Part 5: Friday Daytime

Chapter 9teen - Lily

What a day. What a day, what a day.

I floated to school on cloud nine. Because I got to pitch today. And because of what had happened last night.

I got in the car, started it, and turned on the radio.

U2 was singing. "It's a beautiful day, don't let it get away."

Damn straight. The sun was shining, I was in love, and I got to pitch today.

In love. What a concept. Though I hadn't actually said it, and neither had he-just that "I'm falling" bit. Which isn't quite the same thing. But I was done falling and I think he was, too. I almost said it when he dropped me off last night. I've only said those words once in my life-and that was that asshole, sophomore year. I don't give those words away. I knew, deep in my heart, that Mike would never do anything like that to me-but I don't give those words away.

Sometimes I'm too damn stubborn for my own good.

Anyhow, plenty of time for that. I didn't see anything happening to this relationship any time soon. Talk about what a concept. I usually spent most of my time in relationships waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not this time.

It really was a beautiful day. And I had no intention of letting it get away.

Of course, the problem was, I had to spend the first seven hours of it in school. I am useless in school on a game day when I'm pitching. Luckily, I do good work the other days, so it's not all that damaging to my GPA. But I knew I'd be sitting in history thinking about my pitching strategy and not history.

I pulled into the lot, and saw Mike standing there waiting for me, with his little lopsided grin. I felt that wonderful fist-clench in my gut when I saw him.

But that's when it hit me. Oh, shit. I have to pitch to this guy! I have to stand there on the mound and peer in and get signals from a guy who makes my toes curl. Oh, shit.

Baseball and sexual tension do not mix, "Bull Durham" to the contrary. It's a damn good thing I was good at focusing.

Luckily, the day flew by. At one point I realized that it was my last day in The Program. And, OK, I didn't mind the last-day fondles I got. I was just worried I'd get too worked up, but I didn't. People seemed to leave me alone towards the end of the day. It was common knowledge I had to go out and pitch at 3:30.

Then, finally, we were in the locker room. Mike was taping me up. I put the pads on my nipples myself-Mike chuckled and said he understood why-but he helped me with the ace bandage.

Then the coach came in. "OK, Listen up." He listed off the lineup. I was batting 9^th. Oh, well. At least I was batting. And we did have a very good leadoff batter, Roger Winn, our second baseman.

"OK, you guys. Now, I have a problem with The Program. I've pleaded and pleaded with the administration to make some exceptions, but they won't-even though other schools that run The Program do. They keep saying 'naked at school activities means naked at school activities' and I can't change their mind. For this you should be wearing the uniform, but they won't listen to me. So, Kirkland, Woodard, be careful. Protect yourself. Woodard, I've never had a girl on this team, much less a naked girl, so if you have any problems, you speak up. I can anticipate some of the problems Kirkland might have, but not you. I know you're not shy, so don't get that way all of a sudden." I laughed and nodded. "And, both of you: NO SLIDING!" The whole locker room laughed at that. "Jesus. Especially you, Woodard, with your running record. No stolen bases today, got it? And no stretching it. I'd rather have you get a standup single then try to stretch it to a double and rip your you-know-what apart sliding into second."

"I agree with you completely," I said with a mock-wince.

"Good. Now lets go get 'em!" The team started filing out, when the coach said, "Woodard. A word, please."

We waited until everyone else had left, and he said. "Woodard, I put you on the spot today. I probably shouldn't have done it. But one thing for sure you showed me yesterday with your little tirade-you've got spunk." Then he grinned. "So do me a favor. Prove me wrong. If you go out there today and shut these guys down, I will gladly sit in front of this team and eat a whole pile of crow."

"You got it, Skipper," I grinned. "You can get a side order of crow with that three-hit shutout you ordered."

He actually laughed. "Good. Go get 'em." And he patted me on the butt. Just like a ballplayer. Even though it was a girl's butt, and it was naked. I think Coach was learning.

I walked out to the bullpen to warm up. Mikey and I talked in between pitches.

"How you doing?" he asked.

"Raring to go."

"Stands are filling up-a lot, for us."

"Must be that new beaver shot concession," I said impishly. He laughed. "I just wish my parents were able to make it."

"Yeah, that sucks. Mom and Marina are here, though, if that helps."

"It does." I threw a few more. "Seems like we've attracted a lot of interest, eh? Everyone seems to be looking down here at the bullpen," I grinned.

"You're pretty comfortable with this, aren't you?"

"Mentally, emotionally, yes. Physically, we'll see. I'm rather exposed-and, by that, I mean to the elements. I have sunscreen on all over."

"Yeah, I do too," he laughed. "But you don't mind showing off your body."

"No, I don't. They can get looks at my pussy all they want. Only you get to go past the no-trespassing sign."

He laughed as he threw the ball back. "Hey, don't break my concentration."

"Wouldn't dream of it. We can go, I'm all warmed up." We walked back to the dugout.

"Now, remember, I know most of these batters, you don't. So trust your catcher."

"Already do," I grinned.

We made it back to the dugout, and sat there. I took my cap-I could wear that, but not pants, go figure-and piled my hair underneath it. The cap was purple. I looked around at my teammates in their new white unis, with purple writing and gold trim. I wish I could wear one, I thought. No, like I said, I didn't really mind being nude-but this would be the first time in years I took the mound without that 45 on my back. That actually made me feel more naked than actually being naked.

The stands were packed. There were plenty of leering guys, of course-and plenty of guys who booed me as I took the mound, resentful. What I really heard were the girls. My age and younger, gaggles of them, screaming as I took the mound. A bunch of girls my sister's age, 11 or so, sitting on the third base side, had even made up a "GO LILY!" sign. That was really cool.

I finished my warm-ups, and took the ball. I stood on the mound, waiting for things to get underway. The PA announcer intoned, "Pitching for Westport today, number 45, Lily Woodard." That was good. Even though I wasn't wearing it, that's how they announced me. Number 45. That made me feel better.

Of course, some wag in the opposing dugout hit right on it. " Number 45? What number? We don't see no number!"

I couldn't resist. I just couldn't. I stood with my hands on my hips and shouted at their dugout, "It's tattooed on the inside of my pussy! And, no, you can't see it!" Mostly laughter. A few gasps. Probably from the parents of those 11 year old girls. Ah, well.

To their credit, the guys in the opposing dugout were laughing their ass off. And Mikey laughed so hard he just about gave himself a concussion, his mask was bouncing around so much.

Enough merriment. It was time to pitch.

The first batter got in the box. Mikey had already told me that this guy was a first-ball fastball hitter-so I wasn't surprised when he called for the changeup. Whiff. Strike one. A couple curves and sliders later, and I had my first K.

Breezed right through the first inning, and the second. No baserunners.

By the third inning, I knew-I was feeling it. Everything was doing what I wanted it to, and those guys were helpless. You have games like that. And I found that pitching in the nude, in a game situation, was actually liberating and freeing. Pitching's a physical activity. Your body has to be into it. My body was really into it. I felt the breeze going through my pussy on my leg-kick-and it wasn't stimulating, it just made me feel alive. The sun hitting my legs. The sweat gathering on my ass. The way I could feel the skin on my shoulders stretch out when I came out of my windup and threw. It was so liberating.

And I had this catcher, see, and we were in tune. Just a little pitch and catch. He put the signal down, placed his mitt, and I hit it. Simple as that. After four innings, I was riding the wave and hadn't allowed a baserunner.

The problem was, we couldn't do much with their guy, either. And that includes me-I hit a weak grounder in the third. We got a little rally going in the 4^th, but it got snuffed out.

Then, on the mound in the 5^th, I got the downside to naked coed pitching. I got two quick outs, and the next batter hit a shot back up through the box. Went right through my legs, hitting the mound as it went. We got the guy-Roger, the second baseman, made a great play-but that wasn't the problem. The problem was that, when the ball hit the ground, it kicked up all kinds of dirt.

Right between my legs.

I walked very gingerly back to the dugout, sat down, and stared down at myself. This was an emergency-the last thing I needed was to try to pitch with dirt in my pussy. So I yelled, "I need a squeeze bottle, one of the ones with the long straws, filled with lukewarm water. Now, please." After about a minute, someone handed me one, and I pulled up my leg, bent down, and proceeded to irrigate my nether regions.

I happened to look up, and saw every member of the team looking at me, in absolute horrified shock. "Hey, that shot through the mound kicked dirt up," I shrugged. "You guys think The Program is all fun and games. You try sand in your pussy. Ow." And I kept up watering myself. Mike and Eddie cracked up laughing, but most of the rest of the guys abruptly turned away. "Look at all these he-men ballplayers, squeamish at a little feminine hygiene," I teased. I got a few sheepish grins for my trouble. I finished up, and casually placed the water bottle next to me. The trainer came over, grabbed it, wrote "LILY" on it in huge letters, and put it back down. I had to laugh. I mean, God forbid anyone else use it by accident, after it had been down there, right?

Of course, Mike'd use it. That made me giggle to myself.

Here's a conversation you won't often hear on the mound. Happened in the sixth inning.

Mike: How are you?

Me: My pussy itches.

Ed: So scratch it

Mike: Wouldn't that be a foreign substance?

Ed: You mean, like a spitball? We'd have a pussyball?

Me: How about I just ignore it and throw the fastball instead.

Ed: Or, you could let Mike scratch it.

After that, I even managed to somehow get the next guy out. Like I said, I was cruising.

When I went back to the dugout after the sixth, I saw another problem. Yes, the ol' no-no game. Don't talk to the pitcher throwing the no-hitter, because that's bad luck. I was on one end of the dugout bench, and the whole rest of the team seemed to be huddled at the other end. Even Mike.

"OK," I announced. "First of all, I am not at all superstitious. Second of all, I'm a complete stat-head and know exactly how many hits I haven't given up. Third of all, I threw two no-hitters last year and it's no big deal. So could you please all stop treating me like I have the plague?" They laughed, and stopped.

Alas, it was not meant to be. I got the first guy in the seventh, but I hung a slider to the next guy, and he ripped a single. I was so pissed off at myself that the first pitch to the next guy was a feeble excuse for a fastball, and he hit that for a single. I went from throwing a no-hitter to having guys on first and third with only one out. Shit.

Mike came out to the mound. I was quickly learning that he liked having Ed out there with him. "Get yourself together," Mike said. "Don't lose focus."

"Yeah, yeah," I said.

"Take a deep breath and bear down," he said.

"And we'll get two," Eddie asserted.

They did. The next guy hit a one-hopper to Eddie. 5-4-3 double play, end of inning. "Thank you God!" I yelled. "You're welcome!" answered Eddie.

I cruised through the eight, and led off the bottom of the inning. We had still gotten nothing going with the bat. Zero-zero ties are an antacid maker's dream, I'll tell you. Anyhow, I got up there, and finally got good wood on one. Single, right up the middle.

At first, it looked like it was going to get wasted again. Roger struck out. Frankie hit a weak pop-up. Two outs, I'm still stuck on first, and it was all up to a certain catcher.

And damn if my sweetie didn't rip a double into the gap! I was running like the wind on the crack of the bat, telling myself "I can score from first on a double. I can score from first on a double." But their right fielder hit the cut-off man perfectly, and he fired a bullet to the plate. I saw the ball coming in as I sped towards the plate, and the on-deck hitter, Ty-not thinking-gave me the 'slide' sign.

I slid. It was a really, really stupid thing to do.

The only thing I had the presence of mind to do was slide tilted over to my right side, with my legs tight together, so I wouldn't tear up the ol' cunny. But that's all. And that made the slide more awkward. I hit the ground hard, and at an awkward angle, and I probably would've been bruised even if I had been wearing pants. But I wasn't. And I found myself sliding along with nothing to protect my skin from the dirt and sand and gravel. And I was a girl, I had soft skin. Sure, I had calluses on my pitching hand, but on my butt and hip and thigh, that skin was quite soft.