbs on the left, and a
list of English words on the right.  Put the letter of your
choice on the left.  Mercedes had told me a couple of times that
I should concentrate on vocabulary.  "Learn a couple words every
day, maybe ten or so.  If you can understand the words, you can
work through the grammar.  If you don't know the words, you won't
get far with anything."

So, I confidently marked off my answers.  Then we went on to a
new unit and were assigned a new conversation to learn.

I met Mercedes after school in front of the biology room.  We
talked with Ms. Weaver for more than a half hour about topics.  I
could tell from Mercedes' expression that nothing was interesting
to her; it was the same with me.  Ms. Weaver told us she'd look
up some online resources and give us some more ideas in the next
few days and suggested we do the same thing.

Finally, we headed off to baseball practice.

Rob handed me a glove, and I swatted my fist into it a few times.
 Then it was a short period of warm-ups, then onto the field.

There were ten lower classmen, sixteen upper classmen.  We lined
up facing each other while Coach Wells stood in the middle.  I
eyed my fellow team members.  Uniformly they were taller and
larger than we were.  It wasn't looking good.

"Tomorrow, I want each of you to bring five bucks to PE," he told
us.  "Each time we play a scrimmage game I want five bucks from
you; this will be the only week we play more than one.  Thursday
at PE, I'll take the orders for two scoop cones of ice cream from
Thirty-one Flavors from the winners.  Saturday at the scrimmage
with Lake Terrace, I'll pass them out to the winners.

"Two scoops doesn't cost five bucks," he told us.  "Besides, my
nephew runs the place and I get a deal."  We all laughed.  "At
the end of the year we have a lot of money in the kitty.  We'll
go someplace nice; have a big party with lots of good food, a
good band.  Bring your girlfriends, not your parents."

There was more laughter.

The coach nodded at Mercedes.  "I'd say you could bring your
boyfriend, but I suspect you won't have to ask."  He waved to the
diamond.  "Coach Delgado will manage the lower classmen, I'll
take the upper classmen.  Now let's play ball!"

We formed up in the seats and Coach Delgado went down the roster,
giving us our positions and batting order.  Mercedes was playing
first and hitting first.  I was pleased to be both pitching and
hitting clean up.  The tenth man looked forlorn, expecting to be
on the bench. "Fesselhof, you bat tenth, you play between first
and second, like shortstop is between second and third."

The guy got his back up.  "That's a girl's position!"

"If you don't like it, you can watch from the bench.  That's the
real wussie position."   Fesselhof glowered, but shut up.

Coach Delgado turned to me.  "Harper, why are you wearing a glove
that says 'Oliver' on the strap?"

"I forgot my glove, coach.  Won't happen again, sir."

"We don't have time for the laps, you'll do them tomorrow at the
start of PE.  Four times around the track.  But I'll take twenty
chin-ups."  He pointed at a bar at one end of the seats.

"Yes, sir."

What had Rob said?  No one did twenty chin-ups?  I had a little
trouble believing that.  I just went and did the twenty, ripping
them off easily.  I finished; it didn't take but about a minute
or so.

"Jeez!" Rob said loud enough for everyone to hear.  "No wonder
you can whack the ball!"

"Age before beauty!" Coach Wells called from the field. 
"Upperclassmen bat first!"

Mercedes stuck her tongue out at him.  The laughter from both
sides of the field was relaxed, loose.  It was really true, I
thought, so long as she could play, no one was going to give her
a hard time.  I felt ten feet tall and ready for anything.

The first thing was Chuck Bradshaw.

I'd had a chance to talk to the catcher, telling him I preferred
to pitch low, fast and inside.  He'd grinned and told me that
sounded good to him.  "We'll try a few change-ups and some
curves, too," Coach Delgado had added.

The catcher, Josh Mallory, and I met out on the mound after I'd
thrown a few warm-ups.  "I played last year for a competitive
team from San Antonio in the state AAA championships.  My dad's
been assigned here for his sayonara tour to finish out his
twenty.  I want that championship ring, you know," he told me.

I nodded.

"I was the starting catcher.  I've been watching these guys in
the practices.  You listen to me, you hear?"

"Sure," I told him, making my usual mental reservations about
doing as I damned well pleased if he was giving me the wrong
signs.

So there was Chuck, and sure enough the first sign was for low
and inside.  I went through my wind up, going just a little
slower than usual.  Then I really threw the ball.  It just cut
the inside corner, but caught Chuck looking.  Two more pitches,
two massive fans with his bat and he headed to the bench.

The second batter jumped on a waist-high fastball, and pulled it.
 It went down the first base line, foul.  Mercedes took two steps
to her left, went up and flagged it down.

The third batter reminded me of Jack.  I didn't recall seeing him
before, but he was huge, with muscles that rippled.  He pointed
the bat at me and laughed.

Josh signed for a change-up, waist-high.  I kept it a little
lower than that, and put absolutely nothing on the ball.  He took
a Mighty-Casey swing, practically wrapping himself into a
pretzel, missing by a mile.

The second pitch Josh called was a high, outside fastball.  I
mentally winced.  I was much better down and inside.  Sure
enough, even though the guy lifted the bat off his shoulder,
that's all the movement he made.  Josh on the other hand was up,
reaching.  Well, he'd wanted it high and outside.

I got the ball back and he called for a fastball, right down the
middle, belt-high.  I shook him off.  He gave me the same sign. 
What was I supposed to do?  I pulled my glove down the least bit
and delivered it up about four inches below the batter's belt. 
Another mighty swing, that slammed the ball down onto the plate.

The next pitch he called was a waist-high curve.  I mentally
sighed and threw it.  There was nice motion on it, and sure
enough, the batter just stood there.  Then a swing that was the
quickest I'd ever seen, just a short chop.

The ball popped up, into the infield.  Fesselhof called for it,
and was waiting.  And dropped it.  But Rob had time to get behind
him, took two steps and barehanded the ball to Mercedes. 
Mercedes leaned for it and beat the guy by two steps.

We trooped into the cage where the seats were and I got a few
high fives.  Josh came up, while I was watching Mercedes out
taking her practices swings.  "Don't wave me off," he said.  "I
study these guys, I know what I'm doing."

I looked at him.  "I know myself, I know what I'm doing. 
Throwing a waist high fastball to a power hitter?  Asking for
trouble!"

"You have trouble with high and outside?"

"Yep," I told him.

"What kind of a pitcher are you?"

I laughed, "Why, I've been pitching now for almost ten days!  I
am a total newbie."

He looked at me for a second, and then held up his hand.  "Well,
newbie, you put a damn lot on that fastball!  It stings!  We just
got to get used to each other, man.  Don't take it personal; I'm
not going to.  I want to win.  I don't give a shit about anything
else."

"There's several players on the team like you," I told him. 
"They want to win.  Well, I've never won anything in my life.  At
the end of this season, I will have had either my first winning
season or my first losing season.  I don't want to lose any more
than you do."

He grinned and right then I heard the crack of Mercedes' bat.  I
glanced out to see the ball drop just past their guy between
first and second.  Mercedes made it into first, easy.

"That's your girlfriend?" Josh asked.

I nodded, pleased she'd gotten a hit.  If Mercedes didn't do
something stupid, I'd have a chance to bring her home.  I
remembered bringing her home yesterday and smiled to myself.

"You lucky dog!"

Rob had been waiting on deck and he went up to the plate, while
the left fielder, whose name I didn't know, went on deck.

I noticed Rob was batting as a leftie; I thought that was odd,
because he'd given me a right-handed glove.

He jumped on the first pitch, and I thought it was going to go
foul, but it stayed just inside the line and landed in the right
field corner.  They'd been playing him back and the fielder was
right there, firing the ball towards the infield.  Mercedes saw
it coming and pulled up.  She saw the second baseman who moved
out to cut off the throw glance at second, where Rob and their
shortstop were both headed.  She took three quick steps towards
the plate, and the shortstop fired it home.

I don't know.  I wasn't sure if they could have gotten Rob or
not.  But with the throw home, they got no one.  I contemplated
if Mercedes could have made it home if the throw had been to
second.  Probably.  So maybe it wasn't a bad play after all. 
Which was better?  Runners on second and third, no one out, or no
runners, one out and the score one to nothing?  Probably a coach
wanted to put runs on the board.

Our third batter walked up to the plate while I picked up the
single wooden bat on the rack and went to the on deck circle. 
Our batter promptly hit the first pitch right at the guy playing
between first and second.  Unlike our player, theirs handled the
ball deftly, and flipped it to first for the easy out.

I didn't have a chance to psych myself up or anything.  I'd taken
a single practice swing, but suddenly I was up.

I walked to the plate, settled myself in and looked over my left
shoulder at their pitcher.  He reared back and fired a bullet.  I
didn't move, letting it bounce in the dirt in front of the
plate.

The umpire called it a ball, and I settled in again.  The pitcher
reared back and threw.  It seemed like everything was in slow
motion.  I could see the way he gripped the ball.  A curve ball.
I slammed it as hard as I could.

I knew it was wrong from the sound the bat made.  I followed the
ball as it went straight up, over my head.  And up and up...

The catcher flipped his mask up, stood and watched it fly.  On
the way down it started to drift, and a few seconds later bounced
into the empty bleachers behind home plate.

The umpire called the strike, and I settled down again.  Again
the start of the pitch was like slow motion.  I didn't recognize
the fingering, so I watched the ball come.  This one hit the
plate, and shot off at an angle.

Knuckle ball, I decided.  A lot of knuckle balls went into the
dirt.

I sensed the catcher behind me shift.  He was, I thought, holding
his glove higher.  This time, a simple fastball.  I think it was
supposed to be a high fastball but it was perfectly shoulder
high, a little outside.  Instead of hitting at the fat part of
the bat like I'd wanted, it was out towards the end; it jarred my
hand.

On the other hand, the ball left the bat like a rocket towards
right field, certainly fair.  I hustled towards first, but I'd
gotten barely half way before the ball started to arc down, well
beyond the fence, bouncing off the snack bar roof.

I chugged around the bases, taking the high fives from Rob and
Mercedes when I got home and more in the seats.

We scored two more runs, leaving two men on base by the end of
the inning.  As I stood to go out to the mound, Coach Delgado
stopped Josh and me.  "Lighten up, Harper.  Peck at them and keep
the fastballs to a minimum.  Don't challenge them."

Josh promptly said, "Yes, coach!"

I nodded, unsure.  He wanted us to sit on our lead?  That wasn't
very sporting.  I trotted out to the mound, thinking about it. 
Rob wanted to win, Josh wanted to win.  Chuck had said he wanted
to win.  If sitting on our lead helped us to win, why not?

I pitched three straight changeups to the first batter and he
swung at every single one of them, well early.

Josh signed another change up, and I shook him off, and jerked my
head.  Obligingly, he trotted out to the mound.  "I want to
practice my curve ball, some."  He grinned, nodded, and a second
later was headed back to his spot.

Josh believed in that pecking away command.  The next pitch he
wanted was a curve, in and low.  I let it get a little away from
me; it was knee-high low, but over the plate.  The batter took
the strike.  Next it was belt high, outside.  That was a lot
easier, and he fanned at it and missed.  He missed high and
outside too, although there was almost no movement on the pitch.

They had a new pitcher when they took the field.  Mercedes popped
out to the second baseman but Rob came back with a blooper into
left field, to get on first.  Our third batter struck out.

When I went up, I watched again.  Sure enough, it looked like
slow motion... for about half the guy's windup, and then he
turned to a blur.  I swung and missed.  The second pitch was like
the first, only this time I followed the ball and not his arm.  I
was jammed inside, and the ball fell just over the shortstop's
head, as I hustled down to first.  Rob made it into third.

We were, I thought, high school students.  In grade school a lot
of guys stole bases in the certain assurance that the catcher
would throw the ball away or the second baseman would muff the
catch.  These guys were fat, lazy and sloppy.  Rob was now on
third, second was empty.  No one had said a thing about stealing.
 I took a short lead off, and waited for the pitcher to look my
way.  He never did, rearing back and throwing as hard as he
could.

It was a called strike and the ball came back to the pitcher.  I,
of course, was back on base.  He glanced at me, and then went
back to concentrating on the batter.  I took a much longer lead
off.  When I saw him start his windup, I just flew towards
second.

The throw to second was high, and the center fielder was playing
deep.  I trucked into third, still having clean pants, while Rob
was getting high fives from the on deck hitter.  I took two short
steps towards home plate and looked at the pitcher, who returned
my gaze, looking sour.

The next pitch bounced in front of the plate, went off the edge
of the catcher's mitt and rolled away.  I flew home, and was
nearly there when the catcher turned to fire the ball at whoever
had moved to cover the plate.  Alas, no one had moved up.

I'd never seen anything like what happened next.  The catcher
carried the ball back to the plate, while I was taking the high
fives from everyone.  Then the catcher tossed the ball
underhanded; it went about two-thirds of the way to the mound and
stopped.  The pitcher moved to pick it up, and after about two
seconds realized what he should have done sooner.  Goodness!  He
could give Emily lessons in blushing!

When the coach called the game before we came up to bat in the
sixth, it was fourteen zip.  Their only runner came from an error
by our right fielder, and he stayed on second.

I'd pitched a shutout, but even though a couple people said it
was a no-hitter, I reminded them it was a five and a half inning
no-hitter.  I'd also been planning on telling Coach Delgado that
I needed to come out, because while I could still throw
change-ups and curve balls, my fastball was gone.

I went into the locker room, and found that Coach Delgado had
ordered up some ice packs, that they wrapped my arm in.  "How is
it?" he asked.

"About pitched out.  I don't think I could have pitched another
inning."

"You said you swim?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, tomorrow, keep it down.  Don't push.  Give the arm at
least a day, preferably two, before you do much with it.  If you
play catch, just do soft lobs.  And not many of them.  Don't
expect to pitch Saturday."

Mr. d'Silva was there to take us home and Mercedes filled him in
on the highlights.  I was just happy to look at her.  The study
group was supposed to meet at seven thirty; I went inside and
found the house quiet, all of the cars were gone.  I hoped Emily
would get back in time for the study group.

I went to the freezer and pulled out some of Dad's surplus Labor
Day chili, frozen in single-serving bowls.  I stuck it in the
microwave, gathered up Wizenbeak and settled in for dinner.

All was right in my world and I was glad of it.

<1st attachment end>


----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format.  The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+