Blake’s first practice with the team was underwhelming to put it mildly. The best hit that he managed after five times at the plate was a line drive that landed in the hole between first and second base. Otherwise, he gave us a series of foul balls, popups and big empty swings. At first, he took it all in stride, but, by the fifth time batting and coming up nearly empty, I could see the frustration begin to take over. After he connected with the final pitch I threw to him, and it popped up behind home plate for an easy catch by Reggie, he pounded the bat hard into the center of home plate before kicking at the dirt and taking a slow walk to join the rest of the team. Antonio gave him a hearty slap on the back and delivered words of encouragement.

Just before practice wrapped up, Billy jogged over to me and asked, “So where did you find the pretty boy?”

I said, “He’s my next-door neighbor.”

Billy asked, “So you just like the way that he looks? A nice piece of eye candy on the ball diamond?” Billy reached back and pulled his hair forward over his shoulder twisting it in his fingers as he spoke.

“He was a minor league baseball player and then had a nasty injury. It killed off that career, so I thought he could possibly help us.”

With a laugh, Billy said, “With pop-ups and dribblers to first base?” Then he paused before saying, “Oh, I get it. He’s a rescue project. The poor, sad, beautiful puppy moves in next door, and you’re gonna fix it all for him.”

I always had to remind myself that underneath it all Billy was a good guy. He just always had a way of getting to the throbbing heart of a situation, and his comments weren’t always pretty. He was also the best player on our team. He looked like anything but a conventional player, but he would be a star on any softball team that would accept him, conventional or gay.

I said, “No, and if you’re implying something about my motivations, he’s straight, just like you Billy.”

Billy brushed his hair back off his shoulder again and let it hang down the middle of his back. “Which brings me to my main point, Ian. If you’re gonna recruit another straight guy, shouldn’t he be one of the best on the team? I mean, I understand making room for gay guys that can’t hit the ball out of the infield…”

I made a motion like I was brushing something off Billy’s shoulder and said, “As soon as you get that fuckin’ chip off your shoulder, you might realize that Blake could just take us to the top of the standings by the end of the season. It’s never easy for a baseball player to hit slow-pitch at first, but he’ll adjust. Mark my words.”

Billy tilted his head to the right. “You wanna put some money on that, Ian?”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. I was convinced that Blake could be an outstanding player, but I hated placing a bet on it. Still, I didn’t want to back down from Billy. Everything with him was a power play, and I wanted to stand my ground. I said, “Twenty bucks says he’s hitting .300 by August.”

“.320,” said Billy.

“It’s a deal.” I reached out a hand and we shook.

He grinned and said, “You’re a good man, Ian, and don’t worry. As long as he’s my teammate, I’ll support him. Loyalty comes first.”

---

I turned the key to start the car, and Blake launched in to self-deprecating comments about himself and his performance. He asked the air, “How do you hit that damn ball? It’s coming in at such a funky angle, and you have to wait forever and a day.”

Reggie piped up from the back seat. “Just give it some practice. It will come to you…or not.” Then he laughed at the lack of wisdom in his own words.

I said, “It’s a tough transition from baseball, but you’ll get it. I’ve seen multiple guys walk on to a slow-pitch field expecting they’re gonna slam the ball over the fence just because they did that in little league.”

Blake grumbled, “Damn, maybe I should just give up bats and balls for good. I don’t want to bring your team down.”

Reggie asked, “Can you still catch a ball?”

“No problems there,” said Blake.

“Then you’re a help to the team,” said Reggie. “Last year, we were playing the last game of the season, and it looked like we might actually win. That would have given us our second big win of the season. Then a guy on the other team hit a big looper into the outfield. Remember that, Ian?”

I was starting to giggle and said, “How can I forget?”

Reggie continued his story. “Antonio was backing up from second base with those long skinny arms flying every which way. He’s yelling, ‘I got it,’ and we all knew he had no chance. So Lowell starts sprinting in from center. He tried to call Antonio off at the last minute…”

I said, “It was a really high fly. I had time to turn around from the mound and watch it all unfold.”

“To make the story short,” said Reggie, “They collided. Antonio’s free hand connected with Lowell’s nose, and Antonio’s head hit Lowell’s shoulder. They both landed in a heap. Antonio was out cold for a few seconds, and Lowell had an ugly bloody nose. Two runs scored, and we lost the last game of the season. Do you think you can help us out with that, Blake?”

I pulled up to a four-way stop and turned to look at Blake. He was laughing. Then he said, “I guess it’s not really that funny. They weren’t seriously hurt, were they?”

Reggie said, “No, we sent Antonio to the emergency room to have him checked out. The docs said he was just a little rattled, and Lowell didn’t break anything. You might have seen they are both back for more punishment this season.”

When I pulled into my driveway and I pushed the car door open, Blake asked, “Can you hang on just a second?”

I leaned back in the seat and said, “Yeah, what’s up?” Reggie leaned forward so that he could hear.

Blake said, “My pathetic batting really was bad for the ego, and I know I can do better. I just need practice. Would the two of you be willing to help me out with some off-the-official-schedule practice?”

I turned toward Reggie. “If my buddy here is game, I’m game.”

Reggie nodded. “If it’s enough to move us away from being the laughingstock of the league, I’m all for it. There’s a field just across the street from where I live, and it’s not used very often. We would probably have it all to ourselves most evenings.”

---

In the end, Blake convinced us to spend three evenings before the next team practice helping him figure out how to hit a slow-pitch softball. I can only imagine how exasperating it must have been to a natural athlete like Blake. He looked good at the plate. His swings were picture perfect, but when he connected with the ball, it most often resulted in a slow rolling ball toward first base or a high pop-up. Then many times Blake missed the ball entirely.

Fortunately, away from the scrutiny of the rest of the team, Blake was patient. He was convinced that he could get the hang of it. He knew that he just needed the practice.

Reggie, our designated fielder, said, “I would suggest having Ian hit so you can watch. He’s good at both pitching and hitting, but I really suck at pitching. I either throw the ball so high that it goes all the way to the backstop or it drops dead in the dirt before it even gets to home plate.”

“Can you hit?” asked Blake.

Reggie shrugged and said, “I’m not too bad. I can hit it better than you’re doing.”

Blake frowned and said, “That’s really not saying much, but why don’t you come in here and take a few swings. I’ll watch and chase the balls. I’m not getting much of anywhere just here on my own.”

Reggie was no superstar at the plate, but most of the time he could hit grounders, line drives, and balls deep in to the outfield when he wanted to. After the fifth time he hit the ball, he said to me, “Turn around and watch the next time I hit the ball.”

I followed Reggie’s instructions. He hit a long fly ball, and, even though Blake was struggling with hitting, he was an awesome fielder. His reflexes were amazing. He knew almost from the moment the bat connected with the ball which direction it would fly. Reggie and I both applauded when he dove for a ball and caught it just six inches from the ground. I shouted out to him, “If you can do that every game, you don’t need to hit!”

By the time we wrapped up the last of our three-person practice sessions before the team’s next meet-up, Blake improved from pathetic to so-so in the hitting department, and his fielding skills were unparalleled. I could smell a victory on its way in my bet with Billy Alvey. It was only a matter of time before Blake’s hitting caught up with his fielding.

At our next team practice, I arranged our drills to give Blake a psychological advantage before stepping up to the plate with a bat. I kicked it off with lining up three players at a time in the outfield and hitting fly balls for them to catch. I barked out, “Alvey, Easterling, and Powell…first up.”

Both Billy and Marshall missed relatively easy fly balls. It was understandable. We were all trying to shake off the rust that settled in over the winter. Blake, on the other hand, put on a show. He broke in the right direction every time the ball left the bat and flew toward him. He didn’t miss a single ball.

Next we did some throwing drills and had Billy run the bases. Blake was a third baseman when he played baseball which meant plenty of practice throwing the ball long distance and firing it from one corner of the diamond to the other. He possessed both distance and accuracy. His throws were perfectly targeted to enable tagging the runner out.

After being thrown out three times in a row by Blake, Billy jogged up to me tossing his long, black hair over his shoulder. He said, “Okay, Ian, you’ve made your point in the field. Pretty boy can throw. Has he made any improvements with the bat.”

I grinned at Billy. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Blake’s batting picked up where he left off in the previous practice. For his first swing, he barely nicked the ball, and it dribbled off the end of the bat slowly rolling down the first base line. On the second swing, he popped the ball up for an easy catch by me. I stared in at the rest of the team and saw Billy with one hand planted on his hip shaking his head.

Then the magic happened for the first time. Blake finally connected on the meat of the bat. We all knew by the sound that it was going to be a long ball. The entire team fixed their eyes on the neon-colored sphere as it soared over my head toward the outfield. The long, low arc would easily sail out of any park we played in during the season.

Blake’s teammates broke into spontaneous applause as the ball hit the ground hundreds of feet from home plate. I looked at Blake, and a smile like I had not yet seen lit up his face. For the moment, I was transfixed. I was certain that it was the most handsome and genuine smile I’d ever seen. I didn’t want to look away, but I didn’t want to stare either.

Instead, I turned once more to see Marshall jogging out to retrieve the ball. Then I looked back at Blake standing at home plate. I pointed at him and smiled while the team broke into applause again.