FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Edited by wellifimust and Psydrosis

Thumbnail artwork by @FondestFriend on Twitter

Word count: 6,638

---

Wintergrain Park: a folksy, small-town baseball field occupied only by the muggy air of the surrounding swampland. Home of the sunken, dirt-stained home plate over which I threw my first curveball, and the bench where I sucked my first dick.

The name's Rince: professional closing pitcher for the Woodpeckers, playing in the subtropical city of Lowell. If you've ever seen me on TV, you'd probably know me best by the back of my jersey. Barrow, number three, in proud, shimmering red text; can't miss it. Here's another side. Three: the number of pitches I'm confident enough to toss in a game, the number of rings on my tail, and my age when I first picked up a glove.

Three strikes. Three outs. It always made sense to me. My dad noticed how much it clicked and rushed to sign me up for a recreational league. I played for the Bandits, where every other kid with a black-furred mask got tossed. There, I developed into a hobbyist pitcher as I grew into adulthood.

So, how did I make the jump to the bigs? This is where the curveball comes in. It's also where the dick comes in.

This story's about pitches. I'll keep it simple to start.

1. The Four-seam Fastball

The most common pitch in the sport. It was all I could throw well as a teenager.

I was in the backyard of my old home in Grera on a lazy Sunday afternoon. My dad grabbed my little paw, fur matted down in the humid April air, and fit my fingers over the red stitches. Index and middle fingers on top, like you're giving a peace sign, with your thumb hanging under the bottom of the ball.

A high school friend said the pop of a well-placed, jet plane fastball speeding dead stop in a catcher's mitt was his favourite sound in the world, next to the way he made his girl sound in bed. I told him that was stupid. He didn't even have a girlfriend.

The fastball's a simple velocity pitch--you may figure--designed to test the honest reaction time of a batter. A sheer laser in the right hands. Speaking of which, I never threw with mine.

I eat, swing, hold pencils, and jerk off with my right paw, but my dad dropped the ball in my left paw that day. He knew what he was doing. Coaches want lefties: they're better against right-handed batters. This carried me into high school, picked not due to versatility, but because of the heat behind that southpaw fastball.

I reckon that's all I was good for, too.

Four years, all 'C's and 'D's. Never went to college like my friends: I was just the kid who could whip it. I didn't have much of a purpose; I always thought it would find me, and somehow, it did, in the summer of 2017. I was twenty years old.

My parents were still together--barely, from the few times we talked. While we still lived in the same house, I hardly saw them, let alone anyone, walking home from my job at nine p.m., throwing on a frozen pizza and watching the Grasshoppers play their last three innings before turning in.

I was a janitor at the local library. Four nights a week: sweeping floors, dusting shelves, listening to the games through my earbuds. It was early in the season, so their playoff hopes were still intact. They hadn't taken that nosedive, and they hadn't traded Garland yet.

Actually, that cute lemur was one of few reasons I still followed them at this point in my life--that cunning black fur around his sharp orange eyes; the long, ten-ringed tail that he flicked around; those mammoth muscular arms that whipped every pitch. But, when he left the Grasshoppers that summer, I don't think I even cared.

I didn't work weekends or Wednesdays. On those evenings, my parents were deep in their work and my friends stuck writing essays. I had nothing pressing to do, and nowhere important to go: dead end days off of a dead end job.

Those nights I spent a couple streets down on the dirt of Wintergrain Park, launching fastballs at the backstop as the night breeze swept through my fur and blew over my whiskers. I still had the Grasshoppers games in my ears. I tried to time my pitches with Garland--with Sanchez--with Myers, acting like I was right there on the mound in front of a screaming crowd. I tried to imagine the mitt of a catcher instead of the lonely clink of the ball hitting a silver chain link backstop.

It was May 7th. The Grasshoppers were tied 2 - 2 in an extra innings thriller. I closed my eyes as I prepared to wind up my next pitch.

When I opened my eyes, I launched the ball over the plate, and then movement near the dugout caught my eyes.

"You've got pretty good heat!" an older voice called as the pitcher struck out the side and sent the game to the eleventh.

I struggled with my earbuds, yanking at them and barely catching the pair before they dropped into the dirt. When I stared through the dark, I saw a mink, illuminated from a parklight behind his back. "Uh, thanks."

The mink stepped forward. His smiling muzzle was dark brown, followed with hints of grey peppering the fur around his ears. He wore ivory, belted cargo shorts under a dark eighties alt rock t-shirt: maybe two sizes outgrown over his muscled shoulders. "Pro heat, I'd even say."

"Mm. Thanks, Mr. Meyer. Been working on it a while." I picked a ball out of my loose-hanging pocket and rolled it between my fingers.

He kept standing there, paws stuffed in his own pockets, head nodding slowly. His eyes drifted down to the ball. "You got anythin'...offspeed?"

I blanky returned his nod. "Been working on my changeup."

"Let's see it, then."

My gaze drifted from his smile to the plate. I drew the glove up to my chest, tail rising against the small of my back.

1. The Changeup

Let me reel back a bit. I knew Mr. Meyer for a couple years before this summer, just not that well. I went to school with his son, Colton, who first entered my class in senior year after he moved to Grera a few months before.

Colton was an odd kit: the kind of cub to pour out a package of Fun Dip on the back cover of his algebra textbook and pretend to snort it like coke when the teacher wasn't looking; the guy who changed the desktop background of every computer in the atrium to a picture of the principal's mom photoshopped as a Vogue model.

However, the funniest thing about Colton Meyer was that he was nothing like his parents. He had no fur, for one thing; he was also cold-blooded. Literally.

It honest-to-god took me half the school year to realize that the old mink lady kissing my gecko teammate was his mother. This, inevitably, made him a target of every jock worth a cent of stolen lunch money. Being a goof must've been his way of coping with it.

His dad went to every game. He was always in the bleachers right behind the backstop--not at Wintergrain, at the high school parks--where he sat two rows up with a bag of peanuts, squinting at every pitcher, including his son.

I never talked to Mr. Meyer before that quiet night in early May. I only knew his name because of his son, who mentioned off-hand that his dad, Bob Meyer, was a catcher who got drafted by the Hartsby Wizards in the mid-eighties. He played well for a minor league season, though bowed out abruptly he suddenly--inexplicably--lost the ability to throw accurately.

They call it "the yips". You're a professional athlete--a master of your chosen skill--who goes so far, rejecting other paths in life and education, before you suddenly forget how to work. It's like a switch flicks in your brain, and you're never back to the peak that you used to be.

Colton didn't play into college like his dad. He didn't even finish the senior year season.

The bullying didn't stop in class. There was this kid who went to our rival school: his mom came to every game as often as she went to Mass, mostly just to heckle on behalf of her son. She couldn't give half a shit about the actual game; something about Colton just struck her the wrong way.

Maybe it was his smooth skin to our silky fur, or the weird way he threw like his shoulder wore a fifty-pound weight, or that his parents--so quiet and humble--could have the nerve to support their adopted reptilian son so openly.

It came to a head in late-March. After Colton struck her son out for the third time that game, the belligerent Mrs. Beverley complained to the umpire. His follow-through was illegal. His grip had to be illegal. There was no way a kid with adhesive fingers could be allowed to hold a baseball.

My dad and I were in the parking lot soon after, walking to his truck, right behind the chit chatting Meyers. Colton was carrying the game ball; he just pitched a miraculous shutout.

The badger, Beverley, was opening her driver's seat door as the trio strode behind. She lost the battle with the umpire. Her eyes filled with scorn as the tall gecko entered her line of sight.

"Barbarian..." she muttered, before ducking back behind the door, shielding herself in panic.

SMASH!

Colton Meyer snatched the worn, dirt-stained baseball out of his glove, turning heel and firing a wide, gaping bullet hole through Mrs. Beverley's rear windshield.

Ten voices screamed over each other. My dad and I stood still and met each other's eyes. We wore matching smiles. It was glorious.

The Meyers never went back to those games. I saw Colton in school a few times, throughout that last year, though he never muttered more than a couple syllables to anyone. I think the bullies gave up, too. There was a myth that he whipped a triple digit fastball on that window-breaking sling.

The thing is, I never believed he could hurl something that hot. Colton's bread and butter was his changeup, through and through.

It's a funny pitch. Instead of two fingers, you line three on the top, thumb and pinky on the bottom: claw shape. You throw it like a fastball, but it comes out like its distorted cousin, with deceptively less velocity sailing over the plate. It's a popular trick to get the ball fouled off or rolling into an infielder's glove.

With Mr. Meyer standing right beside me, the last time we spoke being never, I stuffed an open paw into my glove and pulled out my best changeup grip. I wound up and fired.

It was slower than my fastball, dropping behind the plate and bouncing off the dirt where it clanked into the backstop. I turned my gaze to Mr. Meyer, expectantly.

"Whew!" he whistled. "That's a good 'un. Bet you could fool a batter or two, heh heh!"

I smiled. My phone buzzed in my pocket: game over. "Yeah." I didn't know what to say, so I bent down to pluck my next ball from the dirt.

"So, uh..." His thumbs were hooked in his pockets. He drummed his brown-furred fingers against his shorts. "Whatcha doin' out here at nine-thirty? Don't have classes tomorrow at..." he raised a paw and stroked his chin, "where are you going again?"

I reeled back and fired one of my better fastballs off the backstop.

Clank.

"I'm not going anywhere this year. Working. Today's my day off."

"Ah, I see." Mr. Meyer scratched behind his head. "You play ball, still? You're a pretty good hurler."

Standing straight. Glove up to my chest. Peering down an invisible batter. "Nah." Changeup, low and in-tight.

"Just practicing? Doin' it for fun?"

"Yup. Staying active and all, y'know." Fastball, high and off the plate. He probably would've swung at that.

"Uh huh...that's why I'm out walkin'," he said, drawling under his Lowell accent. "But who're you throwin' to? You have a buddy around or do you strut over to collect your balls after every sixth pitch?"

I shook my head, like I was answering an invisible catcher's signal. Mr. Meyer quieted as I kicked and threw my next pitch.

The ball shot up through the air, a bit outside of the left side of the zone, before quickly sinking inside and dropping behind the plate, where it sputtered to a stop in the dirt near the other five.

When I stepped off the mound, I happened to turn my head. Mr. Meyer was squinting at my arm.

"Your mechanics are off," he muttered.

"Huh?"

His eyes turned up to mine. "Not enough break on that pitch. Don't know if it wants to be a cutter or a slider, but you held it like a curveball; that's bad news. You're a fireballer, not a junkballer. Wasted potential for a southpaw, if you ask me."

"I..." the long-winded comment blitzed my mind and defied response. I bit my tongue. He played in the minors. "Okay, what should I do?"

"Here, fetch me a ball."

I jogged over to the plate and gathered all six, cradling them in my arms after shaking away some dirt. When I arrived to drop them beside the mound, he was standing on it.

"You've got good heat, but it's one-dimensional," he continued lecturing. "It's a guessing game with your changeup: fast or slow; stop or go. That works in high school, and it might work in college. Not workin' against Blake Chavez or Travis Heckinberry. That ball's hittin' the rafters above the scoreboard, heh."

Now I scoffed. "Yeah? When am I ever gonna pitch against those guys?"

The greying mink grunted as he bent over to snatch a ball from the ground. He bounced it between his paws, lacking a glove, and peered at the plate. He wound up with his right paw, raising his left leg to his chest, took a long lunge forward and threw his arm over his head. As his arm suddenly dropped, the curveball rolled out cleanly, drifting right of the plate and quickly breaking off towards the middle, bouncing in the dirt and rolling to the backstop.

Mr. Meyer was half on the ground, scrambling back up. After collecting himself and shaking off his legs, he stretched his arm and pumped it back and forth. "Phew! Bit more arm effort than my usual nine o'clock walk! You see the break in that ball?"

"Yeah, cut right over the plate." I thought he was a catcher.

He finished stretching and studied me carefully. "You see what I did? It's all in the arm. You gotta drop it quickly, let the ball slide out of your paw. It's what the pros do. You ever watch Garland? Used to be with the Woodpeckers after that bozo, Paulson, traded him off to Milfair. No clue how he got here." Meyer backed off the mound to let me take my spot after I rummaged for a ball.

"Traded for farm talent, I think. I mostly watch him for his fastball." Mostly.

Meyer laughed again, maybe a little condescending. "You should really watch for more! He's got a wicked release!" His phone buzzed and he yanked it from his pocket. "Speaking of the 'Hoppers, they won! But, shit, it's almost ten! I gotta get home and watch TrueRide. You take care, all right?"

He strolled all the way to the dugout before I could utter anything. "Wait! Mr. Meyer!"

The mellow mink turned his head halfway.

"I'm here this time on Wednesdays if you wanna, uh, teach me some more."

"Oh? You got a routine?" He turned around and raised his muzzle. "I'll take ya up on that a couple times. Nothin' else going on in this old man's life!" Steps receded past the dugout.

I turned my head back to the plate, glimpsing the imaginary catcher's signal. In the glove against my chest, I held a curveball.

---

May 10th. The Grasshoppers traded wins in their series against the Rattlers before an off-day on Tuesday. Wednesday's game started at a quarter to nine instead, so I was just settling in at Wintergrain by first pitch.

I was once through each team's batting order when a mink by the dugout caught my eye. I pulled out my earbuds.

"Hey!" Meyer exclaimed, hiding both paws behind his back and strutting to the mound. "Look what I brought!"

I glanced down as he waved his left paw. He wore a worn catcher's mitt: walnut brown over his chestnut fur. His shirt was the same as last time, yet now he tucked it in under tighter black basketball shorts.

Meyer balled a fist and punched his glove, grinning wide and crooked over imperfect teeth. "Show me yer heat, kid!"

My lone nod prompted him to waltz to the plate, where he faced me, bent his legs, and perched, raising his mitt in preparation.

I bounced a ball in my paw and thought for a moment. "Hold on!" I called. "Don't you have a mask? I don't wanna hit you!"

He chuckled deeply under his breath and called back to the mound. "Ah, you won't! Don't matter, anyways! My face ain't all that pretty!"

"I--all right..."

He settled into his stance, feet stone-still under tree trunk thighs. His cheekruffs stretched wide as he smiled. "What are you waiting for? Do you need a signal?" Meyer asked while I hesitated.

"No, I've got--"

"Fastball. Right down the middle." He squinted right through me while I got set.

I wound up and threw. Slow changeup, dipping near the plate as he scooped it low. Quickly came a bullet back to me before I could even prepare, forcing me to snap my glove out to snag it.

"That's not a fastball!" The old mink's eyes looked fearless, youthful. "C'mon, harder! Show me that heat!"

This time, I wound up more deliberately. When I stretched my arm over my head, out came a fastball, blasting hard down the zone, smacking right in the net of his glove.

"Yeah, there we go!" He lobbed the ball back. Right on target. "Toss it again!"

I slid him a grin and lined two fingers atop the seams.

---

We kept meeting like this, two or three times a week, spending hours working on my mechanics and delivery. He never looked wobbly on his feet behind the plate, despite the beatings I routinely gave his left paw. They never looked great, he assured me: he took a lot of these pitches back in the day. He rarely even missed my wild throws, simply encouraging me to focus on accuracy while firing the ball back with zeal.

The library job helped, weirdly enough. I found books on pitches, learning how to perfect delivery and alter my windup to get the most out of my effort. I went to the gym every couple mornings, steadily improving my power and stamina.

Meyer was still the biggest help, and of course, it was mostly for my curveball.

The Grasshoppers started to tank through the months of June and July. I still listened to their games, though never as I threw to Meyer. Injuries sank the team below an even record, causing them to ship off some of their best talent. Rob Garland, my role model on the mound, was shipped back to the Western League--all the way in Hartsby.

But, as I said, I found myself developing a new crush by this point.

It was August 2nd, 2017: my 21st birthday. These days used to serve as a wakeup call in the heat of summer--the age-old sense of trepidation at the upcoming grind of the school year. Ever since I left high school, August felt hollow in comparison: no longer a passage to the next rung on the ladder of my life, now just a long reminder of my stagnant job while my friends worked for expensive degrees.

This time of year, I used to follow the Grasshoppers' playoff hopes as if they'd determine whether I lived or died. By now, I used their games as a metronome for my pitches: the count and hitter determining where I placed each ball based on my memory of what they swung at. When Meyer showed up to catch, we made up scenarios and he gave me signals.

I wasn't expecting him at the diamond this evening. The past weekend his son came over from his mom's place to visit, so we skipped out on those days without determining when we'd continue our drills. Nevertheless, at half-past-eight, I noticed the sly mink waddling behind the dugout, carrying his glove and a little cooler. When we met each other's gaze, he beckoned me over with the mitt.

Stuffing my earbuds in my pocket, I jogged over to meet him at his destination: the red wooden booth behind the backstop where the scorekeepers would sit, underneath a Baxrey flag which slouched through still, swampy nights. It struck me as odd, as he typically kept a bag of peanuts in the dugout, never venturing further past the fence.

As I climbed up one end of the booth, he set the cooler down on a ledge next to an abandoned scorebook. He lifted the lid off, urging me to peek in and find two cans of beer submerged in a pit of ice.

Meyer's toothy grin shimmered in the glow of the field lights. "Happy birthday!"

"I..." I glanced between him and the cooler. "How did you know?"

"Ruthless interrogation," he joked, lounging back on the bench and looking far too pleased with himself. "You wanna drink now, or d'ya wanna play ball first?"

I reached in and grabbed one of the two, pushing the tab with a click and a fizz, then peering down at the opened can.

As I glimpsed up, Meyer was already finishing a swig. "Been working on your curve over the weekend?"

"'Course, been in the workshop for months!" I matched his swig. Bitter. I grimaced while he looked away; it's the thought that counts.

"Looked good last week. Your snap's getting a little weak, though. Think I told you that."

"You did." I took another brisk sip, then set the can down beside the cooler. "So, how's Colt?"

Meyer hesitated for a moment. "Good, good. School's goin' well for him; metallurgy's a good fit. Been a bit weird with me since Marg and I split. It's getting better, though. Asked him if he wanted to come to the diamond with me." He shook his head. "Said he don't wanna play anymore."

I played with the straps on my glove and scanned his body, from his arm holding the can up to his muzzle, to his spread thighs, down to his tail curled towards me: half crooked from the time he supposedly jammed it in a door. I looked at my own three-ringed tail, also curled on the bench between us. I flicked mine against his, fluff brushing fluff.

The fur bristled on his arm. "Sorry," he said, hastily, setting down the can and picking up his mitt. "You wanna get out there now?"

1. The Curve

It was a familiar position by this point: me on the mound, holding my glove up to my chest, staring down a crouching Meyer as he gestured to send me a long-memorized signal.

The standard, age-old curveball. Two fingers across one seam, thumb matching on the other side. You grip the ball in a "C" shape, maneuvering your fingers like you're holding like a wine glass: fitting, because the ball cuts a tipsy curl. That's what Meyer told me. That's what I think of every time I step up to the mound to get those three outs. It's one of the harder pitches to throw, and one of the easiest to send careening into the dirt.

By August 2017, after three months of studying the pitch and practicing with Meyer, I could throw a pretty mean one. That's what happened as I let go of this pitch, letting it slide right under my finger as I jerked my arm down. It sailed up towards Meyer's shoulder, when it broke off to dip down into a trailing glove below his knees.

The grin hit his face before the ball slapped his glove. Collecting it with his other paw, he turned that look up to me. "Woah! Never seen you break it that hard!"

I stretched my arm back and forth, loosening it up as he hurled the ball back to me with so much intensity I was surprised he didn't tip over. It's funny--he never had an issue with my glove as a target.

"Toss that again," Meyer ordered. "Righty at the plate. Two-two count. Coming out swinging. Try and jam him!"

I bounced the ball in my paw and took my stance. Now with the windup: right leg up, tail flicking my back, watching the glove, visualizing my pitch. Still. Methodical. The long stride forward, the launch and release, like the snap of a bowstring.

I had the perfect motion, and the arc looked good. It spun promisingly to the plate before breaking nicely into a frowning Meyer's glove.

"Ball three! You gave away too much!"

"What!? That was my--"

"He saw it in your eyes!" He tossed the ball back and adjusted his shorts, tugging at his crotch. "Full count. Heater, high and away."

I shook my head.

"Heater. Low and outside. Last out of the game."

After a moment of concession, I slowly nodded. Two fingers on top, thumb on the bottom. Glove on my chest. Game on my chest.

I whipped burning a fastball right at the mitt by his legs. I blinked, and the ball clanked off the backstop a ways away.

Meyer hollered in pain, crashing back into the dirt and grasping his leg. I was sprinting up the plate in seconds as he writhed about on the ground.

"I--oh my god..." I stuttered, dropping to my knees as he rolled onto his back and winced, clutching his knee. "Are you okay!?"

The anguished mink stomped his other foot in the dirt while he leaned his head back and grit his teeth. "Yeah, yeah," he answered shakily, fur bristling, tail lashing. "I just...ah...closed my mitt early. Knocked my knee. Mother-fucker..."

"God, I'm sorry..." I slid a paw behind his shoulders, trying to help him sit up. "You want me to--"

He swatted a paw at the air. "Nah, nah! I can walk it off. Not yer fault. That might'a gone one hundred...goddamn..."

It took him a few moments of foot tapping and heavy breathing before his legs stopped shaking. Sitting up next to me, he dropped an arm back over my shoulder.

"You wanna go to the dugout?" I asked. "I can carry you, grab the cooler."

His breath still came out coarse. "No. I can walk if you help."

We rose with a collective grunt: me carrying most of his weight and alleviating the burden of his bad leg while we hobbled to the booth at the back. When we had to climb up, he stumbled a bit, but tugged himself up by gripping the railing. Finally, he dropped himself onto the bench and leaned back against the wall of the wooden structure.

Meyer gazed at his beer as I joined him. "Gonna need to down all of this shit," he chuckled, then looked at my can: nearly full. "That still cold? You don't hafta drink it."

As he reached for his own can to take a sip, I grabbed mine. "Yeah, still cool. You want it?"

"Nah, nah." Teeth grit again. "Just hold it on my leg. Not my first rodeo with this knee."

I carefully moved the can in place, trying to align the broadest side possible with his dusty fur without spilling it. My eyes traced off to the side, and for a moment, I forgot about what I had done. Something about all this felt so weird. We were physically closer than we'd ever been for this stretch of time, and all I wanted was to help him feel better. So, I thought it'd be nice to wrap my other paw around his shoulders.

His fur didn't bristle like last time. He silently leaned against my arm.

I spoke softly, smiling at this unusual allowance of intimacy. "I was a bit off target, I think. Shouldn't've whipped it when you weren't wearing pads."

Meyer peered out at the field, solemnly. The silence grew on long enough in the still night that the sound of his voice made me twitch in surprise. "You remind me of an old friend." That thousand-yard stare turned to me. "Talk just like him."

"Hm?"

"He was a pitcher in college. Raccoon." His muzzle gained a smile that swiftly faded into the dark backdrop of distant trees. "Lost him in an accident."

"Oh." I tightened my arm around him.

He hesitated, then added, quietly, "He was my first love."

If it were not for the context, my ears would've shot up faster than a starting pistol. Instead, they fell in sympathy. "I'm...so sorry."

"Thought I moved on when I met Marg," Meyer added, relaxing and stringing an arm under mine to wrap it around my back, "just hurts worse when I'm alone again."

I wasn't sure what to say. Everything felt clumsy for a moment, and I couldn't construct an earnest sentence. Slowly, I lifted my paw from his far shoulder and wrapped it around his neck, coaxing his muzzle to face mine.

His piercing brown eyes were vulnerable, studying me carefully.

In response, I closed my eyes, leaning forward and locking our wide muzzles in a kiss.

He tensed up in surprise, grasp tightening against my back, before that grip softened along with his whiskers drooping against my snout. I didn't try to coax him with my tongue; I just held the pose, eyes closed, carefully holding my breath as if releasing it would blow him away like dust on home plate.

When we pulled away, I finally opened my eyes to study his reaction.

Bewilderment, and a little excitement. "Didn't know you swing that way," he huffed.

I smirked. "I don't swing. I bunt."

He laughed so abruptly it sounded fake, but there was a heartfelt glow in his eyes, carried into the embarrassed dip of his ears.

I rubbed our tails together, and this time he didn't react. The can was an ice cube in my paw, so I set it down, briefly. "Mr. Meyer--"

"Bob," he interrupted, grimacing, "please."

"Sure thing. And hey, you're cuter than Garland."

Confusion covered his face. "What? The pitcher?"

"It's--uh..." I waved a paw dismissively. "Nothing. Forget that."

Bob gazed out at the park. "Hmph. Well, hey, you look better than that whole team of prima donnas. Could be a model if you weren't such a great hurler."

He grunted, leg wobbling, as I shot ahead to half-hug him from the side. His arms soon found his way around my shoulders, tugging me in.

We held it for a long moment, awkwardly stretched towards each other in the booth behind the silent ballpark. Feeling bold, I ran my free right paw down his side, towards his thigh...across his crotch.

He stiffened immediately, then loosened with a deep breath. "Young'uns," he chuckled, "all about sex."

Promptly--maybe thankfully, considering his maturity--I found something else stiffening in my paw, pressing against his light shorts.

Breaking the hug meant ending an incredible affectionate moment. I felt this all the way until I was down on my knees, in between his, pawing down the elastic of his shorts and peeking into his underwear. I peered at his equipment: growing a little over five inches, if I had to guess.

He picked up both of our beers, taking a swig of his and laying mine back against his leg, grumbling, "If you're not gonna hold this, it better be a damn good blowjob."

I held his stocky penis with my glove hand, pumping it a couple times and smiling at him. "Ah, don't worry! I'm not above tossing an ol' spitball!"

Bob groaned again at my joke, until a matching grin spread across his face as he leaned back and closed his eyes. "I will say, it's been a long while since I've, uh...done this kinda thing."

His pink shaft grew hard enough to point up at my nose, inviting my muzzle toward, waiting for its kiss. I began with a couple long, slow licks up his shaft, trailing my tongue under the ridge of his glans.

Soon came a little swish of his crooked tail, then some tightness in his legs around my shoulders.

I stared up at him as I took his full length in my mouth, waiting for him to open his eyes. Waiting to see if they'd reciprocate the same spark as I felt. I bobbed back and forth--at first a little jittery, having to adjust a couple times before the motion was comfortable and not a stack of bricks on my neck--before I started to incorporate my tongue too, just like I read online.

I figured I was doing okay when Bob sucked in a little breath, cracked open a lustful eye, and mumbled, "You a regular cocksucker?"

Surely the obstructed head shake I gave him looked a little silly. He smiled, but it wasn't one of mockery.

"You're all right." He strained forward to place a can down, then brought that cold paw down to rub between my ears, ducking me down further on his cock. "Not that I could say--heh, heh!"

I didn't have much to do with my arms, so I raised them: right paw draped over his thigh, left paw cupping his balls, holding them in that five finger changeup grip. It helped me to think of it like that, like I was getting in the zone, shedding insecurity of countless eyes on the mound. There were no fans at this park, however: just my catcher, who peered at me fondly before turning his eyes away and groaning in pleasure.

The paw over my head caught in the fur between my ears. His grip tightened, tranquil moaning growing urgent and loud.

As the first spurt hit my tongue, I shut my eyes and jerked my muzzle faster. Two. Three.

"Good god, Rince," he whined, legs clamping against my arms, "gah-damn..."

I hopped off of his length with a pop, shifting a paw to stroke him through the conclusion of his climax. After licking my muzzle, I gave him my best sultry smile.

He gasped once more in satisfaction. When I rose, he scratched his balls and rose an eyebrow. "You been waitin' a while for that?"

"Yeah, I figured I was behind," I answered, wiping my snout and smirking, "I've been watching the Grasshoppers suck dick all year."

Bob snorted, then eyed me shrewdly. "Me too. I gotta say you're far more talented, though."

I carefully rose up between his thighs and met his muzzle in a calm, lasting kiss.

---

I didn't quite realize the extent of his double entendre until next spring. Throughout the winter, we kept up our training, opting for a once-a-week regiment due to cooler temperatures. On off-days, I'd head to his house, where we ate together, trained together, and sucked each other's dicks, of course. His knee healed okay after a couple doctor's visits; he just made sure to wear more equipment in the future, including pads and a black catcher's mask.

In November, he called me up to remind me I came a long way since we started working together, and to keep an eye out for opportunities. The next day, I got a call from his old agent: a sturdy old crocodile, still in the business to finance the charity endeavours of his wife. Bob and his agent told me I could hit it big if I played my cards right.

In December, Leira City was hosting a tryout camp. I drove about an hour out of Grera to get there early, dressed in my old high school uniform, plus an Aardvarks cap I picked up on the way to look like a home-towner. Bob teased me on the phone for bowing to Grera's perennially successful division rival. I told him I'd do whatever it took to gain an edge.

An edge I did not gain, in fact; my arm was jittery after a poor night of sleep, tossing my best velocity but missing the plate. It was hard without Bob to catch for me.

Try two: Fischwand's camp in January. I drove three hours to the scorching coastal city, this time buying a team cap beforehand. My directions led me to a minor league park in the heart of the palm tree-studded downtown where I lined up with about a hundred other hopefuls--notably fewer than the crowd in Leira.

Having done the routine, I was loosened up for it. Fielding, throwing--even batting and sprinting for us pitchers. I flew through the motions and left confident in the showcase of my skills. When they published the evaluations, I hadn't made the cut.

Shit. Where do you go from there, right?

The library was downsizing on behalf of cut funding from the city. It crossed my mind that I might need to find new work fast. Bob's agent found me another chance.

Lowell, the other side of the continent: the Woodpeckers needed new pitching talent in their system. I flew out to the northern coast on February 5th, uniform in my luggage, Bob Meyer in the seat beside me. You know how this goes.

February 7th, 2018. Half past three. I slid my phone away as a staffer called me up to the mound. Bob was in the second row behind the backstop. My best fastballs crashed into the catcher's mitt; my changeups broke over the plate; my curveballs drew short hooks through the air.

When I stepped off, Bob was nodding at me with his wide, toothy grin. I retreated back to the stands, tail swishing, where I sat with him silently. A couple minutes later, a skinny crocodile strode by with a clipboard, donning a faded Woodpeckers shirt.

"Ey, ringtail!" he called, handing me a small piece of paper. "Good hurling. Here's your number."

When I took the slip, his eyes bore a lethal glare. "Don't. Lose it. You'll need it later to see if you made it." His gaze turned up to Bob, confused, then softening. "You his dad? Raised a good pitcher!"

Bob chuckled as I quickly attempted to correct the crocodile, now out of earshot and sauntering to his next target.

That crocodile was the manager of the Woodpeckers' Double-A club. I found that out when I made his team that spring.

It took me a couple years to break into the majors, much less earn the position of a high-pressure situation kind of guy.

I thrive in the pressure, though. It reminds me why I'm here.

Bob's still in Grera, just with a new job. Rather than working construction contracts in his early fifties, his old agent found him a gig as a bullpen catcher on the Grasshoppers, helping pitchers prepare for their appearances.

He helped me prepare, too. I make sure to tell him that every time we meet up, whenever our teams face off and he inevitably ends up on my dick. It's customary: he's my catcher. And I'm his favourite pitcher. I remember that every time I take the mound to get those last three outs, and every time we press our muzzles together in another long-anticipated kiss.

He was right about me back in 2017, I've come to realize. I've always thrown fastballs, but they've never really been straight.