KELSO'S SWING, CHAPTER 11
BY DELL FRANKLIN
Kelso lived along the Strand in a pealing 1920s era wooden bungalow that was essentially one large studio squatting between two recently built and luxurious 3-story condos that had replaced two old wooden shacks of Victorian dilapidation. Inside was a lumpy twin bed covered in thrift store comforters, a counter separating the kitchen up front with three wobbly stools, a recliner, rickety chest of drawers, stereo, vibrating clock radio on a bedside table of two wooden crates, a 13 inch Sony color TV his father made him take as a Christmas gift, a framed photo on a wall of his father in a Chicago White Sox uniform, and a big scowling tailless orange cat named Rocky on the bed.
Kelso had played basketball that afternoon at Old Elm Park and afterwards body surfed and showered and fried himself a cheeseburger with onions before settling on his bed with instant coffee while listening to a rousing version of Beethoven’s 9th. When it was over, he told Rocky to try to keep from fighting in the streets, got on his bike and left for the game, stopping on the way to collect Marstrulavich, who rode along with him to the ball park for the game against Murphy’s Pub.
When they arrived, the girls were hitting pepper along the edge of the asphalt hoop courts just off the third base line as they awaited the game against Murphy’s Pub. The two coaches watched Warner’s Plumbing demolish Player’s. On the other side of the field, down the first base line, Murphy’s warmed up.
Marstrulavich said, “Murphy’s Pub is the hottest bar on the beach, maybe anywhere. They got all the foxes. We got the groundhogs.”
“Oh, Lacey’s kind-a cute, and Bobbi’s pretty damn foxy. Jill’s a good-looking woman.” He leered at his friend. “And then there’s your pet project, Annie—sweet little feminine Barbie doll.”
Marstrulavich withdrew his cigarettes, lit one with his Zippo, and blew out smoke. “Murphy’s doesn’t have one average looking woman, Kelso. What does that mean?”
“It means they been coddled and pursued and fussed over all their lives and aren’t used to being badgered and picked on.”
Marstrulavich nodded. “They hang out with pretty boys, jock gods, golden boys, all tan and rippled…the beautiful people.”
“We have to establish an identity, Stroolo. Our girls, they’re too bland.” He puffed his cigar stub. “They need a personality transplant. You gotta have personality to play this game. These girls have all been trained to be tame, to team up with tame guys who are subservient to the system and live their entire lives subservient to the system.”
“The establishment.”
“Right. So it’s our duty to turn them into aggressive hell-raisers, not afraid to out-rage--not a bunch of sweet nurturing pleasers.”
Marstrulavich dropped some ashes. “To be a good player, a good team, sometimes you gotta muster up genuine animosity against the opponent.”
Murphy’s displayed no respect for the Tides and carried their selves with smug insouciance. Their shortstop wore bangs and had shapely, muscular legs in knee-high shorts, a cutie. She stood at the plate and scanned the field, brimming with confidence, and lined Bobbi’s second pitch down the first base line, the ball rolling past Annie for an inside-the-park homerun.
Murphy’s, though nowhere near as fundamentally sound as Warner’s, was just as talented, and raked balls all over the field. While coaching at third base, Kelso had already told his team the hit-and-run was picking his nose and making a play of “eating a booger.” If he picked his nose and gave no indication of eating a booger, there was no sign. Murphy’s was up 5-0 in the fourth inning when Maria finally beat out a grounder for their first hit.
Murphy’s thirdbaseman wore the same skin-tight elastic knee high shorts revealing the rock-hard ass and shapely thighs Kelso had observed from the stands, but up close they were even more tantalizing. She had very long wavy sun-bleached hair like a Tigress’s mane, a proudly tilted chin, high cheekbones that cut her face in a V, and dazzling green emerald eyes.
Kelso said to her, “How do you bend over in those tights?”
She ignored him, glanced over just before taking her defensive stance, which was too upright, and spotted him pick his nose and actually seem to eat a booger. Maria took off from first as the pitch rose in an arc and Monica ripped a blue darter past the beauty and down the line. The third sacker ran out for the relay and Kelso was shocked her throw to home, which had no chance of nailing the runner, was on line and hurled like a man. She owned a rocket arm.
“Helluva hose,” Kelso remarked to her.
She ignored him. Monica was on second. Kelso said to the thirdbaseman, “I like your fingernails. They match your lipstick. Did you and the shortstop go to finishing school?”
She suddenly turned and snapped at him, “Why are you eating boogers, asshole? You’re enough to make me puke.”
“Boogers are actually good for you,” Kelso explained. “Lots of nutrition. You oughta try it sometime. Ball players are supposed to be a crude breed—even fashion plates like you Murphy’s girls.”
She gritted her teeth as Jill dropped a ball into centerfield and Monica scored. Kelso picked his nose and slurped a booger and Becki wood-chopped a hopper to third, beat it out as the throw bounced off the firstbaseman’s glove. Jill ended up on third.
“You should-a ate the ball,” Kelso told the third sacker. “Instead of showing off your arm. You had no chance.”
“Go fuck yourself, asshole!”
“We found their weakness!” Kelso exclaimed to his girls in the dugout. “They got nice asses, but nothing between the ears!”
The thirdbaseman’s neck turned crimson. Kelso ate another booger and Penny waited, waited as the high lob came down, and served a hard grounder into right field. Jill scored. Becki rounded third and Kelso waved her home, yelling “make ‘em make a play!” Becki would have scored if she hadn’t slowed down and stopped at home plate, not knowing how to slide and afraid to run into the catcher who blocked the plate and easily tagged her out.
“Look who’s stupid now,” the thirdbaseman smirked as she ran off the field.
They lost to Murphy’s 9-5. The girls all shook hands. Kelso told Becki, “You either slide into home plate or lower your shoulder and run over the catcher when she blocks home plate. Trample her ass. Leave your calling card. You’ve got just as much right to that plate as she does.” He assembled the girls in the dugout. “Otherwise, you all played pretty well. We’ll beat ‘em next time, and if we don’t beat ‘em next time, we’ll beat ‘em after that. They’re over confident. Don’t get your dauber’s down. You’re fine.”
When the Tides walked off the field, filing past the first base line, on Murphy’s side of the field, the shortstop and thirdbaseman stood together issuing Kelso the evil eye. He ignored them.
Kelso lived along the Strand in a pealing 1920s era wooden bungalow that was essentially one large studio squatting between two recently built and luxurious 3-story condos that had replaced two old wooden shacks of Victorian dilapidation. Inside was a lumpy twin bed covered in thrift store comforters, a counter separating the kitchen up front with three wobbly stools, a recliner, rickety chest of drawers, stereo, vibrating clock radio on a bedside table of two wooden crates, a 13 inch Sony color TV his father made him take as a Christmas gift, a framed photo on a wall of his father in a Chicago White Sox uniform, and a big scowling tailless orange cat named Rocky on the bed.
Kelso had played basketball that afternoon at Old Elm Park and afterwards body surfed and showered and fried himself a cheeseburger with onions before settling on his bed with instant coffee while listening to a rousing version of Beethoven’s 9th. When it was over, he told Rocky to try to keep from fighting in the streets, got on his bike and left for the game, stopping on the way to collect Marstrulavich, who rode along with him to the ball park for the game against Murphy’s Pub.
When they arrived, the girls were hitting pepper along the edge of the asphalt hoop courts just off the third base line as they awaited the game against Murphy’s Pub. The two coaches watched Warner’s Plumbing demolish Player’s. On the other side of the field, down the first base line, Murphy’s warmed up.
Marstrulavich said, “Murphy’s Pub is the hottest bar on the beach, maybe anywhere. They got all the foxes. We got the groundhogs.”
“Oh, Lacey’s kind-a cute, and Bobbi’s pretty damn foxy. Jill’s a good-looking woman.” He leered at his friend. “And then there’s your pet project, Annie—sweet little feminine Barbie doll.”
Marstrulavich withdrew his cigarettes, lit one with his Zippo, and blew out smoke. “Murphy’s doesn’t have one average looking woman, Kelso. What does that mean?”
“It means they been coddled and pursued and fussed over all their lives and aren’t used to being badgered and picked on.”
Marstrulavich nodded. “They hang out with pretty boys, jock gods, golden boys, all tan and rippled…the beautiful people.”
“We have to establish an identity, Stroolo. Our girls, they’re too bland.” He puffed his cigar stub. “They need a personality transplant. You gotta have personality to play this game. These girls have all been trained to be tame, to team up with tame guys who are subservient to the system and live their entire lives subservient to the system.”
“The establishment.”
“Right. So it’s our duty to turn them into aggressive hell-raisers, not afraid to out-rage--not a bunch of sweet nurturing pleasers.”
Marstrulavich dropped some ashes. “To be a good player, a good team, sometimes you gotta muster up genuine animosity against the opponent.”
Murphy’s displayed no respect for the Tides and carried their selves with smug insouciance. Their shortstop wore bangs and had shapely, muscular legs in knee-high shorts, a cutie. She stood at the plate and scanned the field, brimming with confidence, and lined Bobbi’s second pitch down the first base line, the ball rolling past Annie for an inside-the-park homerun.
Murphy’s, though nowhere near as fundamentally sound as Warner’s, was just as talented, and raked balls all over the field. While coaching at third base, Kelso had already told his team the hit-and-run was picking his nose and making a play of “eating a booger.” If he picked his nose and gave no indication of eating a booger, there was no sign. Murphy’s was up 5-0 in the fourth inning when Maria finally beat out a grounder for their first hit.
Murphy’s thirdbaseman wore the same skin-tight elastic knee high shorts revealing the rock-hard ass and shapely thighs Kelso had observed from the stands, but up close they were even more tantalizing. She had very long wavy sun-bleached hair like a Tigress’s mane, a proudly tilted chin, high cheekbones that cut her face in a V, and dazzling green emerald eyes.
Kelso said to her, “How do you bend over in those tights?”
She ignored him, glanced over just before taking her defensive stance, which was too upright, and spotted him pick his nose and actually seem to eat a booger. Maria took off from first as the pitch rose in an arc and Monica ripped a blue darter past the beauty and down the line. The third sacker ran out for the relay and Kelso was shocked her throw to home, which had no chance of nailing the runner, was on line and hurled like a man. She owned a rocket arm.
“Helluva hose,” Kelso remarked to her.
She ignored him. Monica was on second. Kelso said to the thirdbaseman, “I like your fingernails. They match your lipstick. Did you and the shortstop go to finishing school?”
She suddenly turned and snapped at him, “Why are you eating boogers, asshole? You’re enough to make me puke.”
“Boogers are actually good for you,” Kelso explained. “Lots of nutrition. You oughta try it sometime. Ball players are supposed to be a crude breed—even fashion plates like you Murphy’s girls.”
She gritted her teeth as Jill dropped a ball into centerfield and Monica scored. Kelso picked his nose and slurped a booger and Becki wood-chopped a hopper to third, beat it out as the throw bounced off the firstbaseman’s glove. Jill ended up on third.
“You should-a ate the ball,” Kelso told the third sacker. “Instead of showing off your arm. You had no chance.”
“Go fuck yourself, asshole!”
“We found their weakness!” Kelso exclaimed to his girls in the dugout. “They got nice asses, but nothing between the ears!”
The thirdbaseman’s neck turned crimson. Kelso ate another booger and Penny waited, waited as the high lob came down, and served a hard grounder into right field. Jill scored. Becki rounded third and Kelso waved her home, yelling “make ‘em make a play!” Becki would have scored if she hadn’t slowed down and stopped at home plate, not knowing how to slide and afraid to run into the catcher who blocked the plate and easily tagged her out.
“Look who’s stupid now,” the thirdbaseman smirked as she ran off the field.
They lost to Murphy’s 9-5. The girls all shook hands. Kelso told Becki, “You either slide into home plate or lower your shoulder and run over the catcher when she blocks home plate. Trample her ass. Leave your calling card. You’ve got just as much right to that plate as she does.” He assembled the girls in the dugout. “Otherwise, you all played pretty well. We’ll beat ‘em next time, and if we don’t beat ‘em next time, we’ll beat ‘em after that. They’re over confident. Don’t get your dauber’s down. You’re fine.”
When the Tides walked off the field, filing past the first base line, on Murphy’s side of the field, the shortstop and thirdbaseman stood together issuing Kelso the evil eye. He ignored them.
