Second Chance - Cover

Second Chance

SECOND CHANCE is copyright protected. Any use, including reprints, without specific written permission is forbidden and illegal

Chapter 13

DoOver Sci-fi Sex Story: Chapter 13 - 43 year old Carl watched helplessly as Death came for him in the form of an overloaded produce truck. Suddenly he found himself in the body of a 14 year old boy, injured in the same accident. Now Carl had to learn how to live as Brian and cope with a new life and a loving mother.

Caution: This DoOver Sci-fi Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/Fa   Consensual   Science Fiction   DoOver   Incest   Mother   Son   First   Oral Sex   Anal Sex   Masturbation   Petting  

It was twilight and the setting sun cast an amber glow on Eagle Stadium. We had kicked around licensing out the naming rights, but Eagle Stadium sounded so real and strong, that we decided to keep the name to ourselves. Mr. Bell and I were surrounded by our staff and some minor league club officials as we walked through a final inspection, preparatory to our inaugural game, the next evening.

Spring Training had been like a vacation for me. Getting our campus and stadium up and running, had consumed every second I wasn't on the field, practicing. As a rookie in Double A, I had far less experience, baseball savvy, or general knowledge than the rest of the team, and having to divide myself between the club, and getting ready to play for the club, was a huge burden.

Wayne and Buddy made me their personal project, calling in a "fixer" to work on my mechanics, and having him teach me to pitch, literally. We worked well together and spent long hours in my conference room, A/V corner, studying my flaws and improvement. Big Bill loved to remind me that, "you can't coach a ninety plus mile an hour rising fastball." He was always building me up, instead of pointing out my flaws. "If you stay focused, forget about all those trick pitches they will try to teach you, you will be a fearsome closer. Don't forget – ever - they teach trick pitches to boys that can't throw like you."

There had to be some reason I was blessed to be in this body. It made some sort of cosmic sense that I would fall into the body of a boy killed by his father, who was part of the mob, since my last body was killed by them. Now I was being 'rewarded' with a million dollar arm and the opportunity of a million lifetimes.

If they weren't all blowing smoke up my butt, including Big Bill, I would be closing in the majors come September. That was far too much to contemplate.

The one very good decision I made was to lease the Cessna Citation, ten seat jet. I spent more time catching up on work while traveling back and forth to Spring Training, than I spent in my actual office. The club was wonderful to me, giving me a small suite tucked away in their spring complex. I brought Winnie and Carla with me to handle security, and communication. Winnie traveled back and forth each day. Carla elected to have me get her a lovely executive suite near the park.

Colleen and Rebecca made the trip occasionally but disliked the dry climate.

I hated it. The mountains of southern Missouri were just about perfect for me. The desert? Not so much. No one ever saw me without a bottle of water in my hand. Because my trust owned three-eighths of the club, I didn't feel beholding accepting the office suite. Three-hundred twenty four million dollars should buy you something, after all.

Carla loved our offices. She was queen of the entire domain, and loved rubbing it in whenever people came by to see me.

Winnie asked me if I minded her training Carla in basic security skills, and I was all for it. They worked in the mornings, while I was out on the field, working out, and playing – mostly in "B" games. Those were the afterthought games, scheduled to get playing time for the also rans, while the major prospects and major leaguers worked into shape.

The great thing about "B" games was playing against people trying to be noticed, and players working their way back from injury, as well as fading players, trying to hang on one more season. The competition was cleaner, friendlier, and more fun than went on at the "A" diamond.

My first inning in a "B" game came in the eighth inning of a tied game, late in the first week of exhibition games. I took the mound at exactly three forty-two pm. That time of day had some cosmic connection to me. Someday I hoped to find out what it was. There were far fewer than two-hundred people in the stands, and all the starters were long gone. It seemed like there were seven players wearing number ninety-four on their back by the time I got in the game.

We were scratching for runs, and so were the White Sox. By the eighth, neither manager cared who won. They just wanted to look at a few bodies and see if they had missed anything good in the rush of the first week. I heard someone say, "Who's this one?" And another fan sarcastically answered, "Another nobody. Never was, never gonna be, and isn't now."

'Oh, really?' I thought as I took my time warming up.

There was no sense in showing my heater until I had to, so I started the first batter off with inside stuff, to move him back off the plate. He wanted crouch over the plate and take away some of the seventeen inches of strike zone. If he hadn't stepped back fast, he would've taken a hard one on the wrist.

He gave me the look and I started laughing. I didn't mean to make him mad, but you haven't experienced the look until Colleen gives it to you - in bed - when you inform her that she needs to get with the program, or you're going to give up and go to sleep.

Now THAT is the look.

The hitter? Give me a break.

Knowing he was anxious to make me pay for moving him back, I put one just a tad further inside and watched him screw himself into the ground trying to hit it. I remembered an old Kevin Costner movie about a pitcher. In the movie he was talking to himself on the mound. He said something like, "When they're in a hurry, make them wait. When they're trying to go slow, hurry the pitch." I put the same logic into how I handled the big guy at the plate. He wanted to hurt the ball so bad, all I had to do was make sure I put it where it was hard to hit, and let him do the rest.

Strike two.

I wanted to stop and remind Paul Bunyan Jr., that he only had one more, but didn't want to make his night any worse. My catcher gave me the sign for an inside fastball, low, but I shook him off and he gave me a dirty look. Then it hit him that I wanted to throw a change up and get him swinging so hard he'd fall down – which is exactly what happened.

One batter – one out.

The second hitter wasn't about to succumb to mind games and took a viscous cut at a high inside fastball. It went so far foul, I wondered if he hurt anyone on the field next door.

Hmmm ... He wasn't fooled so I needed to take it up a notch.

The next pitch was my best heater and he got some wood on it, popping up to second base.

Two outs.

The third batter looked as nervous as I was, so I put three in a row at the knees, inside and he swung through all three.

One inning of work. No hits, no walks, and two strike outs.

Buddy was sitting in the dugout when I came in and said, "See? You have a gift. You gotta stay inside yourself. Don't try to do what you can't do, but don't be afraid to do all you can do. It's a balance and I think you already figured that out, so give 'em hell."

After my inaugural appearance, I worked at least one inning eight more times. My stats were quite good. Ten and two-thirds innings pitched, seven hits allowed, three earned runs, four walks, and eleven strikeouts.

It was late afternoon, on April first. Colleen and Rebecca each had an arm as we walked the field. The turf was gorgeous. The stadium shined, anxiously waiting for the first paying customers. We had eschewed holding practice on the stadium field ahead of opening night, because we wanted the field to be truly pristine when we played the first game, tomorrow.

Wayne and Buddy were with us, but hung back, letting us take care of business with our contractor, before talking about baseball. Carla was right behind me, ready to take notes and Mr. Bell's executive assistant was with him, as was Colleen's. Rebecca was caught up in conversation with the team trainer, giving him a few last minute instructions, and Benjamin kept up with me happy to have me home, as we inspected everything one final time.

Marketing had held a contest to pick the singer for the first time our fans would hear the National Anthem in our stadium, and a well-known country singer, who had a show in Branson won easily. He wanted to hold us up for lots of money, until I reached in the barrel and pulled out another winning ticket. That calmed him down, and he'd been over twice to rehearse in the new stadium.

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