Ownage

Ownage By Dale Chase Best thing about baseball is winning, so it figures the worst thing is losing, but inside this are other bests and worsts. Pitching a no-hitter is a personal best, and I did it once, eight years ago. Worst is giving up a home run. That’s hell. You have to stand there and take it, expression fixed, body straight, shoulders back, while the batter circles the bases like he’s got the game in his hand. For me, though, there’s something even worse, which is giving up a homer to Tommy Knox. Soon as I hear the crack of the bat, I know what the broadcasters are saying. Doesn’t matter if it’s ESPN, Fox, or the local announcers. “Ownage,” they’ll say. “Tommy Knox has ownage on pitcher Wayne Kerley,” and they’ll be right. He hits homers off me, always has. No matter what I throw, no matter if I pitch around him, more often than not he puts it over the fence. In baseball terms, this means he owns me. What people don’t know about the situation, what keeps me sane, is Tommy and I having another kind of “ownage,” a personal kind. Twelve years ownage of each other. I think on this as Tommy runs the bases. As he always does when he knocks my pitch out of the park, he glances my way as he crosses home plate, a split-second look I know has a bit of “sorry” in it. He wouldn’t hurt me for the world, but this is baseball, our lives. The glance is welcome, but doesn’t help much because it’s the first goddamned inning. At least nobody was on base. I shut down the next batter for the third out, and once in the dugout, I cool myself while warming my arm in a towel, doing all the stuff a pitcher does between innings, and all the while with an eye on Tommy. He’s in right field so it’s a direct view, and he knows I watch his every move. The good part of being a pitcher is nobody talks to you in the dugout unless you want it. We’re supposed to be in some zone and I take advantage of that. If only they knew Tommy Knox is my zone. Our batter sends a long fly into the gap and Tommy sprints over to grab it like it was routine when it’s anything but. He’s smooth, my big cat. Golden blond, shaggy hair. We’re kind of the opposite since I’m dark-haired and furry, not to mention, at six-foot-four, several inches taller and twenty pounds heavier. In bed I call him Super Cat. He calls me Horse for obvious reasons. Tommy has told me how much he likes me watching him play. “I wish we had more games here,” he always says when his team is in town. “Me, too,” I reply, because during the nine-month season, we’re together for just a few two- or three-game series—maybe two here in San Francisco, two there in New York, or more if we meet in the playoffs. Won’t be the World Series, though, since we’re both on National League teams. When I go out for the second inning, I know Tommy watches me, acting casual while he steals looks. He has to contend with dugout banter among teammates, but says he’s mastered looking at me while chatting left and right. I dispatch three batters in a row in the second inning, and also the third, where we then get two runs. By the fourth, when I face Tommy again, we’re ahead two to one. “f**k ownage,” I say aloud on the mound. “f**k ownage.” Tommy bats third, being a power hitter, so I face the speedsters before him: a second baseman who steals like a master thief, and the center fielder who has some pop in his bat. I glance at the opposing dugout where Tommy stands on the steps, helmet on, bat in hand. I’m determined this inning, settled down from the homer, eyeing the early lead, but the little second baseman lunges for an outside fastball and smacks a blooper into right. “Well, s**t,” I say. “Okay, double play.” My job now is to get the batter to hit a grounder. Things don’t go as planned. Suddenly my control is off. Two fastballs are high, the curve is wide, and my slider is in the dirt. A walk on four pitches. Tommy’s up next. My catcher, Shane Bonner, already an All Star at twenty-four, comes out to assure me I can nail Knox. “Inside,” he says. “Hit him, if need be.” I nod and he goes back behind the plate as Tommy steps in. Hitting him would solve the ownage thing as it would simply load the bases, but to me it’s a cop-out. I take a deep breath and give him a cut fastball, but he doesn’t bite. Strike one. He takes a high curve, then a change-up, so I lay in a fastball with all I’ve got. Has to be ninety something, but does it get past him? Nope. He nails it for a three-run homer. There’s no crowd roar since we’re playing at my home field in San Francisco. Tommy runs the bases as a few New York fans offer hoots and cheers. He passes me the usual “sorry” look. When I’m pulled for a reliever in the fifth, I’m near grateful but don’t show it. I keep the blank look required of major leaguers, nothing on the outside while inside I fight humiliation. It’s nothing new. Every starter gets pulled early now and then, but it’s still a pain. I don’t stop in the dugout. It’s straight into the clubhouse. It’s poor form to leave before a game ends, even if it’s ended for you, so I shower and change, then watch the game on TV. I nibble on the spread that’s been laid out, though I’m not hungry. It’s more something to do. The game isn’t a long one. We lose seven to three, and afterward I face the press as a good player should. I smile when asked about Tommy having ownage, and muster agreement. Then I flee. My condo is in the new high-rise across from the ballpark, and I hustle over there. Nobody asks for my autograph. Tommy will be along as soon as he can leave without attracting attention. I haven’t seen him in four months, and even though he arrived in town last night, he puts up at the team hotel the first night to keep up appearances. After that, he plays the ladies’ man, disappearing into nightlife. We’re discreet not because we’re ashamed of ourselves. We’re discreet because we’re on opposing teams, and if known, our relationship would be news and get in the way of the game. We spend the off-season together, four months in Europe mostly. This past winter, we rented a Tuscan villa and had us a time. Even that far away, we remain somewhat guarded in public. I now slip into my blue terrycloth robe, nothing else because it’s time now for that other kind of ownage, the personal kind. I enjoy a beer while I wait, entertaining myself with thoughts of our beginning… I was already at Triple-A Memphis when Tommy came up from Double-A. Guys come and go all the time in the minors, so there was nothing special with his arrival. I noted him good-looking, shook his hand, offered welcome, same as everyone else. And I didn’t give him much more thought until I saw him hit. It was a home game. He came in to pinch hit, and put the ball over the left field fence. In the dugout when we all jumped up with cheers, something else was going on with me, something that pretty much ran over me, happily so, if that’s possible. Even when he reached us after crossing the plate, enjoying high-fives and pats on the butt, this something was still at me, and I had to walk down to the dugout’s end, get a drink of water, and linger before I could look back at him. As I did, I wondered how in hell nobody else had been run over like me. It was his swing that got me. I’ve always liked the look of a guy whose body is well balanced, who puts his legs, hips, back, shoulders, and arms into swinging the bat, the whole marvelous connection adding up to knocking the ball to the fence or beyond. The standard in the beautiful swing was Will Clark, who I watched on TV when I was a Little Leaguer in the late eighties. He knew his body and used it to perfection. His first major league at bat was a homer off fastball ace Nolan Ryan, which says it all. Now, here I was with the same thing happening in person, Tommy Knox looking every bit as beautiful as Will Clark. “Nice swing,” I said to Shane when I sat down. I had to say something. If I held it in, I’d explode. “Guess so,” replied Shane, and I had to clamp my mouth shut to keep from asking how he could miss such a beautiful thing. Listening to conversations down the bench, I heard nothing of Knox. As for him, he took a seat and said not a word. I didn’t either after that, and when I went out to pitch the next inning, I was in a kind of fog. I’m still amazed I struck out the side. A bunch of us went to eat after the game and I asked Tommy along. I didn’t really want the others around, but couldn’t give myself away. What I did do was sit directly across the table from him, and more than once, I let him catch me looking. After dinner and lots of general talk and laughter, everybody went their separate ways, but I asked Tommy if I could buy him a beer. “I think you have the most beautiful swing I’ve seen since Will Clark,” I blurted, which made him blush. He agreed to the beer. I’d like to say we hit the sack that night, but in baseball, a man must be discreet, plus I couldn’t count on him taking my looks as confirmation he went my way. What I had to do, besides jerking off to his image night and morning, was get to know him. This took nearly the whole season. Over those beers that first night, we shared how and where we came to baseball. I learned he grew up in Seattle, loved the place, and played ball almost from day one. “At two, my dad had me swinging at a Wiffle ball he pitched from like two feet away. After that, the usual—t-ball, Little League, high school. When I got drafted at eighteen, I blew off college.” I told him how I grew up on a Texas ranch, loved horses, and came to baseball by throwing with my brother in a field. I was also drafted out of high school, but as an outfielder. Along the way, they saw I could throw around a hundred, so they made me into a pitcher. Once we had that down, Tommy asked how it was up here in Triple-A. “Great,” I assured him, “but kinda lonely at times. You ever get that? Whole team around you and you feel alone?” At first, I thought he took this wrong, because he went quiet, like he had to think on it. “Nobody’s ever said that before,” he finally replied. “These last couple years I’ve felt that so often. Totally alone.” “Well,” I said, raising my glass, “here’s to not being alone anymore.” We were buddies from then on. In the minors, you room with somebody. I was with pitcher Brad Murdock, a nice guy with a wife and kid. They put Tommy with outfielder Lee McWade, who’d been in Triple A for seven years. By the time we reached the season’s last month, Tommy and I were about melting each other with looks and moments where we could brush against each other while naked in the clubhouse or shower. He’d become near a star, batting .342, everyone’s darling, while I labored on, having a good but not great year. I was jealous of the whole team because I had to share him, and because I didn’t know if he picked up on how gone on him I was. “You seem distracted,” Bill Sims, the pitching coach, said to me one day, all casual-like. I wanted to reply, “No s**t,” but I acted concerned about his comments. “Clear your mind,” he said. I promised to do so. How I was going to manage that was another matter. I finally gained a shaky balance between the game and my feelings for Tommy, knowing all the while what would level things in me. s*x with Tommy. I thought he felt the same, but how to be sure? Three weeks were left in the season, and we were locked into third place, so no playoffs, which meant Tommy would soon return to Seattle and me to Texas. I became desperate. On a road trip to Tacoma, I decided to spill it all. I didn’t care what happened. By then I was certain feelings were mutual, but even with certainty there’s a thread of doubt. “Let’s go to a movie tonight, just us two,” I said to him after a day game. “Okay, sure,” he replied. By then we were seen as good friends, so there were no raised eyebrows when we went off together. It was easy to keep others from joining us. I just said it was a Korean love story with subtitles. Tommy held in a laugh as I said this. “Where’s the theater?” he asked in the cab. “No idea. Look, Tommy, I’ll be honest because the season is getting away from us and I can’t stand the idea, well, the idea of not seeing you, you know?” Long as I live, I’ll never forget his smile. In it, I saw welcome, pleasure, anticipation, excitement, and relief. “Name the place,” he said, so I gave the cabbie a hotel name. “Single room,” I told Tommy, and he grinned and slid a hand onto my thigh. We had a game next night. I pitched a one-hit shutout. Tommy hit two home runs. “I’ve been wanting this all season,” I told him as soon as we were in the room. “Me, too, but, well, you know.” “Yeah, I know. We can finally forget all that,” I said as I went to him. “Just us here.” I was so hungry for him that I surprised myself at how slow I went, maybe because, for once, feelings overpowered instinct, which is saying something. Kissing slowly or gently has never been my thing, but that’s what I wanted. Feeling his lips, tasting him, exploring with my tongue. He responded the same way and we stood fully dressed, savoring each other at this beginning of our newfound freedom. “The most beautiful swing ever,” I said when we eased off. He chuckled and kissed me again. For all our initial restraint, we went a little nuts once naked. Didn’t matter I’d seen him in the shower. This was new and he was mine. He was insanely ready, climbing up the front of me, humping like a dog until I pushed him onto the bed. I’d carried protection all season just in case the time was right, and finally got it from my pocket, suited up. I then put him on all fours, lubed him, and drove in. “Hell yes,” he cried before I took off on the ride of my life. To say we were a good fit is an understatement. His ass was made for me and I couldn’t hold back. “I’m coming!” Tommy shouted as I went at him. Seconds later, way too soon, I let go inside him. I kept on pumping until I went soft and slid out. Then I flattened him and lay full length on him. Between breaths, I said in his ear, “I think I’m in love.” He laughed, then went quiet. “Me, too,” he finally said, and that was it. Being young, it never occurred to us we wouldn’t progress to the same team when called up to the majors, but that’s what happened. Tommy got called up from Memphis to Los Angeles, but they traded me to San Diego in a deal that got them a high-priced outfielder, and that’s how it’s been ever since. Twelve years a couple, never on the same team, apart most of the year. If we didn’t care so deeply for each other and for baseball, we’d never have lasted… Now, when Tommy comes through my condo door, I tell him, “I’ve been thinking of our first year, back in Memphis. Our first time.” “That was sweet,” he says as he drops his jacket and gets a beer. He takes a long swig, sets it aside, and takes me in his arms. “Missed you something awful.” I kiss him in reply. His greatest kindness is never mentioning the ownage thing. He leaves it to me to bring it up, which I do on occasion, but not now. “I want to f**k you the whole goddamned night,” I tell him. “Then let’s get started.” I drop my robe as he undresses, and he takes one more drink of beer before slipping into my arms. He nuzzles my chest, always saying how he likes to play in my fur. “Want me some horsey,” he says, hand sliding down to my c**k. “Stallion is ready.” The condo has good carpet, and I push him onto the living room floor, where we grope and grapple before I slip a pillow under him and get his legs up. He squeals as I lube him, and when I push into him, he says, “Home.” We know each other well, but our forced separation creates a kind of newness. We’ve talked about it, agreeing it’s the only good part of the situation. And now we’re there, the man I know so well, the familiar body unfamiliar for a few seconds. Coming home, yes, wonderfully so, but also beginning again. “Super Cat,” I say as I thrust. He moans, rolls his head from side to side, his prick standing tall. “God, I love me a horsey.” We no longer suffer that desperate urgency of the early years. We savor things now, a long coupling before climax. Part of it is regaining that most intimate connection. I’ve no idea how long we go before I feel the rise. I do know, from experience, how Tommy can read me. I’ve not picked up speed and am nowhere near the grimace of letting go, but still he knows. “Go for it,” he urges. “f**k hell out of me.” I grab his feet, push them back, and drive into him with all I’ve got. Then it hits, and I’m babbling because I can’t keep quiet. We’re opposites that way, he the gentleman issuing simple announcement, me the animal unable to control the spew above and below. At last I pull out and fall over beside him. His c**k is still up, he has a hand on it, smearing pre-come on the head. He’s patient while I regain some breath, and once I do, I roll over and suck the jizz out of him. I love how he bucks as he comes. After, we lie on the floor hand in hand as we slide into that other realm of ours, the fluid one, soft and squishy, warm, comfortable. Tommy finally rolls over to me, lays his head on my chest so he faces me. “Hiya, handsome.” “You come here often, sailor?” “Honey, I’ll come here and anywhere else you want.” It goes unsaid that we have until about four o’clock tomorrow before we need to surface. The fridge is stocked, sheets fresh. “You hungry?” I ask Tommy, knowing he had to stick around and eat some of the post-game spread with his teammates. He always says he’s mastered the art of nibbling, so I call that up now. “Need a nibble?” I get a bunny imitation from him. He nibbles my shoulder and says, “I could eat. You?” “Yeah. I didn’t even nibble.” He hops up, finds his robe, and heads to the kitchen, where he’ll make his killer grilled cheese sandwiches. “Melt the butter first,” he’s told me, “then lay the sandwich in it to cook.” He says this like I might actually make one. When he’s not in town, I eat the spread at the ballpark or go out. If desperate, I’ll microwave. I’ve stocked his favorite dill pickles, which he insists must accompany grilled cheese. When I’ve cleaned up and put on my robe, I head to the kitchen, where I handle the pickle part of the meal. The tray is set, butter melting, sandwiches readied for their slide. I kiss Tommy’s neck as I pass. “Chef Knox,” I say. “Pickle master,” he replies, and we chuckle because there are sometimes pickle references during s*x. We take the tray with our meal to the living room, where it sits between us on the sofa. “Movie, music, or quiet?” I ask. “Movie,” he says, another kindness, because quiet means “talk” and the game is still between us. “The usual?” I ask and he nods like a little kid. I put on The Fugitive. He has a crush on Harrison Ford. When dinner’s over, we snuggle. I enjoy Tommy’s quiver at his favorite parts of the movie. We fall asleep before it’s over, waking later to drag ourselves to bed. In our early days, this would have been unthinkable. Now, it’s blissfully comfortable. In bed, Tommy cuddles against me and we’re out for the night. * * * * Next morning, I wake to the covers being pulled off me. I’m a light sleeper, which Tommy still tries to get past, knowing he won’t. I play along as he gets down between my legs, and when he takes my d**k into his mouth, I still keep my eyes closed. Only when I’m stiff does Tommy call me on it. “I know you’re awake.” “And I know you’re sucking my d**k, so get back to it.” We share a laugh, then descend into what we call “the wallow,” a morning filled with sucking, licking, prodding, poking. By noon, there’ll be come all over and we’ll fall back to sleep.