"KELSO'S SWING" CHAPTER 37
More fans than usual showed up for the game against Player's. Kelso recognized a few regulars from the Tides as well as the young blond hustler named Ward Price, who had talked briefly with Kaycee and issued her a quick kiss on the lips in the parking lot before the girls entered the field. Kelso warned the girls not to become too cocky and take Player's for granted as they had last season, when they lost to them. “You go after the stumblebums with the same killer instinct you do the top teams.” he added, as they sat before him in the dugout. “Nobody had any mercy for you when you stunk. But what you don't do, is rub it in, because rubbing it in is bush.”
“Bush?” Claire asked suspiciously. “What is exactly is bush, coach?”
“Claire, your dirty little mind embarrasses me. Contrary to what you might consider a certain part of a woman's anatomy as referred to by some crude members of my sex as bush, a more respectful breed of my sex, including myself, refers to this delectable area of a woman's anatomy as muff.” He watched the girls giggle and blush as Bobbi flashed him a thumbs up. “In baseball parlance, bush can mean show-boating, temper tantrums, gloating...Baseball is a sport in which you don't stray from long established protocols. A busher can also be somebody who doesn't listen to or obey his coach or his signs or respect the game the way it's supposed to be played. You girls were horrible bushers when I took over this team, but lately you've become less bush and almost resemble players.”
“Were you ever bush, Mr. Baseball?” Claire dared to ask.
“Yes. And my dad quickly knocked it out of me. I was starting shortstop as a sophomore in high school, tearing it up as a fifteen year old in winter ball against professionals and college players in front of scouts, and I got the big head, argued with umpires and showed them up, acted like I invented the game, and before the game humbled me like I deserved to be humbled, dad took matters into his own hands.” The girls exchanged a lifting of eyebrows at this admittance. “A busher has no place in the game. But you wanna know what's almost as bad as a busher?”
“Yes we would,” Jill asked, before Claire could butt in.
“A flake.”
“What the hell's a flake?” Claire asked suspiciously.
“A flake can be a player who's never on time and maybe comes to the park with a book by Camus or Kafka and won't eat meat and prefers to listen to Chopin or Coletrane instead of the Stones or the Beach boys. A flake usually needs a haircut and secretly does yoga or believes in an Eastern religion and questions long observed traditions and teaching methods in baseball. A flake might hang out with hippies or beatniks...”
“YOU look like a hippie!” Claire blurted.
“Bullshit. I can't stand hippies. I just don't like shaving or getting haircuts every month and feel comfortable in rags.”
Claire blurted loudly, “Your ex, Stella, she told me you read intellectual books and listen to classical music. That means you're a flake. Is that why you're not in the big leagues like everybody thinks you should be.”
“Yes!” chimed in Marstrulavich.
Kelso felt himself flush as he glared at his friend. “Time to hit infield, you goddam flake,” he snarled. He turned to the girls. “Get your asses out on the field, goddam buncha bush women.”
The Tides swamped Player's. Kelso put Annie in the game for Becki in the fifth inning. Without Kelso's instruction, Tides players hugged their downtrodden opponents after the game, as they were now doormats who still hadn't won a game. Later, in the Tides, while the two coaches sat together, Ward Price joined Kaycee near the poolroom and repeatedly slipped his arm around her waist and occasionally dropped his hand to her ass.
“Those two look pretty cozy,” Marstrulavich informed Kelso, nodding toward the two.”They got the look of a couple who can't wait to get home and devour each other.” He glanced at Kelso, who had no retort and refused to look over at them. “Maybe Kaycee's a cradle robber. Wants a pretty boy with stamina. What is that kid—twenty two, twenty three.”
Kelso said, “Late twenties. Drives a Mustang rag-top. Wears Cotton Dockers and designer tanktops and twenty dollar flip-flops and Ray bans. Supposedly a surfer, but never a hair out of place.”
“Seen him play two man volleyball with a bunch of pretty boys and girls down off Marine street.” He blew out some smoke. “Maybe Kaycee dragged him in here and had him at the game for a purpose, ey?
I mean, I'd never go to a woman's softball game unless it was to get laid. That kid gets around. I've seen him pick up some pretty hot looking chicks. Some guys just got the knack.”
“Maybe he's just her toy, Stroolo.”
“She's thirty two, thirty three,” Marstrulavich mused, dumping ashes in his tray. “A woman that age is in her sexual prime. She's as horny as we were when we were in the army, when we'd pay for it.” He sipped his drink. “Maybe I was wrong about Kaycee being a manipulative siren. Maybe at this point in her life, after two divorces, she's an insatiable nymphomaniac who wants to fuck and suck all night with a young pretty boy with muscles.”
“Marstrulavich, you're a pestilence. Let's go across the street.”
Later, in the Sunset, with Stella at the end of the bar with her new beau, and thankfully not intimate, which was not Stella's style, for she never teased or flirted or played games, but was up front and let a guy know early if he had a chance, Kelso asked Marstrulavich, “You think Kaycee's actually that interested in fucking with me that she'd sport that show pony to make me jealous?”
Marstrulavich thought this over. Then: “I'd say yeh, she's a pro at that sort of maneuver, but I also think she's killing two birds with one stone by getting laid good in the process of driving you crazier than you already are.”
“Bush?” Claire asked suspiciously. “What is exactly is bush, coach?”
“Claire, your dirty little mind embarrasses me. Contrary to what you might consider a certain part of a woman's anatomy as referred to by some crude members of my sex as bush, a more respectful breed of my sex, including myself, refers to this delectable area of a woman's anatomy as muff.” He watched the girls giggle and blush as Bobbi flashed him a thumbs up. “In baseball parlance, bush can mean show-boating, temper tantrums, gloating...Baseball is a sport in which you don't stray from long established protocols. A busher can also be somebody who doesn't listen to or obey his coach or his signs or respect the game the way it's supposed to be played. You girls were horrible bushers when I took over this team, but lately you've become less bush and almost resemble players.”
“Were you ever bush, Mr. Baseball?” Claire dared to ask.
“Yes. And my dad quickly knocked it out of me. I was starting shortstop as a sophomore in high school, tearing it up as a fifteen year old in winter ball against professionals and college players in front of scouts, and I got the big head, argued with umpires and showed them up, acted like I invented the game, and before the game humbled me like I deserved to be humbled, dad took matters into his own hands.” The girls exchanged a lifting of eyebrows at this admittance. “A busher has no place in the game. But you wanna know what's almost as bad as a busher?”
“Yes we would,” Jill asked, before Claire could butt in.
“A flake.”
“What the hell's a flake?” Claire asked suspiciously.
“A flake can be a player who's never on time and maybe comes to the park with a book by Camus or Kafka and won't eat meat and prefers to listen to Chopin or Coletrane instead of the Stones or the Beach boys. A flake usually needs a haircut and secretly does yoga or believes in an Eastern religion and questions long observed traditions and teaching methods in baseball. A flake might hang out with hippies or beatniks...”
“YOU look like a hippie!” Claire blurted.
“Bullshit. I can't stand hippies. I just don't like shaving or getting haircuts every month and feel comfortable in rags.”
Claire blurted loudly, “Your ex, Stella, she told me you read intellectual books and listen to classical music. That means you're a flake. Is that why you're not in the big leagues like everybody thinks you should be.”
“Yes!” chimed in Marstrulavich.
Kelso felt himself flush as he glared at his friend. “Time to hit infield, you goddam flake,” he snarled. He turned to the girls. “Get your asses out on the field, goddam buncha bush women.”
The Tides swamped Player's. Kelso put Annie in the game for Becki in the fifth inning. Without Kelso's instruction, Tides players hugged their downtrodden opponents after the game, as they were now doormats who still hadn't won a game. Later, in the Tides, while the two coaches sat together, Ward Price joined Kaycee near the poolroom and repeatedly slipped his arm around her waist and occasionally dropped his hand to her ass.
“Those two look pretty cozy,” Marstrulavich informed Kelso, nodding toward the two.”They got the look of a couple who can't wait to get home and devour each other.” He glanced at Kelso, who had no retort and refused to look over at them. “Maybe Kaycee's a cradle robber. Wants a pretty boy with stamina. What is that kid—twenty two, twenty three.”
Kelso said, “Late twenties. Drives a Mustang rag-top. Wears Cotton Dockers and designer tanktops and twenty dollar flip-flops and Ray bans. Supposedly a surfer, but never a hair out of place.”
“Seen him play two man volleyball with a bunch of pretty boys and girls down off Marine street.” He blew out some smoke. “Maybe Kaycee dragged him in here and had him at the game for a purpose, ey?
I mean, I'd never go to a woman's softball game unless it was to get laid. That kid gets around. I've seen him pick up some pretty hot looking chicks. Some guys just got the knack.”
“Maybe he's just her toy, Stroolo.”
“She's thirty two, thirty three,” Marstrulavich mused, dumping ashes in his tray. “A woman that age is in her sexual prime. She's as horny as we were when we were in the army, when we'd pay for it.” He sipped his drink. “Maybe I was wrong about Kaycee being a manipulative siren. Maybe at this point in her life, after two divorces, she's an insatiable nymphomaniac who wants to fuck and suck all night with a young pretty boy with muscles.”
“Marstrulavich, you're a pestilence. Let's go across the street.”
Later, in the Sunset, with Stella at the end of the bar with her new beau, and thankfully not intimate, which was not Stella's style, for she never teased or flirted or played games, but was up front and let a guy know early if he had a chance, Kelso asked Marstrulavich, “You think Kaycee's actually that interested in fucking with me that she'd sport that show pony to make me jealous?”
Marstrulavich thought this over. Then: “I'd say yeh, she's a pro at that sort of maneuver, but I also think she's killing two birds with one stone by getting laid good in the process of driving you crazier than you already are.”
