Chelsea, 34

Chapter 12

Chelsea, 34

Most of my first dates are for dinner and drinks. I know it isn’t the most imaginative choice, but it’s easy, available all hours of the day, and is a lower pressure, public setting that’s conducive for getting to know someone. Yet every so often, the conversations I’ve had with women prior to meeting them in person have led to some interesting locations and activities for our first date. There was one girl I met at the museum of science, one I played a few rounds of mini-golf with, another I took bowling �" but I’m not sure Chelsea could have selected an adventure that would’ve made me more excited than I am for today’s outing. I’ve got my old glove, half a dozen baseballs, and an aluminum bat in the back of my minivan with Leia, because right now it's Saturday morning and I’m driving to meet Chelsea, 34 to play baseball. 

I love sports, which not everyone knows because I’m not one of those idiots who yells at the TV screen while the Patriots are playing, or says things like, “We’re going all the way this year,” when talking about The Red Sox, as though I’m a member of the team. I’ve never understood that. I watch some of the games, but not religiously like many people I know. But I love to play just about any sport that I’m capable of doing at this age, and in my current physical condition. 

Baseball was my favorite sport growing up. I loved the game, and played every year from the time I was about six until I graduated high school. I was an All-Star every year through little league and in Babe Ruth, and played on the varsity team in high school. I was a decent hitter, and a pretty good pitcher �" and today, I’m psyched to get out of the field and relive my glory days �" and I’m not the only one. 

Chelsea mentioned she loved baseball in her profile, so when I matched with her, it was an obvious topic of conversation. Turns out she played little league too, was on the softball team in high school, and was the captain of her fast-pitch softball team in college. Very impressive, and when she asked if I wanted to go hit a few balls around, it was a huge turn on for me for a multitude of reasons. Sports have not traditionally been something I’ve shared with my exes, and I love the idea of being with someone who’ll get out there and do something physical with me that we both enjoy, that’s essentially working out, but isn’t tedious and boring. 

Still, I do have a few reservations. Chelsea looked great in her pictures �" like someone I imagined to be down to earth and possessing a natural, effortless beauty, and she seemed quite articulate in her beautifully scribed profile �" but she’s definitely the outdoorsy type and while I love getting out into the world and experiencing it first-hand, I’m also particularly fond of my couch, and living that lifestyle vicariously through TV shows and movies. 

I’m also hyper-aware that once baseball entered our conversation, it was all we talked about for hours. At first, we shared stories of a few of our most memorable moments on the field, but then for about an hour she went on this winded explanation of her entire 2002 high school softball season �" including a game-by-game breakdown, personal statistics (even oddly specific ones like her fielding percentage in day games), and then it culminated in a twenty minute pitch-by-pitch analysis of her last at bat in the state championship in which she (her words not mine) “took that b***h deep”. I tried changing the subject repeatedly so I could get a better sense of who she is as a person, but she kept circling us right back. The 2003 season was a doozy �" so I get feeling that maybe she’s a little… obsessed.

Despite my apprehensions, and expecting there’s little chance that Chelsea’s the one even before we’ve met, as I pull into the parking lot, there’s a childish excitement in me. The thought of playing baseball makes me feel like a kid at Christmas again. 

As I leash up Leia, grab my gear and start walking through the parking lot, my legs feeling stiff and my over-the-age of thirty back tight, I realize there’s a wildcard at play today. I talked a pretty big game about how good I used to be at baseball, but it’s been about twelve years, maybe longer since the last time I’ve picked up a ball or swung a bat. On top of that, I’m thirty-three years old, and not nearly in the kind of shape I used to be back when I was high school, so it might take awhile for me to shake the rust off. So, I don’t know what to expect out of today, but considering that I’ve only walked about two hundred feet and I’m already sore and breathing heavier, I’m mostly just hoping I don’t embarrass or hurt myself. 

As soon as the diamond is in view, I see there’s someone already out the field, standing at home plate with a bat in one hand, a bright yellow softball in the other. I can’t tell if it's Chelsea from this far away, or even if it’s a man or woman. I’d be surprised if it is her because I’m about twenty minutes early, but as Leia and I get closer, a woman’s shape comes into view. She’s wearing a red and orange jersey with number 15 on the back… and she does seem to look a lot like the person I saw in the profile pictures. It must be her. 

I’m about to call to her, when she tosses the ball up, grips the bat with both hands and swings. There’s an echoing metallic ding and the ball goes flying deep into left-center field.  I marvel at it, impressed by how high it soars, when I suddenly see a white blur flash by out of the corner of my eye, and my jaw drops in awe as she sprints, mind you SPRINTS full speed around the bases like she’s frickin Usain Bolt in the Olympics, which is shocking enough �" but as the ball clangs into the fence, she rounds third base and comes barreling down the line like a bull seeing red - then dives, mind you DIVES and skids about ten feet through the dirt head first into home. She leaps immediately to her feet, every inch of clothing from ankle to chin covered in dirt, raises her arms and celebration and the shout of “Safe!” echoes through the field �" then takes off and sprints AGAIN into the outfield to collect the ball. I don’t know if it’s the most adorably endearing, or the most extraordinarily intense scene I’ve ever set eyes on �" but I know one thing. She’s looking damn attractive right now.

“Chelsea?” I call out. She’s way out at the wall, sees me and waves, then fires the ball back in from the outfield and sprints towards me. 

“Hey! You’re early,” she says, bubbly, and not the least bit winded. “Oh my god. Is this Leia? She’s soooo cute.” 

“Yeah, this is my Leia,” I say. Chelsea’s already down on the grass playing with her, alleviating me of any reservations I had about us, and boosting my spirits about the possibility that this could turn into something. 

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“You want to bat first?” Chelsea asks. 

“Sure,” I shrug. I step into the batter’s box, kick the dirt around a little, spin the bat around in my hands and stare out at Chelsea. She stretches, does a few jumping jacks, makes little circles with her arms like I used to do in elementary school gym class, then jogs in place for about thirty seconds before she steps onto the mound. Her energy level is astounding. She spits into her hand, picks up one of the softballs, does some standing in place jumps, digs her feet into the dirt  then glares down the plate with a ferocious scowl. In an instant her arms, legs and other appendages I didn’t know existed appear and she looks like an octopus with 10 different balls slinging around every direction.

WHOOSH. It paralyzes me. In the blink of an eye the ball has already whizzed past me, a strike right down the middle of the plate. 

I take a step back and let out a deep breath. I wasn’t expecting underhand, and definitely not at that speed. 

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I’m only moderately embarrassed as we round up the balls that I managed to hit, after swinging and missing at the first ten or so pitches �" me walking now at normal, leisurely pace and Chelsea darting all over like she’s training for a decathlon. Sure, it took me a while to get used to softballs being hurled my direction in a manner I’ve experienced maybe twice in my life, and then to adjust back to the starkly contrasting sizzling baseballs being gunned overhand faster than I remember them ever appearing - but I made solid contact a few times. I held my own at the plate, but like I said, I was a better pitcher. 

I stand on the mound for the first time in about twelve years, my glove on my hand, surrounded by a pile of baseballs and softballs, experiencing a wonderful sense of youthful nostalgia. Chelsea steps stands next to the batter’s box, touches her toes a few times, does a few lunges, then picks up the bat and takes some fierce practice swings.  

“How do you want me to throw? Overhand? Underhand?” 

“Doesn’t matter,” she shrugs. 

“Fast or slow?” 

“Don’t care, just bring it.” 

I’ll start off slow. Chelsea steps into the box, pinwheels the bat around a few times and takes her stance. I start my windup and lob one right over the plate. She snatches it barehand out of the air. 

“Harder,” she says, gunning the ball right to my chest. I wonder if she’s this intense about every aspect of her life. I toss the next one a notch harder �" a strike right down the middle, but she lets it go by. The bat drops to her shoulder and she glares out at me, and through clenched teeth says, “I said harder.” 

A part of me is starting to think this is getting way too serious �" but there’s also this competitive streak in me that rears itself every now and then, so even though I haven’t thrown in a dozen years and my aim might be a little off, and I doubt she can handle my fast ball �" if she wants me to throw harder, I’ll throw harder. 

I grab another ball, stare down the plate where I envision a catcher’s mitt waiting for me to hit it with a leathery thwap. I wind up and I left one fly �" not full speed, but enough that I can feel muscles being used in my arm that have been dormant for more than a third of my life. The pitch sails right down the middle and Chelsea whips the bat around and smacks the ball on a sizzling line into right field. Damn, I’m impressed. 

“That’s it. Do that again. Even harder this time. Give me mooooore,” she moans. This is beginning to resemble some steamy dirty talk, and I must say it’s turning me on. I let the next pitch go a little faster and she cranks the ball harder, further than the last. 

“Faster. Give it to me!” She roars, her words suddenly making the temperature on the field jump about fifteen degrees. I reach down for one of the baseballs for the first time and whirl it around in my hand. I toe the rubber, feel the groove of the laces in my grasp, and I don’t feel like a kid again. I am a kid again. I toe the rubber, glare in and go into my full wind-up and I fire one without holding back and the ball whizzes past her as she swings and misses. 

“Yeah, baby. I love it. UNGH!” She grunts, inciting a stirring down below. Wild as this may be, I’m not sure I’ve ever been more turned on by anyone or anything than I am by Chelsea. I’ve heard that men spend a ridiculous amount time thinking about sex each day, and there’s no doubt truth in this notion �" but most of those are fleeting, transitory thoughts that pass with little cognizance. Right now, though, it’s all I can think about. 

“You like that?” I ask as I reach down for another ball, both asking a legitimate question and attempting to reciprocate the plausibly deniable sexual innuendo back her way. 

“No, I love that,” she moans, “Give it to me again. Harder baby. Harder.”   

… anyway, my mind is elsewhere right now �" and as I take the mound for my next pitch, I think it’s time that we pause for a moment so I can tell you something about me and baseball. Like I said, I was an all-star pitcher for years. I’m not world class, and never really thought there was even a chance I could go pro, but I was pretty good. Still, there were times when I could be a little wild when I pitched. I once threw a no-hitter in Babe Ruth league, struck out seventeen batters �" and lost the game 1-0.

I’ll never forget that day. I was in the zone, mowing batters down left and right - until my girlfriend at the time Katie Garrett came to the fence near the dugout right before the ninth inning and told me her parents were out of town, that we would have the house and her jacuzzi all to ourselves all night. I took the mound in the ninth, walked two batters in a row, then hit two in a row �" and gave up the only run of the game. It made headlines in the sports page of the local paper under the headline “Pitcher Throws One-Hitter, Loses Game 1-0”. So, before we get back to today, just know: I can be a little wild, especially when my mind is on something else. Sex, namely. 

I wind up and the ball leaves my hand and I’m already cringing. My mouth is already stirring towards vocalizing the word “s**t”, and I’m planning my most sincere and heart-felt apology as I release. I’ve thrown enough pitches in my life that I know right away that the ball is heading straight at her �" not towards her ankle, a*s or shoulder �" but straight at her head. She’s frozen, and it happens in an instant �" the bat drops, she doesn’t move her hand, her hand goes up and the balls WHAPS against her fingers and ricochets directly at her unprotected temple with a deep, grotesque thump. 

“S**t, s**t, s**t!” I call out as she goes crashing to the ground motionless and limp. I run towards her, feeling just about as horrible as I can imagine anyone has ever felt, like a complete douchebag. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” 

She stirs on the ground, both scowling and grinning simultaneously as she glares up at me and growls, "What the f**k? I thought you were good!"

“I’m so sorry. Are you alright?” There’s a big red welt on the side of her face. I reach down to help her up but she shoves my hands away. 

“Jesus Christ,” she says, lifting herself to her feet, looking a little dazed. 

“I can’t believe I did. I’m so sorry. Let me see it,” hoping I didn’t leave a bruise. I genuinely feel horrible, but’s back on her feet doing neck twirls and jumping squats, so I’m guessing she’s okay. She picks up the bat, points it at me and motions towards the mound. 

“I’m fine. I got my hand up at least. Now get back out there,” she commands. 

“Are… you… sure?” 

“Yeah, I’m f*****g sure,” she spits. 

“Alright,” I sigh. This is a terrible idea. “I’m going to slow it down a little. We shouldn’t be doing this without a helmet.” 

“I don’t need a goddamn helmet!” She grunts, taking her batting stance.

I’m equally turned on �" and horrified. As I walk back to the mound, wondering the likelihood that she’s mildly concussed, my mind spirals back to one day in little league when I was a kid, maybe twelve or thirteen �" when I hit one of my closest friends, Jimmy Graham, three times in the same game. Now, I swear on Leia’s life that it wasn’t intentional, and that the root cause of my inability to throw strikes was because Paul Kennedy’s mother, who was the hottest mom who ever lived, was in the bleachers right behind the plate. She had this low-cut top on and she kept leaning down and giving me a full view of heaven. My attention was elsewhere, but regardless of the cause, Jimmy and I were no longer friends after that day. 

I step onto the mound, let out a deep breath and stare at Chelsea, sixty feet, six inches away with a glazed look in her eyes but a serious game-face on, her lips motioning the words “Bring the heat”, and as I go into my window �" a “what if” possibility drifts into my mind. What if, like Jimmy Graham on that fateful day, I hit her again? It is this thought that stays with me as the ball leaves my hand. 

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I’m back in the car, looking in the mirror at the large stinging red welt on my neck where the ball hit me. My students will likely assume it’s a hickey, and I’d rather have them believe that than have to confess the truth. I was able to narrowly dodge the spiraling bat that was hurled back at me just seconds after I hit Chelsea for a second time, thankfully on her ankle, which must have stung like hell �" but while I successfully dodged the metallic projectile, I could not get out of the way of the balls being fired back at me. In addition to taking two off my knee, one off the a*s and another off the neck �" my ego, too, is somewhat bruised, and a part of me knows I deserve this. I don’t think I’ll be hearing from Chelsea again.

The strangest part of this whole endeavor is that Chelsea stayed after I left, throwing balls up into the air by herself, hitting them all over the field then running them down. I feel bad for what I did, terrible even �" but I could never be with someone with that level of energy and intensity.