The Game

She was always telling me she was bad at sports.

“Really honey,” she said with a sad face, “I’m really terrible at anything athletic. I trip over or drop or miss whatever I’m supposed to do in any sport I have tried.”

I knew that she was in great physical condition, and that she worked out at least a little, because she had a beautifully feminine shape, and yet she was trim. And to be perfectly honest, the way she moved in bed erased any doubt of her being exceptionally well co-ordinated. I figured her fear of sports was psychological, and all she needed was a little confidence.

The annual Family Cook Out & Whiffle Ball Game was the perfect place for her to gain a little confidence. All the relatives played, male and female, from little kids to old men, all the pitches were thrown underhand, and we used those big fat plastic bats. Even six year olds were walloping hits!

Before the game I showed her how to hold the plastic bat, and assume a hitter’s stance. I thought she would need a little psychological edge to help her relax once the game started, so I told her that every good hitter has a little good luck routine they do before each pitch. For example, Big Papi of the Red Sox, spits in his hands and then claps them together.

“Oh yuck!” she exclaimed, ‘No way!”

“No no baby, you don’t have to spit or anything, you just have to get your own little routine, and you will slug the ball too.” I showed her my routine. I would tap the end of the bat on home plate three times, then flex my shoulders.

“Well,” she said, “I like tapping the bat, but that shoulder shrug is out.”

“OK hon, umm… why dont you try a little wiggling your hips to loosen up before each swing?” I was actually thinking of another Red Sox player, Kevin Youkilis, who has this weird way he shakes his body as he prepares for each swing. So as I stood facing her and watching her form, my sweet sexy woman, in her nice tight summer shorts, gave her hips a little shake and then swung the bat. Her form was good. She was ready for the game.

We let all the little kids bat first, then the adults. When it was my woman’s turn to hit, my uncle and I were talking. I watched her stride toward the plate, trying to look confident, even though I knew she wasn’t. I hadn’t seen her from behind the entire day, and I couldn’t help but notice the way her tight shorts hugged an absolutely magnificent set of buns. She assumed her stance, tapped the end of the bat on the plate, and then did her hip shake. I was stunned by how sexy her hips moved in those shorts, and as I watched her little wiggle, I heard my uncle take in a deep breath. I knew just what he was thinking, that she had a truly wonderful set of hips, but neither of us could acknowledge it because she was my girl. She took a mighty swing as the ball came in, but missed. I felt bad for her, but it was only strike one. She turned and looked back at me, almost apologetically. I gave her a big smile and a thumbs up.

“You can do it honey!” I shouted. My uncle clapped and whistled for added encouragement.

Suddenly, my cousin Tom, who is my age, was standing next to me. He gave me a grin and turned to watch my girl ready herself for her next swing. She tapped the bat then wiggled her hips again. If possible, it seemed even sexier than before. My cousin poked me in the side with his elbow, and when I looked at him, he gave me a nod and a wink. I found myself torn between two emotions. I was proud that my girl had such enticing buns, but I also had a strange reluctance to let all the male members of my family be checking out that sexy wiggle.

A mighty swing and another miss! Strike two. Now I was concerned about her confidence. What if she actually struck out in a whiffle ball game where even six year old girls could get a hit? Would she be scarred for life?

She turned around again and looked at me. Her anxious face brightened when we made eye contact, and I yelled encouragement. As I did, I heard many other yells from both sides of my position, and as I looked around I saw every male member of our team standing with me, looking at her. Suddenly her eyes widened, and she noticed all the men too. She turned back to face the pitcher. I realized that instead of the game being a no pressure fun way to learn to swing a bat, she was now the center of attention. I began to wish I had told her to spit in her hands like Big Papi.

She tapped the bat on the plate, then gave those beautiful hips a wiggle, and then something she hadn’t done before – a sexy little twist. The sexy hip twist was new, and I heard my cousin Tommy almost choke on his Bud Light when she did it. The ball came in, she took another mighty swing and HIT THE BALL! Not a great hit, but the contact made a satisfactory thump, and the ball scooted along the ground past the third baseman. We all watched her run to first. It was mesmerizing.

After the game we were standing near the pool waiting for our cheeseburgers, and for the first time we were able to have a private conversation.

“So sweetie, how did you like your first whiffle ball game, and your first hit?”

“I had fun baby. Did you notice I did a little extra hip shake for you on my last swing?”

I wanted to tell her yes I noticed, my cousin certainly noticed as he choked down his beer, and I had the urge, as she added that little sexy twist at the end, to drag her off into the bushes and ravish her. But instead I gave a little grin and a nod.

“But baby,” she gave me a seductive smile, “next time I play ball with your family, I’m gonna wear loose sweatpants if its OK with you.”