Page 111 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
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Strike Out
MYRA MCENTIRE
Ben
“SO BENNY . . . EXACTLY what shade of blue are your gonads?”
I ignore Spinelli and pull the threadbare towel tighter around my waist. I’m not ashamed of the package, I’m just beginning to wonder if it’s shriveling up from disuse.
“Have you left the common color family? Sky, ocean, cornflower . . . tell me, have you wondered over to periwinkle territory?”
I open my locker and take out my shave kit. “Thank you for your interest in my balls.”
“Too bad no one else has any.” He starts dancing around the lockers, doing obscene things to the open ones. “If you’d come out with us every once in a while, maybe you could drum some up.”
“I’ll leave the clubbing to you.”
“Club and conquer. All the ladies. Maybe even the one you have your eye on.” This, followed by more locker humping.
Spinelli holds court like a king, and his subjects pay him honor with their laughter. Even the Dominican guys who don’t speak English understand his innuendo.
The pelvic thrusts help.
“Speaking of dicks, what about yours?” I ask. “Did you call the exterminator yet? About your little infestation problem?”
Spinelli frowns.
I leave my meaning to soak in as I head for the sink to shave. Major leaguers can have more whiskers than the entire Duck Dynasty cast, but minor leaguers have to be baby-faced. I assume someone in public relations hopes it will perpetuate the wholesome image of the boys of summer. No fool with a lick of sense is buying that shit. Dedication might rule the day when we’re at the field, but debauchery takes over when we leave it.
For most of us.
“They’d stop giving you hell if you’d just get laid.”
I drop my shave kit on the sink and turn on the water to let it heat up before facing my best friend. “Not true. They’d just find a way to make hell smell different.”
Taye Adams and I met when we were both drafted out of high school four years ago. I signed for a good deal many more bills than he did, but we’ve both made a “meteoric rise” to Triple A. The sportswriters love us equally. And until I’d set eyes on one Liza Perez, so had the ladies.
“Two hot ones are waiting for me outside the clubhouse.” Taye splashes his cheeks with cold water, but I can barely tell he’s shaved. “One of them is tall with dark hair. You could always sublimate.”
“You can handle them both. Surplus testosterone and your wicked vocabulary always serve you well.”
“Big words are like crack to college girls, and I need a smart woman who can support me if this elbow blows out. I’m thinking about my future.” Taye runs his hand over his chest, which he has waxed every week. Good thing. He’s the hairiest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. He lowers his voice. “You still aren’t having any luck making Liza part of yours?”
I focus on the steam rising from the sink. “Zilch.”
Wisely, Taye goes back to his hygienic routine, which involves a lot of floss and Listerine. With his relentless sexual pursuits, disinfectant is probably a good choice for him. I stick my face in the vapor coming from the sink and breathe.
I’ve timed how long I have to wait to run into Liza in the parking lot.
By then, everyone else is gone, my stomach is growling, and the clubbie, Jumbo, has already washed the all uniforms. He’s transferring them to the dryer when I slide an envelope with a fifty onto his cart. I have the means to tip, so I do. Clubbies know things, and they have access to jockstraps and plenty of Ben-Gay. Plus he’s local. I need all the help I can get in this town, so I try to keep him on my good side.
I’ve never been able to get anywhere close to Liza’s.
She is a legend.
Spring training locker room talk schooled me about the girl who’d started as summer help, moved on to intern, and as of last September, became a full-time employee. The girl with legs all the way to her teeth and blue-black hair that refuses to stay in a ponytail. The girl who can handle a fan who’s indulged in one too many dollar beers. Who can sell out every season ticket seat with her smile. The girl who drives a 1965 lipstick red Mustang and won’t give baseball
