The Team

[Fred]

An oldie from my archives:

The Team

They could hardly be called a team. The Hawks were just a group of guys
that got together on Saturday afternoons and played baseball. Their
uniforms were jeans and a T-shirt, and their equipment was what they
brought from home. They had discovered their counterparts in a few other
towns, and today they were on their way to play the Shelby Gophers.

Leon was the coach, and the fact that he owned a retired school bus was
only one of his qualifications for the job. He was a short, paunchy,
balding man of indeterminate age with some knowledge of the game and a
bawdy sense of humor. They all loved and respected him.

They had broken down five minutes into the 40-minute trip, but they had
phoned ahead and advised of a two-hour delay. As Leon wheeled the
wheezing bus into the school parking lot, the Gophers and a sprinkling
of spectators were just arriving. A few small children were on the
playground, and skateboarders were rumbling around the cars scattered on
the lot.

Chris, an impressive athlete and their star pitcher, sprinted toward the
school, pulled futilely at a door, and returned with a serious
expression.

"It's locked."

"What's the problem?" Leon asked as he picked up a cooler full of cans.

Chris was a shy young man, of average height but filling his "uniform"
admirably, with bulges in all the right places. He blushed, the rosy hue
visible through his buzz-cut blonde hair, and even his ears became red.
"I have to go to the bathroom."

Leon looked around. There was no portable toilet or nearby restroom, no
grove of trees, no concealing shrubbery or fence. Save for grass and a
row of low benches, the area was as barren as a desert.

"You may have to hold it a while," Leon advised as they walked briskly
toward the field. "Just don't drink any more of this soda."

They had agreed on a seven-inning game, and Chris pitched well for the
first six. But when he came off the field he looked nervous and pale.
Some of his teammates had perceived the reason for his discomfort, and
in fact, most had to pee themselves. However, this was a macho group,
proud of their muscles - and their ability to hold their water. Nothing
was said about the subject.

Chris was next in the lineup to bat, and perhaps his fidgeting at the
plate distracted the Gopher pitcher, for he was able to hit a solid
double. As he stood squirming just off the bag at second, his hands
thrust deep into his pockets, his problem was obvious to anyone that had
raised a small child. The next batter hit a fly into right field, and as
Chris trotted across the plate and back to his team's bench, he was
blatantly gripping his crotch.

"Coach, I can't hold it," he said to Leon with crimson cheeks and tears
in his eyes. "I'm gonna wet my pants."

"This is the last inning," the coach replied, sympathetic but having no
solution to the dilemma. "Put a clamp on it. We'll stop on the way
home."

A pop fly and a strikeout quickly ended the first half of the inning,
and as the Gophers jogged to their bench, a dark wetness spread around
Chris's clutching hand and flowed down his legs. Now they all had a
problem. Certainly Chris couldn't take the mound in that condition.

It took hardly a moment for Leon to call his team into a brief huddle.
There were murmurs from the Gophers and the spectators, puzzled by the
delay. Then the Hawks turned and marched onto the field as a body, their
coach leading the way. There was a collective gasp from everyone as they
first saw Leon's jeans, soaked from crotch to knees, and then they
realized that every Hawk sported the same telltale stain. Every member
of the team had peed his pants!

For an instant there was total silence. Then a few hoots and titters of
laughter turned to cheers and applause. "Go, go, go," they chanted, and
indeed some of the Hawks released still more and left a moist trail on
the dusty ground. The reaction did not abate until Leon had returned to
the sidelines and Chris was warmed up and ready to pitch. He struck out
three Gophers in a row, receiving unexpected roars of approval in the
process. As the Hawks picked up their equipment, they were mobbed by the
crowd. Backs were slapped, joking comments were made, and the men
boarded their bus to a chorus of well-wishers. It had been a memorable
game, and today they could truly be called a team.

The next time the Hawks played the Shelby Gophers, there stood a shiny,
new portapotty right next to the visitors' bench!

[AlphaJock]

The things I would do for a peek at your archives

[Fred]

The things I would do for a peek at your archives

I have a bunch of oldies, many incomplete. A few of them go a little further than what this site would accept. I've been writing desperation stories for close to 40 years, though I've lost many of them as computers died.

[Sam70]

Fantastic story! This is one of my fantasies! I wonder if this has really happened where a group of mates have all wet their pants to support a mate who really has lost control of his bladder!

About computers dying and losing all memory of saved work. I, now put all work as an email or an email attachment. I have made several folders to store my work which makes finding something easier.

[AlphaJock]

The things I would do for a peek at your archives

I have a bunch of oldies, many incomplete. A few of them go a little further than what this site would accept. I've been writing desperation stories for close to 40 years, though I've lost many of them as computers died.

I'd bet even your incomplete starts are better than any of the stories I've finished