TM is on the phone. We do our little dance. I walk up the stairs, slow. He stands up and cranes his neck to watch me. I look down to see his reaction. He motions me to come back down the stairs which I do, because I am shameless. I don’t know what kind of view he is getting, because I am wearing a thong, which covers most of my girly parts. He stares for a while, then smiles, slightly, gives me a thumbs up, and mouths "good." This is my cue to leave, of course, since he is still actually on the phone. However, I wait until he finishes.
M: It’s not fair. I mean, you get your little show every day, and I get … nothing. 

TM: Heh. Well. (shrugs) What do you want me to do? You want a show?

M: Yeah.

TM: Heh.

He gives me a show.

M: Well. (laughs, shocked) That’s fair. 

 

He grins and exits. Did he go into the clubhouse like that? Because I mean, I think that time it might have been rather obvious.

After the game, I leave at the same time as [Infielder], again. He is on his phone, but looks at me and waves. He is so cute, I just love him. I don’t care what anyone says.

TM is talking on his phone in the stairwell. He sees me coming and motions that I need to spread my legs further apart as I am coming down the stairs so he can see up my skirt. I oblige him and continue on my way. When I come back down, we have the following conversation:

TM: You need to take your panties off. There's too much in the way.

M: Oh yeah? You want me to?

TM: Mm-hmm. But where would you put them?

M: (THAT'S the concern here??) I don't know. I could just carry them.

TM: You COULD put them in there. (He points to the trashcan.)

M: But I like them. They're cute; they have a little bow on them. I could put them behind there (points to the radiator thing) and get them later.

TM: Yeah, do that.

M: Do you really want me to?

TM: No, you don't have to. You're getting all nervous.

[Ops Guy] walks in. TM reflexively lifts his phone as if he's on it, but then sees who it is and says hey to him. Ops Guy continues up the stairs.

TM: (slightly louder than necessary) Well, just think about ways we can do that and get back to me, okay?

M: (shaking my head) I'm coming right back. Will you wait?

TM: (nods)

BUT I am going to take a Player of the Month form ballot (or something) to Manager, so you know I am not about to take off my panties. When I walk back into the stairwell, TM perks up, and I just feel awful because I have to disappoint him. (Hah. I don’t feel awful at all. He is BAD!) 

M: They’re still on.

TM: Oh. I thought you were going to go take them off.

M: No, I was talking to [Manager]. I could come back down, later, if you’ll be out here.

TM: Well…I gotta go to a meeting. 

I go back down once more, just because, and TM is there. He stands up and motions me into the correct position so he can see, but I giggle and almost don’t do it, because I am self-conscious and I do not feel sexy. I mean, he knows exactly what’s there, but still. Anyway, I manage to make a pass, but I rush it. Later he says, "I saw," and he grins.

 

During the game, I head down to talk to my sports reporter friend. Predictably, we talk about the players, specifically TM, because he always comes up, always. He and [Big Leaguer] are sitting at the end of the dugout. She says, "Yeah, they're totally staring at us." Of course, we are staring at them. I wonder what they are talking about. I have no idea what to make of [Big Leaguer]. He has a WAG (I'm not sure which, lol, so WOG but whatever). He apparently is religious and attends the team Bible study on the road. Sometimes he seems nice to me. Sometimes he mocks me. Sometimes he seems very standoffish. I don’t get him.

 

After the game, won by the Redbirds, I walk out behing [Infielder], who is mobbed by a group of little leaguers. The next day, our press box attendant reports that the guy covering for our local beat writer, has been informed of Beat Writer’s vendetta against [Infielder] and is in support because [Infielder] was mean to him. Apparently, he answered a question and then asked, "Is that good enough for you? Will that work?" Now, I don’t know what tone he used, but this does not seem inherently mean. I can see [Infielder] asking that and genuinely meaning it. He is West Coast, so it might not seem like nice Southern hospitality drawl, but that doesn't mean he was being mean about it. People try to see the worst in him, and I try to see the best in him, and I guess he probably falls somewhere in the middle.

So he comes over and everything happens, and ... then he says he thought about it and he wants to go back to being friends. (I AM CURSED, FML.) So I say okay, because luckily (LUCKILY AND THIS IS ACTUALLY TRUE) I am not in love with him so I can do it this time. (Although, if he had kissed me like that before, and not after...) Anyway, it is slightly awkward but not terrible. The team goes on the road, and by the time they come back we are pretty much okay.

 

I have made friends with one of the local sports reporters, who limits herself to the visiting teams so she doesn't get into awkward situations like I do.

 

[Infielder] comes up to bat, and I ask her if she thinks he’d be good in bed, because I do. She doesn’t see it. I say, "I just get this vibe from him, that he has a very small penis, and he’s worked very hard to learn how to use it." She laughs so hard that she spits water out of her mouth and says that’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard me say, and it’s the funniest thing she’s heard in a while. "It’s so bad that we’re talking about this," she says. "Oh, like they’ve never talked about us," I say. She concedes.

Today I’m wearing one of those shirts that used to drive NSG mad, the kind that fits fine everywhere except right across my chest, where it tends to gape open if I move. TM, like NSG, is entranced. Unlike NSG, he does not tell me to fix my shirt.
TM: Great view from the side today. (lowers his voice, almost reverently) They’re enormous, your tits.

He reaches out, grabs my arm, and positions me so that he can have the view he wants.

M: Well. This isn’t suggestive at all.

TM: You wear a D-cup, don’t you? 

M: Yeah, I do.

TM: Hmm. (He takes a second to glance at my face, grins, then returns his gaze to my chest.)

M: Come on, now, this is just wrong.

TM: No it’s not. You’ve seen me. You saw me last night.
M: Yeah, but you were wearing your shorts.

TM: Well...do you want to see me naked?

M: Um, I wouldn’t, you know, turn it down. It’s not like I’m pining for it, though.

TM: Oh yeah?

He looks down. Naturally, I do the same. He glances at me, to see if I’ve noticed, but I can’t really see anything and I’m just assuming something’s happening there. He grins.

M: (hears voices in the stairwell) Oh, that’s Radio Guy.
TM: Okay. I’ll see you later.

 

It is a day game, so we are done early. I am walking to my car, in the garage.

TM: Hey...what’re you doing?

M: Going home.

TM: Yeah? Fancy seeing you outside of the ballpark. 

M: Yeah, I know. I live here. Where are you going?

TM: I was just gonna try and catch up with some of the guys.

M: Hmm. I have some pictures of you.

TM: You do?

M: Mm-hmm. This guy brought them to me, a freelance photographer.

TM: Do I get to see them?

M: If you want.

TM: You can stand sideways right there, for me, if you want. (flips through the pictures) Somebody just gave these to you, like on the concourse?

M: Well, no, he came up to the press box.

TM: (stops at one which is a shot of him from the back) I bet you like this one.

M: Mm-hmm.

TM: So you’re really going home tonight? Do you live alone? (He is finished with the photos and hands them back.)

M: Yeah. You gonna sign a picture for me?

TM: No. I’ll sign your titties.

M: Hah. Yeah, I bet you would.

TM: You know, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if your shirt was unbuttoned one more button. ... Let me see the pictures again. I’ll just pretend to look at them and get a little hard-on. ... So when do I get to sign your tits?

M: Well not here.

TM: When am I gonna get the chance then?

M: I don’t know. Not here.

TM: I could come over to your car and sign them.

M: No, my car’s too small.

TM: I wouldn’t have to get in.

M: No, not at the ballpark. I already did that once. I mean, not here. In Houston. 

TM: Did you work there?

M: Yeah.

TM: Was it a ballplayer?

M: No. Can I ask you, why is it that guys are so fascinated by boobs?

TM: I do a pretty good job conversing, though, while I’m looking.

M: But, I mean, it’s not even like I’m wearing a sexy bra. You can’t see anything. Like if you were here with your fly open, you know, so what? I could still talk to you.

TM: You mean if my dick was hanging out, you wouldn’t be distracted?

M: (He distracted me from my point, which is that if he were wearing underwear, it's not a big thing.) I mean, I’d look at it, you know, but...

TM: You wouldn’t want to, like, grab it or something?

M: I might think about it, but I wouldn’t do anything.

TM: So you’re just going to go home tonight. What do you like to do? Do you like sex?

M: Well, yeah, I like sex. Who doesn’t? What about you?

TM: Oh yeah, I like sex.

M: Yeah, I knew that. You’re a guy.

TM: What do I like? I like blow jobs. I like licking. I like boobs. Did I leave anything out?

M: No, I, uh, I think you covered it.

TM: Yeah but I’m horny.

M: No. You? I never would have guessed.

TM: So how do I get to your house, if I’m gonna sign your tits? You can show me your sexy bra.

M: I don’t know if I have one. I’m very innocent. I’m a good girl. ... Obviously. 

TM: No, you are. I won’t bother you.

M: Well, you can come over. You just can’t do anything bad.

 

+++

 

 

+++

 

The Astros' Triple A team is in town. I go to to Starbucks, after lunch, and two of their players are there getting coffee. One of them very obviously looks down my shirt. I walk back over to the ballpark, where I see Radio Guy arriving, and right behind him is TM. Radio Guy ignores me completely, but TM is watching me, so I wave and he waves back. Then he loiters in the plaza until I walk in, but I tell him I can't talk now and he says see you later then. 

 

Later. It rains. There’s no on-field BP. Close to gametime, I run into Marketing Guy, who had seen me talking to TM earlier and remarked on it.

MG: I saw you trying to hit on TM.

M: Well, clearly I want him.

MG: Most women do.

M: Who's catching your first pitches tonight?

MG: <with a side eye at me> TM.

I am the field for the pre-game ceremonies, because we are honoring the Player and Pitcher of the Month for May. TM makes his way to the on-deck circle for the first pitches. He signs autographs for a minute, because he always does that, and then sees me and ambles over. He asks if they are ready for the first pitches, which they are not. Some kids come over, so he signs more autographs, and squeezes my arm when he walks back past me. And he’s standing there, not next to me, but close, and I, without thinking, lean over to pull the bottom of my pants leg out of my shoe. This move is not lost on TM, who takes the opportunity to stare down my shirt. He then catches the FIVE first pitches, signs some more autographs, poses for a picture, and heads back toward the clubhouse.

 

After the ceremonies are done, I head inside and go toward the elevator but as I’m about to round the corner and TM is about to go into the clubhouse, he whistles, low, so I turn and see that he’s motioning toward the stairwell. I go over there, and TM joins me after a minute.

TM: Did you wear that shirt for me [because it’s pink and low-cut and offers a fairly nice view]?

M: <of course I did> No. But I wore the black bra for you. 

TM: Mm-hmm. Do you have [unintelligible murmur]?

M: <edges closer but does NOT lean over toward him> What?

TM: <staring> Do you have large nipples?

M: What?! I can’t answer that. That’s wrong.

TM: <shrugs. Just then, IT guy walks up the stairs. TM pulls out his phone like he’s talking, and I inch away.>

M: Just use your imagination. ... I’m sure it’s very fertile.

TM: Nah, come on, just tell me.

M: I don’t really know. I mean, I haven’t seen all that many others, so I don’t know where I fall. I think they’re pretty average. I don’t know.

TM: <stares>

M: Are you one of those guys who can tell size, just by looking?

TM: Yeah, I’m pretty good at that. I can usually get pretty close. <considers> You’re probably a full C, at least. You might even go higher.

M: Heh.

TM: Can you fix your shoes again?

M: You liked that, did you.

TM: Go on, fix them again. ... We’ll talk about that more tomorrow, all right?

TM: Let’s do it in the dugout. I’m about to go run.

M: Do you like to run?

TM: No, I hate it.

M: Hah.

TM: I mean, I don’t hate it hate it, but I don’t like it.

M: That’ll be the first question. <goes up the stairs>

TM: <opens the door and sticks his head in, when I’m about halfway up the first flight of stairs> Molly! Give me about 15 or 20 minutes, okay? Fifteen.

M: Yeah, okay. I’ll think of some hard-core questions.

TM: <grins> Hard-core, huh?

Fifteen minutes later, I head down to the dugout with a list of very generic feel-good questions that are appropriate for the website. The grounds crew is watering down the infield, and TM is running the warning track. Shirtless. And I think, Please don’t let him come over here shirtless, because, damn, I’m only human, and he is built like a Greek god. Of course, a small part of me would dearly love for him to come over shirtless. Alas, he does not. He finishes running and makes his way to the dugout, stopping to put a shirt on along the way. He is wearing mirrored sunglasses. He sits down next to me, not very close, which is good for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which is that he is all hot and sweaty because it’s 87 degrees and he’s just been running.

 

M: So I don’t really have any hard-core questions. I just got these from a Q&A our web site guy did earlier.

TM: Okay. What kind of questions are these?

M: Nothing exciting. Just your basic feel-good stuff. Do you want to see them?

TM: No, just go ahead. I’ll answer whatever. As long as you keep sitting just like that.

M: Why, what am I showing off?

TM: No, nothing, you’re fine.

M: I’m wearing a tank top underneath. I figured you’d be looking.

TM: Yeah. A tank top?

M: Well, I tried it without, but, I don’t know. ... Okay, this is weird. You’re wearing sunglasses, and I can’t tell where you’re looking.

TM: Right now I’m looking at your boobs. And now I’m looking at your face. And now your hair.

He grins, and then he pushes his sunglasses back so I can see his eyes.

 

We do the interview, which I already mostly covered in a different entry, except:
M: Best Major League stadium?

TM: I don’t know. I don’t really pay attention. What do you think?

M: Well, I spent three years in Houston, so I’m partial to Minute Maid Park, but I don’t think it’s the best. ... I like Camden Yards. And PNC Park.

[Backup utility guy] comes walking across the field. He must live in the ballpark apartments beyond center field. TM yells, “Hey, [Nickname], what’s the best Major League stadium?” I think he was only doing it to legitimize the fact that the two of us were sitting there in the dugout and nobody else was there, but it’s not like we were even doing anything. But I thought it was unfortunate because [backup utility guy] has never sniffed the big leagues, and never will, and he smiles a little and says as much – "I don’t know – I’ve never been," and then goes into the clubhouse.

TM: Can I say Busch Stadium?

M: You can say whatever you want.

TM: I guess that’s my favorite, but I don’t know about the best.

M: I don’t think Busch Stadium’s the best, but ... (shrugs)

TM: Put Turner Field, the new one in Atlanta, for the best one.

M: Which of your teammates would you least like to face with the game on the line?

TM: (matter-of-factly) There’s really nobody.

M: Hah. "There’s really nobody."

TM: Well, there’s not. I guess you can’t put that. 

The big league broadcast team is in town to conduct interviews to air back in St. Louis. They set up at the far end of the dugout, on the warning track, and start grabbing guys for interviews. Up first is Coach C, who talks for 45 minutes because he is smitten with the pretty blonde interviewer. (Ha...the next day, he asks if she is coming back – no – and then says that she might not really have known her stuff but that doesn’t matter.)

 

I go down and check in, see how they’re doing. As soon as I step into the dugout, The Magnificence is there.

TM: She’s moving in on your territory.

M: What?

TM: I saw her eyeing me.

M: Oh, really?

TM: Yeah. I think you should kick her ass.

M: Mm, no.

TM: What, you don’t care?

M: Well, she’s from St. Louis. She won’t be here.

TM: But she’s here now. 

M: Yeah, but she’s working. 

TM: I still think you should kick her ass.

M: No. I’m a nice person.

TM: I bet you could, though.

M: Well, sure, I probably could, but I wouldn’t.

TM: I know. ... I bet you could kick my ass.

M: Hah. You’d let me.

TM: Yeah, I would let you...and I’d probably like it.

M: I bet you would.

TM: Okay, well, we've gotta go hit now.

He smacks me on the back and goes to hit. I go over and talk to the crew. They are interviewing [Future Star]. I am listening, because I like to listen in, and because I like to hear what kind of questions other people ask, and also because I am a very nosy person at heart. From over on the field, I hear someone calling my name, and I turn around, and it’s TM, who has walked out past third base and is calling me. I look over at him, and he inclines his head toward [Interviewer] and mouths "kick her ass." I shake my head; he grins and goes back to hitting. He keeps looking over, though, and laughing. 

[Infielder] moseys over; he knows [Interviewer] from St. Louis. She has not mentioned that she needs to talk to him at all, but he asks why they are here, and she says, "Well, [Infielder], to talk to you, of course!" Eventually, they do talk to him, and he fidgets and plays with his hands (he tapes two or three fingers; it looks random but I’m sure there must be something to it), which are small but utterly fascinating. [Infielder] gets a whipped cream pie in his face from [Big Leaguer], who was nice enough to not make it shaving cream and to bring [Infielder] a towel as well. I didn’t see it coming, and apparently neither did he, which is slightly surprising, since he usually seems hyper-aware of what’s going on around him. [Infielder] says it is the first time he has been pied.

 

BP ends. I ask if the STL folks need anything else. [Interviewer] says they just need the manager. I go get him, but as he walks out, [Interviewer] exclaims that they’ve just got to have [Big Leaguer]; he said he would talk to them but then never came back after BP. I decide to make an attempt to do my job and head toward the clubhouse to see if I can find him. I don’t really want to go in the clubhouse, not because I don’t want to see these guys naked but because I don’t want to bother anyone, which I feel like I’m doing. And then I see that TM is sitting over in the nook outside the clubhouse, so I postpone my search and head down there to talk to him. He has a newspaper and is apparently amusing himself with the comics and the crossword puzzle. He gives me the once-over as I walk up, and it’s weird talking to him like this, because he’s looking up at me and I’m standing over him. But I can’t exactly sit down opposite him and chat, especially today, since I am wearing the skirt I wore that got my cherry popped. I am also wearing a shirt that is fairly ... close-fitting.

TM: Are you cold?

M: ...Uh...no...?

TM: Is it cold down here?

M: <puts two and two together, finally, aided by the fact that he is staring fixedly at my chest> Oh. OH. Now I have to stand back here with my arms crossed.

TM: No, you don’t, you have to come back here and talk to me.

M: Can you do me a favor?

TM: A favor? What is it?

M: Can you go ask [Big Leaguer] if he can come do an interview?

TM: <mutters something that I can’t hear, which makes me lean over toward him, which makes his eyes widen appreciatively, which makes me stand up again>

M: What?

TM: I said... <mutters something, again>

M: You’re talking really low, and I can’t hear you. Can you speak up?

TM: No. I’m going to keep talking low. You need to lean over again so you can hear me.

God help me, I do it. He fastens his eyes on my chest, and I know it’s wrong, but it’s nice to be noticed, I tell you, and he’s a Major League ballplayer, dammit, and he likes me. Me! I know it doesn’t mean anything, but, you know, there’s no harm in flirting, and it makes us both happy.

TM: If I get [Big Leaguer] for you, you’re going to owe me a favor. Why can’t you just go in there and get him?

M: Well, because you’re all naked in there.

TM: All right, I’ll get him. But you owe me.

M: What do I owe you? 

TM: <smiles a little> Maybe you could stretch or something?

M: <I do> Look, Fox is here, and I’m stressed and you’re getting me all worked up [which I am enjoying]. You’re gonna get me fired.

TM: For getting worked up?

M: Well, no, but...

TM: Here, look what you’re doing to me... <he moves the newspaper away from his lap and, oh. OH. It's ... magnificent.>

M: Oh. Ah. Heh. ... There’s nothing I can do about that. <I suppose, actually there’s a lot I could do, but...> Just go back to your crossword puzzle. And, uh, I’m gonna head back out there. ... So you’re gonna get [Big Leaguer]?

TM: I can’t go in there like this!

M: No, I know. In a few minutes.

TM: Will you be out there still?

M: Yeah.

TM: I’ll get him.

M: Thank you.

I go back out. Manager, smitten with either the bright lights and camera or with [Interviewer] (probably the bright lights), is STILL talking, which is more than he has said to me in two months. I would not care about this normally, except that TM has apparently done what I asked, because [Big Leaguer] has come out to the dugout and is standing in the doorway to the tunnel watching. He watches and waits, and Manager drones on. And [Big Leaguer] goes back in. When Manager FINALLY shuts up, he asks it they are done, or if they need anyone else. "Well," says [Interviewer], "We actually still were trying to get [Big Leaguer]." Manager shoots me a look and says, "That’s her job." Since I have already asked TM, I do go into the clubhouse and look around, but [Big Leaguer] is not in there. He is getting a massage in the training room, I find out later, but this does not help me. I walk out of the clubhouse and head toward the other entrance, which is by the training room, to see if he's over there. 

 

But, TM is still sitting there with his newspaper. I ask if he knows where [Big Leaguer] is, because I will go get him, but I can't find him. "I don't know why you don't want to go in there," grumbles TM. "It’s not anything you haven't seen before." (I always wanted NSG to say that to me, and he never did, and TM is rapidly moving up on my list of favorite people in the world.) TM sticks his head in the door and yells, "Hey, where's [Big Leaguer]?" [Big Leaguer] happens to be walking by at that very moment, and seems (rightfully) slightly annoyed as he says, "I was already out there three times – they'll just have to wait." Then he catches sight of me beyond the door, and starts to say something directed at [Interviewer], but TM stops him and says, "It's not [Interviewer]; it's Molly." I don’t know if [Big Leaguer] has any idea who I am, because he only recently got here and I haven't introduced myself, but he calms down and says, "Oh. I’ll be right out, Molly." And he is, although he is not wearing any Redbirds gear at all. Hah. He waits for me to accompany him out to the field; I do and apologize for bothering him. He shrugs and says it’s part of the job and goes out to do the interview.

 

The damn camera guy is playing in the clubhouse where he is not supposed to be. "[Future Star] showed me his cup!" he says. "This is great!" 

I again encounter TM in the dugout. We have a new player to photograph and we can re-take [Infielder]’s headshot, if that’s what he wants. He does want. He produces a very fake smile (takes one to know one) and talks through his teeth to the sports medicine intern when she asks if he is going to smile pretty. It’s funny. He approves of the photo. BP ends, and there is a reporter still waiting to talk to our esteemed manager, so I sit around and "supervise," mainly because I don’t really want to go upstairs. And then TM comes out of the clubhouse and back into the dugout. I happen to be sitting right by the box of training/first aid gear, which he is now making a beeline for.

TM: What are you still doing out here?

M: Waiting for the media to leave.

TM: Oh, that sounds like fun.

M: Yeah. So how was the first pitch yesterday?

TM: It wasn’t bad at all.

M: S showed me the picture.

TM: Was it bad?

M: No, it was cute.

TM: Thanks. (He’s rummaging around in the box of stuff.)

He can’t find what he needs and goes back inside. I wait a while longer, and finally the media guy leaves. Walking back upstairs, I go past the clubhouse, and the little nook outside the weight room, which is another choice spot for cell phone service. And there’s TM. He says something about the media guy, and we make small talk as he looks down my shirt, which is the little yellow crossover tank top that NSG liked so much back in May of ’02. Clearly, it’s having a similar effect here. "Why are you all dressed up, looking sexy like that?" TM asks. His eyes are fixated on my chest, with no sign of coming back up to my face any time soon. 

I head down to the dugout for BP, because I need to ask [Infielder] something. I am sitting in the dugout as the players head off the field, and I’m looking for him, so I don’t notice TM, until he is stopped in front of me at the top of the dugout steps and pointing at me while talking to [Infielder]. "Her," TM says. "You need to talk to her."

I’m walking through the weight room after going to the clubhouse for something, and, oh, here comes a new guy. Now, because I am a baseball geek, and because I did the media guide, I know that this new guy is a former big leaguer, who has been assigned to Memphis to get game action because he didn’t in spring training. And he wasn’t around for the exhibition games, was still down in Florida. So I see him, and he looks at me, curious, I suppose, since I’m a girl, in the clubhouse. And I smile, a little, and figure he’ll either ignore me, or nod, like the rest of them do. But no! He stops, introduces himself, shakes my hand, and I can tell he likes the ladies, so I smile at him. He asks what I do, and I tell him. He says, “Oh, well, nobody will want to talk to me.” I say I could interview him, if he wanted. He says that’s okay, so I smile again and head on my way. 

 

Meanwhile, the marketing guy decides he is tired of asking the players to catch first pitches, because the Redbirds have 16 million every game, and the players can’t be bothered. So. He determines that S will start to do the asking instead. S works in the sales department and is blonde and hot with big boobs and a great body. (I really like her a lot, which is good, because otherwise I would have to hate her, for all those reasons I just mentioned.) Anyway, S is game to go down and ask, because all the hunky men are hot, even though she is married. S likes the former big leaguer, who is built like a Greek god so let's just call him The Magnificence (TM). 

"Um, well, he’s tall," she says. "And he winked at me." He is nice and friendly and flirty, which is fun, okay, sure, but he has blue eyes. Great blue eyes, actually, but still blue and therefore not my type. So this is fine.