The Batboy

“I’m home!” Thad Stevens yelled as he came into the house. Slamming the door behind him, he tossed his backpack onto the small table that stood just inside, nearly knocking over the vase of spring flowers. “Did the mail come yet?” No one answered, so he made his way to the kitchen and called out again. “Mom, hey, Mother! Are you here?” He went to the fridge, opened the door, and took out a can of Coke. “Mom?” he yelled again, opening the can. “What?” his mother said with an irritated edge to her voice as she emerged from the basement, carrying a basket of neatly folded clothes. Thad turned and re-asked his earlier question regarding the arrival of the daily mail. Mrs. Stevens let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes, it came. It’s on the table in the foyer where I always put it so your father can find it when he gets home. How was school today? How was baseball prac—” She never got the question out. Thad sprinted for the foyer. There, hidden under his backpack, he found the stack of assorted letters, bills and advertisements. He quickly went through them. Not finding what he hoped, he dropped the pile back on the table. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. eHeThad picked up the backpack and headed for the stairs. His mother came into the entryway. “Find what you were looking for?” she asked, following him up the stairs with the laundry basket. “No,” came the answer in a tone that reflected his disappointment. “Well, don’t worry. I’m sure with your fine academic record and baseball experience they’ll give you a chance to try out.” Thad paused as he reached his door. “Yeah, but it’s been almost two weeks since I sent in my application.” He continued into his room and closed the door. Dropping his backpack on the floor, Thad flopped onto his bed and took a swig of Coke. Two weeks should be enough time, he thought, feeling frustration and annoyance that he hadn’t heard whether he’d be given a chance to try out for a batboy position with the Buzzards, the local semi-pro baseball team. The deadline for applications had been a week ago Monday. Thad loved baseball. He couldn’t remember not loving it. He’d seen pictures of himself swinging a wiffle bat and hitting a ball over the fence into the neighbor’s yard. His dad still proudly showed off the pics saying, “Baseball’s in his blood.” Thad had been two when those pictures had been taken. He’d gone on to play tee ball little league, pony league, and for his high school baseball team. When he went to college he planned on playing there, too. He hoped for a career as a pro ballplayer after that. This would be the last year he would be eligible to be a batboy. Fourteen to seventeen was the age range the Buzzards’ organization had set for their batboy squad. He was seventeen. He’d applied every year for the past three years, and every year he’d gotten a letter thanking him for his interest, reminding him that over a hundred kids applied so not to be discouraged, and to think about trying again next year. This time there would be no next year, however. It was now or never. Damn! Maybe I shoulda put in more time on that “Why I want to be a batboy” essay they wanted. Just seemed like a dumb idea to me. I write the same thing every year. Bet everyone says the same stupid stuff. “I want to be a batboy ’cause I love baseball and think the Buzzards are a wonderful team and I’d really like to be part of it” and crap like that. He sighed. Just then his bedroom door opened and his mother came in. She set her basket of laundry on top of his dresser, opened the drawers, and started to put away his clean socks and underwear. When she was done she turned, leaned on the bureau, and smiled at her son. “Don’t give up just yet,” she told him. “It hasn’t been that long since you applied. I’m sure it will all turn out okay for you.” “Thanks, Mom. Yeah, well, I hope you’re right,” Thad said, trying to sound grateful for the encouragement but feeling deep down that it was a lost cause. Mrs. Stevens smiled again, went to his closet, hung up a couple of shirts, and then went to the door. “Remember, a dream is a wish your heart makes. And wishes can come true,” she said with a cheeriness that rankled Thad. He tried not to roll his eyes at her sappy attempt to make him feel better. After she left, Thad looked around his room. The decorations were a testimony to the dream his heart had been wishing for as long as he could remember. It was adorned with posters of pro ballplayers, pennants of teams he liked, and some autographed pictures of the guys who played for the Buzzards. One in particular always caught his eye—Ignacio Hernandez, or Iggy as the fans called him. Iggy was Thad’s idol. He played shortstop. The same position Thad played on his high school team. Iggy was a great hitter, too; he batted over three hundred. But it wasn’t only his baseball prowess that intrigued the young man. After looking at the picture of Iggy in his batter’s stance for several minutes, Thad got up and opened his door. He walked out into the hall and checked to see whether or not his mother was still upstairs. Assured that she wasn’t, he went back into his room and closed and locked the door. He stretched out on the bed, closed his eyes, unzipped his pants, and began his regular afternoon jerk off session with the image of Iggy firmly in the forefront of his imagination. It didn’t take Thad long to finish, and when he did, he was beset with his usual reactions: shame, guilt, and fear. He’d been raised in a religious faith that taught indulgences of the flesh outside of marriage were passports to hell and, worse yet, having s****l feelings for someone of your own s*x was cause for instant damnation. Yet every day, sometimes twice a day, he gave in. However, the most disturbing thing for Thad was not worrying about the state of his eternal soul; it was the way kids at school talked about boys that liked other guys in that way. Fags, queers, homos, they called them. And they, the fags, queers, and homos, were universally, it seemed to Thad, thought of as the scum of the earth. There were a couple of boys at Thad’s school who had been targeted as queers. The dumbasses had been caught together in one of the bathroom stalls. Their lives from that day on were a living hell. Bullied, teased, ostracized, they were the untouchables of Hilton High. Thad didn’t see how they could stand it. Jerks, Thad had thought at the time. If you’re gonna screw around, at least get a clue and do it at home, not at the frickin’ school where you can get caught. As Thad made his way to the bathroom to clean up—thanking the Lord that he had the luxury of his own private john—he once more made his customary declarations that this was the last time he would ever masturbate, So help me God! And, if he did, he wouldn’t think of a guy as inspiration. I’m not a fag. I can’t be. Could I? No, I’m not! he thought, trying, for he couldn’t remember how many times, to settle the argument he had with himself every time he jerked off thinking of Iggy.