Baseball has been very, very, good to me - story rewrite from Harly

[taoschild]

I've always been enamored with baseball. Yeah, it's slow. No, there's no hitting, dunks, or any of the fierce stuff from other sports aside from the occasional bench-clearing brawl, but still, it's a thinking man's game and has more than its share of high drama. If there's a game on, I'm watching. It takes discipline not to sink into full couch-potato mode, so my car radio is always tuned to any station carrying play-by-play coverage.

Living in Portland, Oregon, can be frustrating for a baseball fanatic like me. I have to drive to Seattle to see a major league game live. Still, we have the Portland Beavers, a Triple-A team in the Pacific Coast League. They're part of the San Diego Padres farm system and it's relatively cheap and still entertaining. It lets me glimpse the stars of tomorrow—and sometimes, those of yesterday.

One particular game last August left me shaken though. It awakened something deep within me. It was a scorching hot evening, the kind that makes the pavement shimmer. We don't get those often in Portland even with climate change so the whole city was in tanks and shorts we dug out of the bottom of our closet.

I stood outside the stadium, waiting for my notoriously late friends. My cousin coaches first base for the Edmonton Trappers, one of the Beavers' rivals, and whenever they came to town, I'd score some great seats behind home plate.

Then I saw her.

She was young, maybe in her mid-to-late twenties, with auburn hair that reflected the late summer light and coffee-colored eyes. The beauty of her perfect visage couldn't rival the real spectacle, however, her body. She was wearing nothing extravagant, just cut-off jean shorts and sandals, but the white spaghetti-strap blouse she wore couldn't conceal what lay beneath.
Her entire body screamed Arnold Schwarzenegger in an erotic, sexy, feminine way.

Her arms were sculpted bubbles of thick muscles with rich veins that snaked down her forearms, pulsing with life. Her golden tan made every muscle stand out, whispering of discipline, dedication, and raw power.

Her legs were just as mesmerizing. Covered with thick, sinewy, muscles they looked like they were specifically built for both power and grace. Her sharply defined quads flared out and were covered with deep valleys of hard muscles. The teardrop-shaped vastus medialis and the sheer mass of her rectus femoris on one leg looked bigger than both of mine put together, even at a distance. Her calves were equally impressive, diamond-cut slabs of muscle that flexed with each step, the kind of legs that could crush a man's resolve as easily as they could propel her into a dead sprint. These weren't just the legs of a gym rat—they were the legs of a goddess pure and simple. Muscle covered with sun-kissed skin was never something I'd visualized on my 'perfect woman' but as my eyes clicked pictures of her for later viewing by my brain, a new reality suddenly dawned on me. Muscle was what I liked on a woman and she was the perfect one.
(to be continued)

[taoschild]

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[taoschild]

She ignored the world around her as she made her way to the ticket counter. There was no hesitation, no glance around for company or approval. Just focus. I held my breath, hoping no idiot would ruin the moment with a clumsy pick-up line. She was too self-possessed for that nonsense. She bought her ticket, passed through the turnstile, and was gone and with it my sudden, jittery high that I found myself floating upon.

It was as if someone had cut my umbilical cord and I'd entered a new world.

I shook it off when my friends arrived. Baseball, remember it's baseball I came to see I tried to tell myself to no avail.

We took our seats, peanuts in hand, with nothing but frustration radiating from me. Never had I been so frustrated at a baseball game– even when my team lost. As the players wrapped up batting practice my eyes scanned the crowd.

Then, I found her.

Four rows down and one aisle over lay the new object of my dreams. She was easy to spot, not just because of her physique but because she sat alone. It was as if her form repelled others even as it drew me in. She cut an absolutely striking figure in an empty pocket of seats.

And then I noticed something remarkable. She wasn't just watching the game—she was absorbing it, analyzing it with an intensity rivaling my own. She held a scorecard in her hands and her gaze was locked onto the field. Her focus was razor-sharp and I could almost see her mind calculating and processing every play in real time.
In all my years of attending baseball games, I'd never seen anyone watch the proceedings intently— except me. Who was she? A scout? A former player? A bodybuilder seeking inspiration from the athleticism before her? Or was she simply a woman whose passion for baseball rivaled my own?

There was something more, though—something beyond the muscles and the focus. It was her presence, her essence. She exuded a love for life. The same passion she poured into her training, she was channeling into the game unfolding before her.

Oh, to be part of her world.

She fascinated me, not in the usual way a striking woman might, but on a deeper, more profound level. I was drawn to her energy, her intensity, her unapologetic existence. She didn't care who was watching. She was alive in a way so few people allow themselves to be.

Around the seventh inning, I saw another side of her. Some rowdy bleacher bums settled into nearby seats and she bantered with them easily. A rich, easy laughter erupted from within her effortlessly. She wasn't unapproachable after all. She was simply... whole.

I thought of an old Joni Mitchell song, "For Free," in which she laments the loss of artistic purity in the face of fame. She watched a street musician play for free, realizing that his artistry was untouched by the demands of marketing and celebrity. That woman at the ballpark was like that musician—pure, uncompromising, unwilling to dilute herself for anyone.

The game ended. The final out was recorded. And just as quickly as she had arrived, she was gone, moving with the same quiet confidence and vanishing into the night like a fleeting dream.

But I had seen her. And something in me had changed.

And before I knew what I was doing, my legs carried me forward. It was so uncharacteristic of my usual restraint, but the pull was undeniable. I sprinted after her, weaving through the departing crowd, my heart pounding in my chest.

Then—impact. I collided with her, my body crumpling against her immovable form, and I was sent sprawling to the concrete. Pain shot through me, but it was nothing compared to the shock of being so close to her. I lay there, dazed, staring up at the sculpted reality before me. Her arms, her shoulders, her powerful thighs—all of it was breathtaking. It was an erotic display of strength and beauty and for a second her entire focus was on me.

The golden tan of her skin, the faint sheen of perspiration highlighting every ridge of her muscular frame was overwhelming.

She looked down at me, a flicker of amusement mixed with sympathy in her eyes. Then, without hesitation, she reached down with her strong, calloused hands and grasped mine.
I barely had time to react before she pulled me to my feet in one smooth motion. Suddenly, we were nose to nose, her minty breath washing over me, her presence utterly consuming. The raw power in her grip, her power, her beauty— It all sent a shiver down my spine.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air between us was charged in a way I can't define. My pulse hammered and my mind racing with possibilities. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I was lost in the impossible juxtaposition of her brute strength and sensational sensuality. Hard yet soft, overwhelming yet intoxicatingly graceful.

She held me there, her grip lingering, her eyes boring into mine, searching, assessing, deciding. My entire body screamed for something, something I couldn't even name. My pulse pounded in my ears as she studied me.

Finally, her full lips parted just slightly, as if she might say something—something that could shatter the moment, or make it eternal.

Then, with a faint, almost regretful smile, she whispered a single word. "Sorry."

And then she turned and strode away. I watched her leave just as she had come— spellbound. Her model-like walk was a vision of pure power and beauty. Her back was a masterpiece of ridges and valleys which sloped up to her broad shoulders before tapering back down to the impossibly tight curve of her waist. then flaring again into the undeniable power of Every step sent a ripple through her glutes. She was simply an erotic symphony of muscle and motion.

I stood there drowning in the moment until she turned the corner and finality hit me. I'd missed my chance. Just as I was about to beat myself over the missed chance something in my palm caught my attention. I looked down, blinking away my haze, and saw it.

Her business card.

I hadn't even felt her slip it into my hand. Perhaps this wasn't the end but rather a beginning.

[Wookey]

Loving this. What a cliffhanger. Please continue K+++

[Maestrojb1954!]

What a wonderful start to this story. The woman is incredibly beautiful and a perfect fantasy for me as an admirer of female muscle and deniable literature. This story left me so excited about the quality of the writing that I am absolutely begging for a continuing tale!
K+++