I felt guilty not answering Ian’s questions. Keeping secrets was the last road that I wanted to go down so early in our relationship. I watched my parents do the same thing over and over again, and it eventually got very ugly. Unfortunately, I couldn’t figure out how to adequately explain before I found out more myself.

The two men were players in one of the adult baseball leagues in the city. One was named Pete and the other was John. They said a mutual friend who followed baseball obsessively and first encountered my name while keeping track of minor league baseball mentioned that I might be back in Milwaukee. After some sleuthing work, they were able to find me playing on the gay softball team. By the time they left our game, I had an invitation to check out their team across town.

I thought about telling Ian immediately what was going on, but I was worried that he would get nervous about me talking to baseball guys again, particularly those playing on a team and looking for more talent. I told Pete and John that I couldn’t promise anything at all. I was willing to come and watch their team play, but that was it. I said that I liked playing for the Soft Serves.

John said, “But it’s softball, bud.”

Pete elbowed him in the gut just as I said, “I’m going to come and watch you play. Can you be satisfied with that?”

Pete said, “He will be. Sometimes John just runs his mouth off when it’s not needed.” Pete handed me a card with his cell phone number and said, “Give me a text, and I’ll give you details on the next game.”

That night, after we got home from the Toolbox, I climbed into bed next to Ian. We were both exhausted from the day, but we still had a little time for making out and fooling around. Ian said, “I think you just might be the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me, Blake.”

I said, “You’re pretty damn awesome yourself.” Then my gut twisted into a knot. I shared a goodnight kiss with Ian, and slid up behind him as we lay on our sides. I wrapped my arms around him and felt his breath slow until he was sound asleep.

Leaning my head in against his neck, my thoughts drifted to the game earlier in the day. I thought of the massive group hug with the team and then tumbling to the ground in one big heap of men. It made me smile.

I also thought about my shortened career in the baseball minors. I could hear the roar of the crowd and the smell of hot dogs and popcorn. I knew that I would never return to play in a game at that level of professional significance, but I wondered if it was time to consider a return to the baseball diamond.

The next day I contacted Pete and made the specific arrangements to attend a game. I decided to combine seeing them play early in the evening with a night of work at the Toolbox. I told Ian that I needed to leave a few hours early, right after dinner, and he didn’t seem to suspect anything at all was amiss.

Pete and John played on a field on the other side of town. It was recently constructed in an effort to recreate professional baseball as closely as possible on a much smaller scale. The field was part of a sports complex. The main diamond included stands that I guessed could hold maybe one thousand spectators. Less elaborate practice fields were constructed nearby.

The dugouts looked similar to those at a minor league stadium, and the team uniforms replicated the professional style. I could feel small goosebumps on my arms as I watched the teams warming up on the field.

I took a seat in the stands along the first base line. The crowd was small. I don’t think it exceeded 150 or 200. As one of the teams filed into the visitors dugout, I caught the eye of Pete. He motioned toward the outfield with his head, and I climbed down the stands to step up to the fence just beyond the dugout.

Pete joined me from the opposite side of the fence and said, “I’m really glad you could make it, Blake! I hope you like what we’re trying to do here. Almost everybody on the team has played baseball at least a couple of years in high school. Most have played in college, too, and there are even two guys with short minor league experience like you. This is a way to keep our commitment to the game alive.”

It was definitely different from softball. The speed of the pitches and the crack of the bat hitting the ball led the contrasts. All of the plays were fit and moved with impressive reflexes and speed running the bases. I rubbed my hands on my jeans as I watched. My old enthusiasm for baseball was beginning to return.

At the end of the third inning, I made my way to the concession area and purchased a hot dog and a beer. Those smells were familiar. We didn’t have any food for sale at softball games. I settled back in the stands and took big bites of the hot dog while I watched Pete come to the plate.

He played first base for his team, and he was built solid. His first time at bat he swung at a bad pitch for a third strike. The opposing pitcher had a nasty slider, and he coaxed Pete into swinging at it.

The second time up at the plate Pete looked more determined. He dug his cleats into the batter’s box, and, after two quick strikes, he drove the ball into shallow right field. It fell a good fifty feet in front of the right fielder, and Pete jogged into first.

Two batters later, John, who played left field, hit a long ball to center left. It dropped in and bounced off the wall. Pete dug his way clear around third, and John ended up with a stand-up double. I stood and cheered the play. Then I instantly wished I was out on the field with them.

I was taken back to when I first started to play baseball when I was in second grade. My coach watched me catch the ball and after practice, he said, “Blake, some day you’re going to be a star.” I wrote a letter to him after I was drafted into the minors and got a note back of wonderful support. He still believed in me one day becoming a baseball all-star.

Pete, John, and their teammates won their game by two runs. The last two innings were completely scoreless. There was something appealing to me about having nine innings instead of seven. I think it had to do with the balance of three strikes, three outs, and innings numbered in three sets of three.

I caught up to Pete and John outside of the stadium after the game. John started to talk, but Pete held up a hand and took over. He said, “We’re really glad you watched, Blake. Are you interested in joining us.”

I was completely swept up in being around baseball again. I was intoxicated by the uniforms, the replica of a real stadium, the crack of the bat, and the hard ball. I asked, “Can I come to a practice and see how it feels?”

Pete said, “We can even slot you into a single game. The league allows playing up to two games without paying registration fees. We have a few uniforms in reserve with only numbers and not names on the back.”

“Would I be able to play third base?” I asked.

Pete nodded and said, “I’m sure that you can. Our third baseman is versatile with positions. We can just move people around.”

I looked at John and a big grin was starting to take over his face. He whispered, “Welcome back to playing with the real men again.”

Pete gave him a hard elbow to the gut, and I did my best to ignore the comment. I was too intoxicated with the idea of returning to the game I started playing when I was only eight years old.

I said to Pete, “I’m still not making any guarantees. Those guys on the softball team are really important to me. I’ll come out for a game with you, but I can’t promise that I will stay. Thank you both for giving me the opportunity.”

Pete nodded. “All that we can ask is that you give us a try.” He paused and then added, “But I think you’re going to like it.”

I was fifteen minutes late for work at The Toolbox, and Sally was unhappy. Claw volunteered to stay until I appeared, but she informed me that she was a stickler for schedules. She said, “You’ve grown into a good bartender, Blake, but anyone can be replaced. Now get out there and prove to me you deserve the job.”