Running the Bases - Definitely Not a Book About Baseball

by Paul Kropp

  A good kiss starts with dry, closed lips, not with a gaping wet mouth.

  Tilt your head to the right to avoid nose collisions.

  After a soft, dry kiss, run your tongue along her upper lip. (There’s a lot of sensitive skin there and virtually none inside her mouth.)

  If, and only if, she opens her mouth, send your tongue in a little deeper.

  Do not perform a tongue tonsillectomy. It is the touching of tongues that is erotic. Be soft, gentle and playful.

  Leave her wanting more. Do not continue kissing until your lips are sore or there’s saliva running down your chins. As Corbusier said, Less is more.

  Who is Corbusier, I wondered, and how did he learn so much about women? Still, the advice seemed pretty good to me. I practised kissing the back of my right hand to see if I could get the technique down: dry, soft and sexy. I must admit that my right hand thought I had it down just right, but it tends to be pretty easy on such matters.

  I was ready, I told myself.

  You’re ready, my right hand agreed.

  8

  An Awkward Moment or Two

  I’M GLAD OUR town is walkable. One of the miserable things about being just seventeen is that a full driver’s licence kills your family’s car insurance, and a learner’s permit isn’t good enough to drive by yourself. I know there are guys who still let their parents play chauffeur, but that makes me feel like I’m twelve. Fortunately, our town isn’t that large. There might be a dozen streets between the harbour and the college up the hill, maybe two dozen stretching along the length of Main Street. Mel lived only five blocks from my house, and the movieplex was close to her place. Walking is cool, I told myself as I walked in the early-April damp. Besides, walking gives you an excuse to hold hands, and holding hands gives an excuse for a kiss, and a kiss…

  Whoa, I told myself. Focus on the first date. Be patient. Stick to the instructions.

  I got to Melissa’s house and pushed the doorbell. This turned on some chimes that played “We Are the Champions” in some electronic bell-like tones. A second later and the door was opened by Mel’s brother, a guy who had the unfortunate name of Valentine. Of course he was as large as a Buffalo Bills linebacker.

  “The jerk is here!” he shouted.

  I smiled. It never pays to irritate the brother of your date, especially when he could easily break you in two.

  “Val, shut up!” came Mel’s voice from somewhere upstairs. “Tell him I’ll be down in a second.”

  “Motormouth says she’s coming,” he told me. “Guess you can go sit someplace.”

  With that wonderful welcome, the linebacker disappeared and left me standing in the hall. Oh well, I said to myself, at least she doesn’t have a large slobbery dog. I’ve had a thing about large dogs ever since a traumatic face-licking when I was three, or so my mother says. Miserable older brothers are nothing compared to large dogs.

  I thought about sitting in the living room, where a hockey game was filling a giant television, but decided it would be better to stand. I balanced on my feet and wondered if I should have brought flowers. On the TV dating shows, guys always bring flowers. Why hadn’t I thought of flowers? Then again, if I had brought flowers, I can just imagine the response of Mel’s brother. So I waited, flowerless and awkward.

  In a couple of minutes, Melissa came flouncing down the stairs. She looked incredible, dressed in tight-everything, her little tank top revealing a very nice navel. But I didn’t stare; I didn’t even look for more than a second. Really, I didn’t.

  “You are so gorgeous!” I said, and I meant it.

  The linebacker appeared at that point and let out a long belch. “Give me a break!” he groaned. “Mel, you look like a slut.”

  “Shut up, reject,” she replied.

  “Me, a reject? You’re the reject. And you look like a slut.”

  “And you look like an ape. So stuff it.”

  “Stuff yourself.”

  “C’mon, Al, let’s get out of here.”

  A second later we were outside, safely removed from the opinionated linebacker.

  “Your brother is, uh”—I searched for a word—“outspoken.”

  “My brother is a total jerk,” she said straightforwardly. “But thanks for not noticing.”

  “And you really do look great,” I said, focussing on her eyes.

  “You are so sweet,” she said, and she gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and took my hand.

  Mel had a lot more to say about her brother, some of which I even listened to. But mostly I was thinking about that very nice quick kiss and the easy way we held hands. This whole dating thing wasn’t nearly as hard as people said it would be—you just had to relax and let it happen.

  We got in line to buy the movie tickets, and then I went over to the refreshment counter to pick up the Double Double Special—basically a couple of Cokes and a wastebasket full of tasteless popcorn. I was still feeling pretty good about all this. My first date, and everything was going just fine—swimmingly, as Jeremy would say on one of his British days.

  The two of us headed into the theatre and settled into our seats. It was one of those theatres where the seats tilt back a little, so in no time we were leaning back, side by side, trying to make a dent in the popcorn.

  Up on the screen were those slides that pretend to be a movie quiz but are really ads for upcoming attractions. You know the kind: “What exciting new comedy is Hugh Grant appearing in next month?” Mel was quick coming up with the answers, aided by her regular viewing of Star TV.

  At one point, she dribbled some popcorn on her top, which then tumbled down to her tummy and ended up right in the indentation of her navel.

  “Oops.”

  I had to notice. I also had to laugh. Then I grabbed the misplaced piece of popcorn and quickly popped it into my mouth.

  “You’re so romantic,” she said, and then gave me a quick buttery kiss. Okay, so it was actually a golden-topping kiss, but I liked it just as much. I replied with another kiss, this one a little more substantial. Then I remembered Maggie’s list, so pulled back and gave a lick along her upper lip.

  She pulled back and shivered. “And you’re so sexy,” she added.

  I smiled to myself. I doubt that I’m either romantic or sexy, but I do know how to follow instructions.

  The lights finally went down and the movie started. We watched the show for a while, and then Mel kind of nestled her head on my shoulder. So I did the natural thing and put my arm around her shoulder, and that left my hand kind of dangling there. I thought for a second about a quick grope, but then remembered my instructions and put my hand on her upper arm. Then I got really smart and began running my finger up and down the skin of her arm.

  I wish there was some easy way of knowing when girls start getting turned on. With guys, it’s pretty obvious unless you’re wearing really tight jockey shorts. But with girls, you have to try to interpret their breathing, their sighs and just how they position their heads. If only there were a manual on all this, I could tell for sure that Mel was getting excited, but at that moment I only had a hunch to work on. My hunch was, yeah, Mel was getting turned on.

  So it was time for some serious kissing. I was up to point seven in the instructions—avoid giving a tongue tonsillectomy. Then again, Mel was doing a pretty effective job with her tongue, too. Our tongues and lips were so busy that we missed most of the movie, but that was fine with me.

  When the credits rolled at the end of the flick, we had to disentangle ourselves. This was no mean feat, because my arm seemed permanently crimped around her shoulders and my hand was entwined in her hair. Then there was the standing-up problem because, as I explained, with guys it’s pretty obvious when we get excited.

  Still, we made it to the aisle, and then out of our theatre to the lobby. I had one arm around Mel’s waist and she had one arm around mine. At that moment, I had a stroke of genius.

  Most people were getting on an escalator leading up to the main floor, bu
t off to one side was an elevator—probably for the handicapped and the elderly. But what about an elevator for the horny, I said to myself.

  “Let’s take the elevator,” I said.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “It’ll be more private,” I told her. And that got a little giggle.

  So while the rest of the patrons made a file to go up the escalator, Mel and I snuck off to the elevator and waited for the doors to open. When they did, we slipped inside, and I pressed the close-door button.

  “Aren’t you going to press for the main floor?” Mel asked.

  “You in a hurry?” I replied, pulling her into my arms.

  It was a chance for some serious, body-to-body kissing. It was time for hands to run all over each other.

  I suppose I should have remembered Maggie’s rules—especially number three, the one about groping—but groping is such a wonderful thing, and I wasn’t doing all the groping myself. I must say that Mel’s hands were busy all over me. In fact, the two of us were so busy with the mutual kissing and groping that neither of us felt the elevator begin to move.

  And then I forgot rule four, the one about hands and clothing. Above all, do not remove clothing or place your hand beneath said clothing. That’s what Maggie had written.

  But with all that groping going on, my hands seemed to have a mind of their own. One hand sneaked under Mel’s tank top and began groping there. Another hand made its way down inside the back of her jeans. If I’d had a third hand, I suspect that one would have gotten me in trouble too.

  “Alan,” Mel said, pulling away from me. “Slow down.”

  And I could have slowed down, really. I could have pulled both hands away and followed instructions. But I kept hearing Jeremy’s voice saying Go for it. There was a debate going on in my mind, like those devil-vs.-angel debates you see in cartoons, except in my case it was Maggie vs. Jeremy. Meanwhile, my hands were making their own decisions.

  Mel was not responding well. “Alan, cut it—”

  She didn’t have time to finish. The elevator door opened on the main floor. Suddenly we were in full view of the crowd leaving the show. And who should be waiting near the elevator but Allison Mackenzie and her friend Rachel, the two biggest gossips in the school.

  We were caught—red handed, in my case; red faced in Mel’s.

  “Eww,” Allison commented when she saw the two of us, entwined.

  “I always heard that Mel was easy,” Rachel said.

  Their eyes—and the eyes of a dozen other people—stared at us. I was frozen, like a deer caught in the headlights of a car.

  “Alan, let go,” Mel ordered.

  And I tried. I managed to get the hand out of her tank top without too much trouble, but the hand that had slithered down her jeans got stuck. Somehow my watch got caught in her belt, or something like that, but my hand just wouldn’t get out.

  “Look, he’s out of control,” Allison said in that waspish way she has.

  “Al’s one horny guy,” Rachel added.

  And then the laughter began. Not just the two of them, but the whole crowd of people waiting in the lobby.

  “Alan, I’m warning you,” Mel told me.

  “I’m trying…,” I said.

  “I told you to stop,” she said.

  “I’m trying,” I repeated.

  This entire exchange, and the laughter, might have lasted all of three seconds—certainly no more than four. But each of those seconds felt like an eternity; each of those seconds has been replayed in my brain a thousand times; each of those seconds will live in infamy.

  It was Mel who finally stopped all the embarrassment. She took a deep breath and then, very quickly, brought up her knee. It connected with amazing force right between my legs, right there.

  “Oh…,” I groaned, adding a swear word for emphasis. I saw little flashing lights in front of my eyes, but the pain down below was glowing a dull red. I had trouble breathing, trouble seeing and trouble talking.

  “You pig!” Mel shouted, somehow freeing herself from my errant hand.

  There was a round of applause from the group watching all this. Then Mel went stomping off self-righteously while I stood helplessly in the elevator.

  At that moment, it seemed as if certain parts of my body would never function again, not ever. And I’m not just talking about my very embarrassed face.

  9

  In Disgrace with Fortune and Men’s Eyes

  “YOU BLEW IT,” Maggie told me at school on Monday. We were sitting in the lunch room. She had offered me that three-word summary the minute she sat down in the empty chair across from me.

  “How’d you know?” I asked. My mom had given me celery sticks, and I hate celery sticks, but that was the least of my problems.

  “Everybody knows, Al. Everybody. Mel didn’t get that ‘Motormouth’ nickname for nothing.”

  “She told…everybody?” I gulped.

  “Just her friends. And then her friends told their friends. Then Hannah got the news and the rumour mill really got spinning. And that was Sunday. By third period today everyone in school heard that you were an orangutan on the date, and that you tried to take her clothes off in the elevator.”

  “Really?”

  “Mel exaggerates a little,” Maggie said. “I think she’s using the phrase ‘sexual assault’ or something like that.” Maggie was acting like this was quite normal, as if the trashing of my reputation were no more unusual than an upcoming math test. “When I got the story, you attacked her in the elevator but she had the presence of mind to get the elevator moving and then knee you because you were so out of control.”

  “Out of control?” I screamed.

  People in the cafeteria craned their necks to look. I turned red in the face. They were all looking at me, looking at a guy out of control.

  “I’m just telling you the story I got,” Maggie said in a low voice. “Nobody really believes all that. After the tales Mel told about her last boyfriend, you got off pretty easy. She could have gone to the police and charged you.”

  I was sweating heavily at this point. Maggie was right, of course. The whole thing could have been worse, much worse.

  “So what really happened?” she asked.

  “I…uh…I broke rule two, the one about patience.”

  “And probably rules three and four about groping,” Maggie suggested.

  “Yeah, those too,” I admitted. My voice was choked up and I wanted to die. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to take a big jump like those guys in The Matrix and get myself out of school, away from everything. “So what do I do now?”

  “Start over,” Maggie said, her voice doing a tonal shrug. “You fell flat on your face, so all you can is get up, survey the damage and begin again. Wait a week or so for the rumours to die down and then we’ll find some other girl.”

  “Like who?”

  “Don’t know yet,” she said. “I’ve got to ask around and find out if anybody is into out-of-control guys.” She shook her head, looking at me almost with pity. “Okay, Al, it was just a joke. Just leave the problem with me and I’ll get back to you.”

  I felt a large shape looming behind me. Maggie looked up.

  “You ready to go?” came a voice from over my shoulder.

  I turned and saw none other than Braden Boyce standing behind me. Even from this angle, his face was perfectly shaped, like that of a Greek statue. The bonus, of course, is that Braden wasn’t Greek. He came from one of the old-money families in town, the kind of family where Grandpa’s picture is up at the country club for winning the tournament of ’22 and Dad’s picture is up at the yacht club as commodore of the summer regatta, 1998. Not that I have ever been to the country club or the yacht club, but you get the idea.

  “Ready in a second,” Maggie replied. “I’ll meet you down at the car.”

  That seemed enough to satisfy Braden. His shadow disappeared and that left just Maggie and me.

  “So those rumours are true,” I mumbled.


  “Which rumours?”

  “That you’ve hooked up with Braden.”

  Maggie thought for a second. “Hook up is too strong a verb,” she said. “I kind of like him and he probably figures, if he does the right moves, that maybe he’ll get laid.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, but I guess my face asked the obvious question.

  “But I doubt it,” Maggie added, before getting up to follow her boyfriend to the parking lot.

  I had a hunch that Maggie would eventually give in to him. Guys like Braden Boyce are always getting laid. All they have to do is blink their perfect blue eyes, flash their perfect white smiles, and the girls are all over them. In Braden’s case, all he had to do was drive up in that BMW roadster and he has girls fighting to get in the back seat—and there’s no back seat!

  I sucked on a celery stick. Here I was, dateless, chickless, despised, rejected, disgraced. My life had taken a sudden tumble. It’s like that little-kids’ game, Snakes and Ladders. You just think you’re about to finish when, zam, you land on the wrong square and end up back at the beginning.

  I was feeling truly and deeply sorry for myself at that point, but I knew that wouldn’t do any good. I had to project confidence. I had to show everybody that Mel’s accusations were false; that a guy as cool and self-confident as me couldn’t possibly have done what she said. I had to get up and stand like a man who was proud of himself, a man innocent of all charges.

  Besides, I said to myself, things couldn’t get worse.

  I kept believing that all the way to my locker. I kept my head high, my eyes straight, a firm smile on my face. I could tough this out. I could start over and rebuild. I could—

  “There he is!”

  “Grab him!”

  In less than a second, I was pushed from the hallway into the guy’s washroom. The push was so fast and so effortless that I should have known a football player was at the muscled end of it.