Swing Big, Win Big

An attractive young woman sauntered into Oracle Park to watch her San Francisco Giants play the Los Angeles Dodgers at home. The game was sold out, and as she waded into the chaotic crowd to locate her seat, it was as if she was swimming in the nearby bay, because as her path wavered, so did every male head. Black and orange ball caps became waves in an ocean of fans. 

Her strawberry blond hair fluttered in the early evening breeze blowing off McCovey Cove, partially covering her flawlessly pale complexion and toothsome crimson lips. It was early September, and the playoffs were quite a ways off, but it still got chilly at night down near the waterfront, so she wore a sheer windbreaker which, like her long curls, also quivered in the breath of the bay revealing her supple curvaceous form.

She had spared no expense for her ticket, and as she descended the steps to the front row, her buoyant breasts undulated in the billows and swells of the sea of Giants aficionados. When she arrived at the first tier of seats, everyone had to stand up to allow her access to her number which was about halfway down the first base line.

As she turned to take her seat, she wilfully carelessly bumped her derrière against the beer belly of the husky man next to her. He stepped back, nearly toppling his wife and apologizing timidly, “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Of course you are,” she winked, then she licked her lips and added, “Do you mind if I borrow your menu?”

“My what?” the man gawked, confused.

Batting her emerald eyes, and pointing a slender finger with scarlet nail polish at the publication rolled up in his sweaty hand, she answered, “Your official program.”

“Oh this? Why sure.” The fat man handed it to her while his wife, clearly annoyed, took her seat with her arms crossed on her equally rotund midsection. 

“Thank you. You are a gentleman and a scholar. If you weren’t married, I’d consider having you for dessert,” she giggled.

Chubby just ogled the rare beauty as he slumped down into the plastic chair that was half the size it needed to be to comfortably accommodate him. When he was settled, his wife gave him a swat on the back of his head nearly knocking off his weathered black Giants hat, with an orange NY instead of an SF on its crown; a nod to when the Giants called New York their home. 

“Now, let’s see what we have on the menu tonight,” she said as she slid seductively into her small stadium seat to scan the borrowed program.  She licked her finger and turned several pages to find what she desired. It was a two page layout of the Giants’ star hitter, “Cyclone” Malone.

Malone was a beast of a man, with broad shoulders and chest muscles like a bird of prey. If he had wings, instead of barrel-like arms, he could surely take flight. Speaking of prey, the article had a shirtless photo of Malone clenching his signed Louisville Slugger that was the maximum size allowed by regulation. The 34-inch long, 2.61-inch diameter cudgel resting against his manscape became almost phallic, as she stroked the image while admiring his stratospheric stats.

“Swing big, win big. What an interesting quote,” she admired Malone’s catch phrase, and then she complimented herself, “I’ve chosen well.”

Tubby seemed as annoyed as his wife that this woman was wrinkling the pages of his souvenir, so he demanded its return, “Okay lady, I think you’ve had my program long enough.”

She snarled at him, “I’ll give it to you when I’m done reading.” For a moment the man saw something wicked in her countenance, her canine teeth seemed to extend more sharply and her verdant eyes briefly turned a sickly yellow. 

The old man’s heart skipped a beat, but then returned to normal when the woman smiled and blew him a kiss. “Now that was rude of me,” she said, “I’m sorry. Thanks for letting me borrow your little magazine.” She slowly handed it back to him adding, “I still contend you’d be a sweet after-dinner drink.” 

The overweight man leaned away from her and put his hand around his vexed spouse, who was still clearly cross. 

The scarlet temptress reflected on her dinner selection as Cyclone took the mound. Being in the National League, the best reason why Malone was such a crucial asset, was that pitchers were required to bat, and Malone crushed the horsehide like no other.  In fact, his nickname, “Cyclone,” was derived from the exaggeration that when he swung his bat, spectators could feel the wind gusts in the second deck. Besides that, it rhymed with his last name nicely. 

She’d arrived late, so she’d missed his first at bat, but it wouldn’t be long before he’d be back to the plate. For now she salivated every time he threw the onion. Malones huge fist nearly kept the ball completely hidden, so the batter had no clue how or where it would be released from his bear paw. 

After striking out two Dodgers in a row a third somehow squeezed out a single. The clearly peeved pitcher, spit a slick brown spitball of chewing tobacco through his thick black beard and onto the elevated mound in the center of the field. He twisted his right foot in the dirt with an eye on first base. Looking to the catcher he took his signal and wound up for a pitch. However the runner had taken a big lead-off, and instead of coming straight towards home, Cyclone spun like his nickname and fired the ball to the first baseman. They caught the runner in a pickle which ended up ending the inning with a pick off. 

The seductress sighed and rubbed her tiny belly that softly growled with subtle hunger pangs. The large man’s wife pulled her husbands dumbfounded face away from the alluring tart. The “tart” noticed, and she merely grinned like a jackass eating cactus.

The bottom of the second inning began, and the seemingly obsessed woman impatiently watched two Giants batters strike out as Cyclone Malone warmed up. “Finally,” she thought aloud, “the main course.”

Malone stood alone at the plate, winding up and pointing to right field, and the crowd went wild. It was reminiscent of Babe Ruth pointing to the fence for his called shot in 1932. The woman held her breath. 

A fastball from the Dodger hurler landed perfectly in his catcher’s mitt as Cyclone’s swing whooshed through the Northern California air. Did she feel the breeze? She was sure that she did, and she relished it. Exhaling and inhaling deeply, made it seem to the couple next to her that she was involved in some act of mental copulation. The old lady pulled her husband away from the crazy bitch. 

Malone got a solid piece of the second pitch and the ball flew towards the right field fence, but went just wide of the foul post and ended up in the bay. When the rock hit the water, the femme fatal let out an almost orgasmic moan. Now the entire section was wondering what was going on with this lunatic. 

Malone called a timeout to knock dirt from his cleats and the woman sagged back into her seat, exhausted. The fat man looked down at her and when she looked up at him her face revealed the most psychotic and malignant smile the man had ever seen. Her canine teeth were now a full inch and a half, sticking out over her voluptuous lips like daggers of desire. 

He knew now the witch’s intention. She was a vampiress that stalked her victims to experience the best parts of their life before draining them of every last drop of their lifeblood…her evil smile was meant not as a warning but a promise. She really meant every word she’d said from the time she’d arrived at the ballpark. 

The vampyr stood up and pointed a crooked finger at her neighbors. “First I’ll have my pitcher, then I’ll have my desserts.”

Fortunately for the fans on the first base line, Cyclone connected squarely with the third pitch. There was a tremendous crack when the wooden bat struck the speeding ball, and the tiny rock went sailing towards the right field fence. The packed stadium collectively stood and cheered for the powerful home run. 

However, the fans on the first base line stood stunned because Malone’s bat had split in half. A sheered off portion of his  Louisville Slugger had been flung through the misty bay air piercing the erotic stalker squarely through her demonic heart.

As Cyclone waved his fist and circled the bases, the vampiress collapsed to the ground clenching the wooden stake in her chest. Black ichor covered her midsection and trickled out of her fanged maw. 

“Bon appétit,” whispered Bubba, as he took the last swig of his $15 beer.