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Throwing Like A Girl Tar Baby Authors note: As long as it continues to be indexed at Fictionmania, this story may be archived, copied, transmitted, redistributed, whatever, for free, as long as it remains in its original form, don't change a WORD! Oh, and try not to make any money off of it, and give me credit, okay? I consider this story to be my masterpiece: It was a labor of love that took me over 2 years to get from start to finish. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. You can contact me directly with comments at [email protected] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- "C'mon, burn it in there!" came the cry from the outfield as Thomas Coughlin stepped into the batter's box. Thomas was batting for the first time in a game this season, as his school was getting drubbed by the Knights of Cheltern. Thankful for the chance to play, he set in his stance. The pitcher stared down the boy, shaking off the first two offers from his catcher. Finally set, he wound up and threw a fastball Thomas' way. Thomas took a step back and swung as hard as he could. The ball bounced in front of him, falling towards third base. Running with all his might, Thomas took off towards first as the third baseman scooped up the ball and fired it to first for the easy out, ending the game. The Hornets had lost again, this time by the lopsided score of 12-3. Trotting back to the dugout for the cleanup, Thomas caught a cold stare from Lyle Holland, who had been waiting on deck as Thomas batted. "You just cost me another at bat, twerp," shouted Lyle, taking time to spit near Thomas' baseball cleats. "I can't afford it. I need to get up, I need to get the exposure." Lyle Holland was truly the shining light of an otherwise dismal team. As the result of the day belied, the Whittsburgh Hornets were terrible. Now halfway through the season, the Hornets had won only two games all year, and things were not looking good for the second half. Lyle, though, was pure magic, all talent. His flashy glove, lightning speed, and thunderous bat had attracted pro and college scouts from all over. Opposing pitchers were afraid to pitch to him, and opposing catchers never wanted to try to catch him stealing. During his high school career, he had mastered everything and anything that other schools had tried to throw at him. Lyle was the player his coach, Mr. Bobrowski, wished all his players could be like. And, as a bonus, Lyle was only a junior. If he's this good now, he imagined, what could he be capable of next year? Unfortunately, Mr. Bobrowski could never get Lyle to take training and practice seriously. Lyle loved to take practices easily, exerting very little effort while making his teammates work harder, and never kept a useful training regimen or ate right during the season. While his teammates ate healthy, lifted weights, and ran laps, Lyle would eat McDonalds, lie on the couch, watch TV, and take creatine. Lyle would dismiss the training as unnecessary, after all, he's got the talent, what else would he need? Thomas, on the other hand, was exactly the opposite. He ran every day. He gave his all during practice. He ate the right foods, pumped iron, and stayed in shape. Unfortunately he had never been very good at the game. Working with little talent, the love of baseball kept him going. His little league coaches used him as sparingly as they could. In junior high, the Whittsburgh School allowed 7th and 8th graders to try out for the junior varsity squad. Thomas had been cut both times. The high school then allowed 9th and 10th graders to tryout for the varsity squad, with everyone cut being assured a spot on the JV team. Sure enough, Thomas had been relegated to JV both years. As a junior he was assured a spot on the varsity team, but, of course, he spent his time on the bench, only to play in unsurpassable lead or insurmountable defeat, as was the case here. Lyle, meanwhile, had played JV as a 7th grader, and had played varsity boys baseball ever since, and always as the star player. Many girls wanted to be associated with him, and a lot of guys wanted to be him. Throughout his whole school career, he'd been focusing on making the major leagues. He liked to brag to friends that a Cubs or Yankees scout had been at the last baseball game, and that he saw him in the stands grinning from ear to ear. He was a physical specimen. Standing at 6'2", with blue eyes and short blond hair, and a muscular physique, he was an awesome sight. Later on, in the locker room, Lyle again confronted Thomas. "Coughlin," he nearly shouted, pointing his finger into Thomas' shoulder. "You are terrible. I don't know why Coach even plays you at all. You can't run, you can't hit, and what's more, you throw like a girl. And you cost me this time." "Lyle," responded Thomas. "You hit three homeruns today. What more can you ask for?" "A fourth. Next time, either tell Coach you don't want to play, or get some ability." "Holland!" yelled Mr. Bobrowski from his office. "Now!" Slowly, Lyle sauntered into his coach's room. "Do you know the definition of a team?" Mr. Bobrowski queried. Silence. "It means a group of people who work TOGETHER to achieve a single goal. Coughlin is your teammate. He is working as part of a team to achieve our goal. What is our goal, Holland?" "To win?" answered Lyle in an uninterested tone. "To win. Not to impress invisible scouts who may or may not be watching you play. Hitting home runs as much as possible is not going to help us win games, nor will it help you in your own selfish quest. Think about that before practice tomorrow." Leaving the locker room, Lyle sneered at Thomas one last time. Thomas was unimpressive. He wore glasses, and was ridiculed for the special sports goggles that his eye doctor had him wear while playing baseball. Even after all of his conditioning, he was still somewhat lanky, and hardly muscular. He'd never been out on a date in his life. His self-esteem was quite low from all the barbs he'd taken from people like Lyle and his friends. Still, his grades were impeccable. He got through it all by telling himself that college would be much better. Lyle jumped into his sporty black Camaro, which had been souped up to the max: nitrous boosters, spoiler, huge rims, speakers in the back, the works. He browsed his car's CD library, and selected Metallica. Firing up the sports car's massive engine, he lowered the hammer and floored the accelerator to the loud jams. He blew quickly by Thomas, who, as was his norm, was walking home, leaving him in a cloud of dust. Arriving home, he threw his books and baseball gear down at the front door. His father was the first to greet him. "Excellent game, boy. They'll be lining up for you after that performance. Three homers, jeez, you're the whole team." "Thanks, Dad," was the reply. Lyle's mother was hunched over the kitchen table, pouring over work. "Who knew running a mental hospital's finances could be so much work!" she cried out, as she did almost every night. "But, it's worth it, after all. All those people we help every day..." "Do you hear that, boy?" said Lyle's father. "You need to hit it big so you can help your poor mother. Look at all the work she does for us." "Yes, Dad," was the passionless response, as he meandered towards the stairs to go up to his room. "Next game, be sure to get on base so those scouts can see your breakaway speed when you're stealing." "Yes, Dad," came the automatic response, though Lyle didn't hear a word of what his father was saying, as he was shutting the door to his room. "And next time, flash the glove more often!" yelled his father up the stairs. Lyle collapsed on his bed, which rested right below a picture of his hero, Mark McGwire. He opened a bag of potato chips that lay next to his baseball trophies, and a can of soda which was positioned below his Limp Bizkit poster, and turned on the TV. He soon dozed off and was fast asleep. The next day, before school, Lyle and his friends met as they always did, right before the first bell, outside of the school building. "OK, gentlemen," said Stan Belden, the leader of the group. "Stories." "Laura was fine last night," said John. "She went down on me like she was drowning, and my balls contained oxygen." The group had a good laugh as Stan checked off another name on his master list. The little gathering had an official moniker: GED, or "Get 'Er Done". The raunchy assembly had been meeting before school every day for nearly 25 years now, constantly recruiting new members and graduating or having old ones drop out. GED's sole purpose: to have its associates bed as many of the school's women as possible. The faction loved to brag that as many as 50% of Whittsburgh High's females over the years had "earned their GEDs". The administration had been trying to eliminate the group for years, but, like the mob, were never able to find a legitimate reason to stop them. They covered their tracks well. "Laura has a nice ass," said Stan, watching as the young woman in question entered the school, not knowing that she was being stared at by the assemblage. "I'm a breast man myself," said Lyle, interjecting into the discussion. "Not too big though. You can't be able to lose yourself in her tits. You can't risk ending up with a fat chick. 36-C should be enough for any man. Too much is disturbing." "This coming from a man who has been DATING a flat chest for months!" exclaimed Stan. "When are you going to cut that shit out and start getting around again? You can start relationships after we get outta here." He put his arm around Lyle. "High school is for sleeping around, man! Look at you. You're a perfect case. You're everything the rest of us wish we could be. Tall, athletic, AND good looking." "Karin is so good to me," Lyle responded. "I don't want to lose her." "C'mon man!" intoned Al, "Different babes is always better than the same old thing!" Now Lyle noticed Karin approaching. "Sorry guys, maybe some other time." As Lyle ran off to join his girlfriend, Stan shook his head. "He's not holding up his share of the weight." "Hi, beautiful," cooed Lyle as he joined Karin on her way into school. "What are you doing tonight?" "You," was the chuckled response. "My old man will be out for the evening. it'll just be the two of us." "Awesome, babe." He locked his lips around hers and gave a rather showy public display of affection. Karin Cooper gazed intently as she watched her sweetheart saunter off down the hallway towards his first class. For as long as she could remember, she had been in love with the hunky jock. She often prayed that he would talk to her, and did whatever she could to get his attention, both in attitude and dress. She looked like a child of the night, with black painted fingernails, black clothing, and dark makeup. Finally, Lyle had asked her out, apparently as part of a planned one- night stand, but the two continued to see each other long afterwards. They liked to joke that they had screwed more times than a light bulb. Now they had been planning to attend the upcoming Junior Prom together, but, of course, the prom was going to be secondary to the after-prom party. As always, baseball practice followed school. Lyle and Thomas both appeared as normal, with the common animosity apparent once again, as the two tried to avoid each other as much as possible. "Coach," Lyle said, talking to Mr. Bobrowski while waiting for his turn to bat in practice, "I don't think you should be letting Thomas Coughlin play games." "Oh? And why is that?" "Just look at him. He's a hindrance to the team. He has no ability whatsoever." At that moment, the batter popped the ball towards left field, where Thomas had been standing. Thomas waved his arms looking for the ball, and stood ready to catch it. He jumped up in the air and tried to grab it, but the ball bounced off his glove and hit the ground. He quickly picked the ball up off the ground and lobbed it towards the waiting shortstop. The ball landed well short of him. "See, look. He throws like a girl," said Lyle, feeling justified. "I got a call from a recruiter from Wichita State today," said the coach, ignoring Lyle's pleas. "They are prepared to offer you a full scholarship for the class of 2006 based on what they've seen of you in games. They want to watch you practice in a few days and then watch the game against Litchton High." "Really? Wichita State?" asked Lyle. "They are a college power, that's excellent!" "I told them to forget it." "What?!?" Lyle looked absolutely shell shocked. "I told them to come back next year and watch you then." "Why? I can do it now! Coach, how could you do this to me? If they accept me a year ahead of time, the pro scouts will surely take notice, I can do it, call them back." "Lyle, I've been telling you for almost five years now, you need to work hard in practice, and you never do. I'm surprised you even bothered to show up today, you usually aren't here the day after a game. You seem to work out at your leisure, which is almost never. I can tell you don't work out, practice, or run on your own. You've got a tremendous amount of talent, and that's why you're here. You're the best player on our team, and you have been for a long time. But since you've played for me, you've been running solely on talent. Just imagine how good you could be if you tried more." "But I'm good enough already! I've got the scouts coming to look at me already. I know I can do it." "What kind of a reaction do you think those recruiters will have when they see you lollygagging around at practice doing nothing, or take a look at your training regimen? They'll shake their heads and walk away saying 'what potential that boy has, if only he learns to work.'" "So I'll just show them I can work at practice." "I'm not going to let you do that. You sit here and complain about Thomas Coughlin's ability, but look at his hustle." The outfielders were returning from their positions so they could bat, as those who had batted took their place. Thomas ran into the dugout, donned a helmet, picked up a bat, and started taking cuts. "He works harder than anyone else on this team, especially you, and for very little playing time," said the coach. "He knows he doesn't have the talent. But that never stops him from trying. He plays for love of the game. Do you?" Lyle shook his head and headed to the plate for his turn to bat. The Whittsburgh practice baseball field lies at the bottom of a grassy hill, at the top of which is a run-down old mansion. When someone hits a home run, the ball always hits the hill and rolls down. With the first pitch he was sent, Lyle smacked it with all of his might. The ball roared out of the park, and embedded itself in the hill. Halfway up the hill. Sending a dark glance towards his coach, Lyle stepped in and awaited the next pitch. After practice, Lyle threw his belongings into the Camaro and slammed the driver door shut. He sat in the driver's seat, pondering for a moment, and looked back at his stuff. The tires squealed as he peeled out of the parking lot and headed for the dirt road heading up the hill overlooking the field. Upon arriving at the old mansion, he walked down the hill and picked the ball he had driven into the hill. Inspecting it, he snickered to himself. "Heh. 'Try more.' Give me a break. I'm the best player this school's ever seen." He tossed the ball into the back seat of his car. Still angry, he picked up his aluminum baseball bat and walked with purpose towards the old house. It had looked down upon the field even when he was growing up, playing little league down there. Everyone knew it was abandoned. The police had stopped monitoring the area long ago. His rage getting the best of him, he walked to the rotten old front door and started clobbering it with his bat. He completely destroyed the entryway, shattering glass and splintering wood all about. Lyle stepped back and surveyed the damage. "Hello?" came a voice from inside. Lyle jumped back a mile. He was completely surprised to hear someone inside the house. He started to backpedal. "Come back!" Lyle started to run. "I know who you are, Lyle Holland, I know where you live and the car you drive," said the voice inside the house as Lyle fled the scene. "And I'll turn you in the police if you don't come back." The police. Lyle paused. A criminal record, even something minor like this, could have negative ramifications on his baseball career. He just couldn't risk it. After all, the person in there knew his name. Perhaps he could work something out with them. "OK," he said, returning to the house and stepping inside. "I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone lived here. Just don't call the cops, OK?" "No, I won't call the police," said the voice, which Lyle now saw belonged to an old woman, surely no younger than her mid-70s. "But you must pay for what you have damaged." "Ma'am," Lyle said, his face turning red. "That door couldn't have been worth more than 10 dollars in the condition it was in." "You are correct," she said. "Come with me to my parlor." The two walked down the creaking hall to a small room with two big stuffed chairs and a coffee table. "That door was not worth much in money," she said, picking up a cup of tea. "But many parts of this old house can no longer be replaced by today's fancy home furnishings. That door was very dear to me. My grandfather made it and installed it when I was four." "It's OK," Lyle said, sitting down, but eager to resolve the situation. "I'll buy you a new door. A nice one. It will make the house look better." "Unfortunately," the old lady continued, "the door cannot be replaced. Today's doors would just look too strange on such a beautiful old house." Lyle cringed at the word "beautiful". To call the house decrepit, he thought, would be a compliment. "Therefore," she continued, "your penance must be taken in a different manner than just money." "What is it? Do you want me to come up here and do chores or something? I'll do anything, just don't call the cops." "No, Lyle, I'm not going to call the police," she reassured him. "I know more about you than you, realize, Mr. Holland. I know that you are a lazy person and will not likely return to help me keep this place up." Lyle was getting scared. He had never met this woman in his life. How could she know these things about him? "Who are you?" he asked. "I have lived here my entire life," she said. "You have nothing to offer me. I will have to exact a different kind of punishment." "What do you...?" Lyle started. Suddenly, a bright light filled the room for a split second, cutting Lyle off in mid-sentence. "There, all done," the woman declared. "What did you do? What was that?" Lyle asked. "Your penance is served," she replied. "You may leave now, but please do not disturb me any further, Mr. Holland." Slowly, Lyle rose from his seat, wondering exactly what penance had been served. The old woman lead him down the hall and back outside, and left him alone. "Strange," he said, climbing into his car. He glanced at the clock on the dash. "Shit! I'm late to meet Karin!" He shifted his car into gear and took off. Arriving at the Cooper home, Lyle noticed that only Karin's car was in the driveway. Eager, he darted from his car over to the door and rang the bell. Karin opened the door almost immediately. She was a sight. She wore a very short, black halter top which exposed most of her lower torso, and an extremely short black miniskirt, which exhibited both of her legs in their entirety. "Come on in," she breathed. Quickly, they ran off to Karin's parents' room, where Lyle stopped outside the door to take his wallet out of his pants pocket. With a giggle, Karin quickly pulled Lyle inside and closed the door. Around midnight, Lyle crept into his house, trying not to awaken his parents. All of a sudden, the lights turned on, and standing in front of him was his father, wielding a baseball bat. "Jeez, boy, you scared the crap out of your mother. Where the hell have you been? Get your ass upstairs before this bat makes it red." The next day, outside Whittsburgh High, GED held their daily meeting. Stan immediately drew his attention on Lyle. "What's the good news, L?" "We did it again last night." "Karin again? Lyle, you need to start making hard decisions." "Hard decisions..." snickered Al, who broke out laughing. "Shut up, jackass," ordered Stan, as Al became stone-faced again. "Lyle, either you start holding up your end of the bargain, or you're out. It's that simple. You start living life to the fullest, or we don't want you associating with us anymore. I don't care how big time you are. You'll be gone, and your girlfriend becomes open game for us to hit on. Understand?" Lyle thought long and hard before he gave his response. "Give me the day to think about it." Stan became agitated. "You have the next 7 hours. That's until last bell. You meet me here right after that and give me your decision. You don't show, you're out. Got it?" "Yeah," he replied. "I got it." Stan zoned out and began to think while the rest of his friends shared their stories. Later on, in wood shop, Lyle sanded a two-by-four, which he was turning into a hat rack. His hands went back and forth over the piece of pine, but his mind was elsewhere: who would he choose, his girl, or his friends? What was becoming of his baseball career now that his coach had told off the Wichita State recruiters, and what could he do to appease him? "I heard about the recruiters," said a voice behind him. "I'm sorry." Lyle stopped sanding and wheeled around to confront the voice. He saw Thomas Coughlin, sawing a piece of oak in half. "What do you know about it, dweeb?" "Toby said he heard you and Coach talking about recruiters from Wichita State. I'm sorry man, I know how much that means to you." "Yeah, well, it's none of your business, you little puke, and if you ever mention it to anyone, you're a dead man, do you understand me? I don't need your pity. Get the hell out of my face, and never talk to me unless I speak first, got it?" Thomas cast his head downwards and went back to work on his oak coat rack. In lunch, Lyle sat down with his customary pizza, soda, and nachos. He began to dig in when Karin sat down beside him and lay her head down on his shoulder. "Oh, baby," she moaned. "Last night was outstanding. I just love the roar of the engine between my legs..." "Well, you've got a sex drive that just won't quit, babe." "We must do that again tonight," Karin begged. "Perhaps, even, go exploring?" she added, with a playful tug on his earlobe. Lyle could hardly contain himself. But then, his mind wandered back to his dilemma. "Perhaps, babe," was all he could muster. Karin blew in his ear as Lyle went back to eating his rubbish. After the last bell rang for the end of the day, Lyle picked up his gear and walked out the door, where he saw Stan leaning against the wall of the school, already waiting for him. "So, Slick," he said. "What's it going to be?" Lyle let out a long sigh. "I'll tell her tonight that it's over." "Great!" said Stan, the relief showing on his brow. He slipped Lyle a condom, which Lyle promptly slid into his wallet. "Here's a reload for you. We'll have a new assignment for you in the morning. Just think about it, man. So many girls to screw, and so little time. Good luck, L." Lyle donned his practice jersey in his car, and trotted out to the baseball field for practice. "Coach," he said, approaching Mr. Bobrowski upon his arrival. "I want you to know that I'm going to start committing myself to practice. I'll be here everyday." "That's good to hear," Coach responded. "I'll believe it when I see it. We're starting off with double play drills. Go grab Toby and Walt and we'll start working." Lyle trotted out to second base, his customary position on the field. Toby lined up at first and Walt at shortstop, as always. Mr. Bobrowski knocked a grounder to Walt, who scooped it up off the ground and fired it to Lyle. He caught it easily, made the transfer to his throwing hand, and lobbed it towards Toby. It didn't even get half way. "What the hell was that, Holland?" yelled Coach Bobrowski, raising his arms in the air. "I don't know, sir," Lyle said. His throw to first was almost always dead on. How could he have missed so badly? "Let's try it again," said the coach, who again bounced a grounder out to the shortstop, who again picked it up and threw it to Lyle. Again, Lyle made a perfect catch, transferred the ball, and threw the ball in the dirt, nowhere near the first baseman. "Holland, is this some kind of joke? You'd better wise up, mister." "Sorry, sir, I don't know what's wrong." Lyle was starting to get worried. What was he doing? "Let's try a 4-5-3," Coach yelled. He hit a bouncer towards Lyle. He scooped it up and noticed Walt moving up to cover second, as is the norm in such a case. He dropped the ball into his throwing hand... and lobbed it underhand towards Walt. Walt, who had been confused by the strange throw, dropped the ball. "HOLLAND!" screamed Mr. Bobrowski. "Get off the field! I'm through screwing around with you. You want to play games with me, you won't be playing any more this season. Get out of here! Come back for tomorrow's game if you decide to straighten out. It's not like practice will be any different without you." "But..." Lyle started to defend himself. "NOW. Roger, take Holland's place at second." Lyle was furious. He threw his glove towards the dugout - which didn't even come close to landing where he had intended to throw it - and stomped off the field. Gathering his belongings, he tossed them into the Camaro and slammed the door for the second straight day. "What the hell is the matter with me?" he asked out loud. "Those throws seemed as normal as any throw I've ever made! Even the underhanded throw! I'm throwing like a girl!" He slapped himself in the head a couple of times. Determined, he picked a baseball out of his gear bag and tried to heave it at the dugout wall some 60 feet away. He missed - by a lot. "Dammit!" he yelled. He threw himself back into the driver's seat of his car, and was about to drive away when he glanced up at the old house on the hill, and recalled the events of the previous afternoon. "Oh my God..." his voice trailed off as he remembered the bright flash. "She did something to me, she took away my talent or something. Oh, is she ever going to pay..." He got out of the Camaro and sauntered up the hill to the house. He looked down upon the field, where he noticed batting practice going on. Filled with rage, he entered the house through the open doorway that he had created the night before. "Where are you?" he bellowed, his voice resonating throughout the house. "Come out here, now! Show yourself!" He peered inside every room, looking for the woman. Remembering the parlor room, he ran down the old hall into the parlor and found the old woman sitting there, reading a book. "What the hell did you do to me?" demanded Lyle of the woman, as she set down the book. "You received your penance," was the reply. "I asked you to leave me alone." "That's bullshit!" he yelled, losing composure. "You did something to me, you took away my talent or something, you BITCH! I throw like a GIRL now. Fix me!" "Oh dear," she said in dismay. "We shall have to remedy that situation now, mustn't we?" "You're damn right you better remedy it. If you don't fix it now, I'll..." The room again filled with a bright light. This time, Lyle found himself disoriented for several seconds. When he regained his composure, he noticed that the room looked bigger than it had before. "What did you..." Lyle stopped. He clasped his hands over his mouth. His voice was a clear octave higher. "There," the old woman said. "That's much better." Lyle looked down at himself. He noticed two breasts protruding from his body. Quickly, his hand shot down to his pants. He unbuttoned them and felt around, noticing two things. His boxers had become a pair of panties, and his manhood was nowhere to be found. In fact, the only time he had ever touched what he was touching at that time was during sex... on a woman. "Now you have an excuse," said the old lady. "Not only do you throw like a girl, now you also hit like a girl and run like a girl, among other things. As a matter of fact," she said, gesturing towards his now prominent chest and non-descript crotch, "you ARE a girl." Lyle was still too stunned to speak. He was still surveying the change. His practice jersey, which had previously read "HORNETS" in arched block letters across his chest now read "Lady Hornets" in baseball-type script across his breasts: he was wearing a girls softball uniform. Turning to the left, he noticed a mirror on the wall. He was much shorter than he had been. His hair was still blonde, but it was now much softer, and was formed into a small ponytail sticking out the back of his cap, which now featured a "W" in feminine script rather than the angry orange hornet which had previously graced the front. He noticed that his eyes were the same baby blue color which they had previously been. And he had tits. He looked into his uniform and noticed a black Nike sports bra hugging them. "I... I..." Lyle stammered. "It's ok, child," said the old woman. "Speak." Lyle built up the courage to talk. "Why did you do this to me?" he asked, his voice still sounding alien. "I told you never to bother me again. I gave you your punishment already. Why did you return?" "I can't live like this," Lyle said, on the verge of tears. "No one will recognize me. What will my parents say?" "Oh, everyone knows you, Michelle Holland. As far as they know, you've always been a girl. No one knows any Lyle Holland." Lyle looked terrified. "But, I don't know anything about how to be a girl, or who my friends are, or what I like to do, or..." "Easy, child," the old woman said. "I have selected for you a guide. They will be your bridge between the world you knew as a man, to the world you must know as a woman. This guide is someone you are already familiar with, and you will meet them within an hour of leaving this place." Lyle glanced at his new body in the mirror again. "You can't do this to me," he pouted. "I'll tell the police." "Tell them what, child? They have birth, immunization, and school records for Michelle Ann Holland. They'll never believe you. They'd put you away! Speaking of which, does your mother not work for the local mental hospital?" Lyle slowly nodded his head. "Well, I would do my best to live the life you have been given. I'm sure your mother would have no problem getting you the help you need if she thinks you have, shall we say, lost it?" Lyle's mind raced. There had to be some way out of this. "What can I do to change myself back?" The old woman sighed. "There's nothing you can do. You have made your bed, and now you can sleep in it. Now, I'm afraid I must bid you goodbye, and reiterate my warning. Do not disturb me again. The price paid next time could be steeper." Lyle fled the house has fast as he could, noticing just how different his new body was. To some extent, running was difficult due to his new center of gravity, his new distribution of weight, and the motion of his hips. He ran out the door, and stopped to close it behind him when he realized something: the door he had pulverized yesterday was back in place, in the same condition it had been before his arrival. Lyle looked down the hill. The baseball team was still practicing as if nothing had happened. He could see several of his teammates swinging bats and throwing balls. Slowly, he descended down the hill towards the field. Thomas put on a helmet and stepped up to the plate. The automatic pitching machine fired a ball at him to hit. He took a mighty chop, but the ball bounced harmlessly foul. Again, another ball came at him, and this one he missed altogether. A third, he popped up in the infield. While preparing for the fourth pitch, he noticed a figure moving down the field. The distraction caused him to miss the fourth ball as it whistled harmlessly past him. Now Thomas stepped out and looked out towards the person on the hill. Squinting through his sports goggles, he could just make her out. It was Michelle. Lyle reached the bottom of the hill and stood at the fence of the baseball field. Looking around, he noticed Mr. Roderick, a friend of his family, watching the practice from near the foul pole. He walked over to him to test out what the old woman had told him. "Hi, Mr. Roderick," he said, trying to sound somewhat manly, but failing miserably. "Oh, hi Michelle," he responded. "What are you doing here?" "Oh, just leaving," Lyle said, dejectedly. Mr. Roderick had recognized the body that Lyle now inhabited. All at once, a flood of new memories entered Thomas' head. He felt incredibly overwhelmed by this sudden rush of information going through his brain. He stepped over to Coach Bobrowski. "Coach, I'm not feeling so well right now," he said, holding his head. "I think I had better leave." "Go ahead," the coach replied. "You've earned some time off. You work harder than anyone here, and I mean that. You haven't missed a practice yet. Go ahead and take some aspirin or something, and get a good night's sleep." "Thanks, Coach." With that, Thomas left the field, walking over to find Michelle. As he approached her, he could tell that she looked very troubled. She had her softball jersey on, but she was nowhere near the softball field. "Michelle," Thomas asked, "are you OK?" Lyle looked at Thomas for a second. "No, I'm not OK. Just leave me alone, Thomas." As Michelle walked on past, Thomas realized that she was in as much of a daze as he was. Finally, the thoughts in his head cleared up. On one hand, he had the memories he had previously possessed about Michelle. On the other, he now had a whole new set about someone named Lyle. "Wait!" he cried out. "Michelle, wait!" She continued walking. He thought he was crazy for thinking it, but there had to be some kind of rational explanation for what was happening to him. "Lyle!" Lyle stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. "You know my name? Are YOU my guide?" Thomas looked disturbed. "I... I don't understand. What is going on?" He thought long and hard for a moment, before it all finally came to him. "You... used to be Lyle Holland." Lyle was ecstatic. "Yes! An old woman changed me into a girl. She told me I would have a guide to help me... I just didn't expect it would be you," he said, with a bit of venom in his sing-song voice. Thomas was beginning to make the connection. "You... you don't remember being Michelle at all, do you? You're just Lyle in there." Lyle nodded his head. "OK, let's go somewhere where we can talk. We need to take your car, I don't have one." Lyle walked back to the parking lot where he had left his Camaro. He couldn't find it anywhere. "Do you know where my car is?" he asked Thomas. Thomas pointed it out, and they walked over to it. Lyle was in shock. "Her" car was nothing like his Camaro. Michelle drove a little sea green Geo Metro. It didn't even have a stick shift, which Lyle always required on a ride. Lyle opened the unlocked door, and peered in the back. All of his stuff was still in the back, yet different. He saw a softball bat, a purple gear bag, and a pile of women's clothes. Wonderful, he thought. As he turned on the car, Britney Spears blasted from the radio. He quickly turned it down. "Arrgh! I listen to THAT?" "Yeah," Thomas replied. "I never understood why." Lyle quickly thumbed through the CD collection in the car. Britney, Backstreet Boys, N'Sync, Dream, he thought he would puke. "I hate this music." Thomas thought for a moment. "Lyle does. Michelle, however, enjoys it." Lyle was getting very frustrated. "Where are we going?" "My house." "But... won't that seem a little bit strange to your parents?" "Not at all. We've been friends since we were in kindergarten." "You're kidding me." "Nope. I understand that Lyle dislikes me. But Michelle and I have always been best of friends." Lyle sighed. This was getting worse. He put the Metro into drive, and headed towards the Coughlin home. Once there, he and Thomas headed up to Thomas' room and closed the door. Then Lyle spilled the whole story of what had happened, and how he had drawn the ire of the old woman. "OK," Lyle said at the conclusion. "First things first. Tell me what I need to know about myself to survive." "It looks like you're already starting to pick it up. Did you notice that you brought your purse with you when you came inside?" Lyle looked next to him. Indeed, he had picked up his purse before leaving the car. It seemed so reflexive, he hadn't even realized it. "Wow." "Take out your driver's license," Thomas said. Lyle fished around inside his purse for his pocketbook. It was a cluttered mess. After digging his way through pens, pencils, notes, and a couple of maxi pads, he found the pocketbook, opened it, and removed his driver's license. The license read "Holland, Michelle A," and listed the same address that had been on his last license. The signature at the bottom was much neater and decidedly female than his previous one, and, of course, the most noticeable change: the pretty young woman that smiled back at him. "Your name is Michelle Holland," Thomas said. "You are not Lyle Holland. He never existed." "But I did exist!" Lyle maintained. "Not anymore. You were born a girl. Your parents named you Michelle. You are Michelle Holland. You have to accept that. When we refer to 'you,' we are talking about Michelle. When we must refer to Lyle, we will say, 'Lyle.' Is that OK?" "OK," said Michelle, now becoming increasingly resigned to her situation. "What is my life like? Who are my friends?" Thomas, still adjusting to the split memory, took a second to compare before responding. "Pretty much everyone is a friend to you, you don't have hardly any enemies, anyone who dislikes you. Most everyone likes to talk to you. Your only true best friends are myself and Karin Cooper." "Karin was my... uh, Lyle's girlfriend," said Michelle. "I know. The two of you have been best friends ever since nursery school. You have played softball since you were a little girl. You enjoy it more than pretty much anything. However, you're a lot like me; a lot of desire and strive, but not a whole lot of talent. The two of us work out together to stay in shape for softball and baseball respectively." "I work out? Lyle never worked out." "Oh yes, we go running every other day," said Thomas. "Let's see, what else about you... you've been on a couple of dates, but nothing has ever gotten past the first date." "Dates?" Michelle asked. "You mean with men?" "Well, you ARE straight," Thomas replied. "That may be hard for Lyle to overcome, but you are a heterosexual woman. Perhaps it will be easier as your mind adjusts to the different hormones." "Perhaps," said Michelle, still very concerned about that particular part of being female. "OK, I need to know some basics on being a girl." "Sorry," said Thomas. "I don't have any experience in that field." "But, the old woman said you would be my guide..." "I don't know, it's just never been something I've had to do." "Oh my God," panicked Michelle. "What will I do? There's so much I need to know. Fashion, periods, all that stuff I can't deal with. And if what you say is true, I'm already supposed to know how to apply makeup and dress myself and everything; I can't just ask my mother or Karin for help!" "It will be difficult, there's no doubt," said Thomas. "But based what we have already seen with the purse, maybe it will start coming to you." "Can I count on you to help me out with everything else, though?" asked Michelle. "Michelle, you're my friend. I'll do anything for you." "Thank you, Thomas," said Michelle, checking her watch, which had previously been non-existent. "It's getting late, my parents will probably be expecting me home soon." "I'll see you in the morning," Thomas said, as they descended the staircase to the front door. "You always give me a ride to school, so don't forget to pick me up. Have a good night." Michelle walked alone to her car and drove off. On the way home, she pondered all that had happened to her today, and wondered what to expect upon returning home. Entering her house, Michelle could see that a lot had changed. The house looked nicer, for a change. A quick glance at the pictures on the wall told her that she was still an only child, but the pictures were much happier. She saw a picture of her father teaching her how to swing a softball bat when she couldn't have been more than four. She saw a picture of her mother clapping as she blew out the candles on her 11th birthday. And she saw a studio picture of the three of them, all with smiles a mile wide. "Hello, dear," said her mother as she walked in the door. "Hi, mom," Michelle said. "I was at Thomas' house." "That's OK, sweetie," Mrs. Holland replied. "We trust you." "Is that my little girl?" called Mr. Holland from the other room. "Hi, dad." "Dad? When did I become 'Dad'?" What did he mean by that? Michelle had to improvise. "Sorry, Daddy." She planted a kiss on his cheek. "THAT'S my little girl," Mr. Holland said, as he returned the favor. "You'd better run upstairs and get ready for bed. It's getting late and you have your big game against Litchton tomorrow. You need to be rested in case they need you, right, Sport?" "Right, Daddy. Good night." With that, she went upstairs to find her room in the same place Lyle's had been. Walking in, Michelle realized that it was relatively the same as when she had last left it, with a few minor exceptions. The wall color was still light blue, and the bed frame and mattress seemed the same, but the bed sheets were a light pink, and the bed was now covered with pillows and stuffed animals. Above her bed hung a poster of a woman named Dot Richardson holding a gold medal. She surmised that she probably was her hero. The trophies and Limp Bizkit poster were gone, and in its place was a poster featuring puppies playing in a field. Dropping the clothes from her car on the bed, Michelle walked over to her dresser, which looked exactly the same as it had before, except it was about twice as wide. Opening the top drawer, which had previously been for boxers, she found a collection of panties neatly folded instead of strewn all over the drawer. Looking through the other drawers, she found that the t-shirt one was now filled with brassieres, the sock drawer with various forms of hosiery, and the sweats drawer with, well, sweats, but differently sized than she had remembered. Michelle removed her softball jersey and threw it in the hamper. She took a moment to look at herself in the mirror wearing the sports bra. How strange it felt. Removing that, she looked at her bare breasts in the mirror. So many times she had seen naked tits, but never on herself. They seemed so perfect that if she was still male, she would have been getting horny. Turning back to the pile of clothes on the bed, she picked up a cross-your-heart bra. "Now's a better time to learn than any," she said, attempting to slip it on. She succeeded in putting the front on, but struggled to hook the back of it. After great effort and five minutes, she got it on correctly, and took the time to look in the mirror to make sure. Out of nowhere, she began to feel a strange urge in her lower body. Then she realized what it was: she had to pee. Michelle walked down the hall to her bathroom, to find that it too had changed. Whereas before the counter had been clear of any items, now brushes, a hair dryer, and makeup were found all around. She quickly moved to the toilet, and sat down to relieve herself. She noticed that it came out more like a spray than a stream as she was used to. After she finished, she wiped herself clean, flushed, and returned to her room. Removing the bra, Michelle turned it around, taking note of the size on the tag: 36-C. She gasped. Just perfect. After removing her softball pants, she stood in only her panties. Opening the drawer that had previously contained nightwear, she found only silk nighties to sleep in. She donned them, let down her shoulder- length hair, jumped into bed, and turned out the lights. Sleep was next to impossible. All through the night, she tossed and turned, still dreaming about things she'd always dreamt of; playing in the major leagues, being an all-star, signing huge contracts, and being surrounded by lots of women in a big luxurious house. Lyle awoke with a start when his alarm clock woke him up. He groggily walked down the hall to the bathroom for the morning ritual. He pulled up to the toilet, lifted the seat, and prepared to unbutton himself. All he could feel was the smooth cotton against his flat crotch. "Damn," Michelle muttered to herself as she began to remember her predicament. Thankful that no one had seen that little display, she lowered the toilet seat and took care of business. One look in the mirror told the story: she had neglected to remove her makeup the night before. Her face was a wreck. Moving over to the shower, she turned it on and disrobed. Entering the warm mist, Michelle surveyed the radically different array of material to work with. Now present was a more designer shampoo, scented soaps, body washes, the whole works. She got to work, cleaning and exploring every new nook and cranny, though washing her newly full head of hair was quite a hassle. Upon exiting, she grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her waist, and walked over to the mirror. "Oops," she said, realizing her second error of the day. She removed the towel and rewrapped it around her chest instead. Next, she turned the blow dryer on her sopping wet hair, which something which she'd never had enough hair to require. While drying her hair, she began to wonder, "How did I get into this mess, and how am I going to get myself out of it?" She couldn't go back to the old woman. She might turn her into a frog or something. Could it be any worse than this, though? Count your blessings, she thought, you're still a human being. As always, her parents were already gone. Her father worked in the city, and her mother started work very early. Heading back to her room, she dropped the towel and pondered her naked self. The female body is a work of art, she thought. "Nothing like a man's body, that's nothing compared to the sight I'm beholding." Time to get dressed. Starting with the basics, she pulled on her panties and started to work with putting on a bra. She was still taking too long in hooking the back. Fortunately, as she dug around in her brassiere drawer, she found a nude colored front-closing bra, and that worked much better. Michelle would have preferred a white bra so as not to draw attention, but at least it fully covered her breasts. She opened her closet, resolved to avoid wearing a skirt or a dress. Looking long and hard, Michelle finally pulled out a baby t-shirt that read "Lady Hornets JV Softball 2000" across the front with "Michelle" embroidered in script across the left breast and a pair of jeans much like she used to wear, albeit with a feminine cut. Close enough. Slipping into a pair of sandals, she was ready. Out of the blue, Michelle started to think about the makeup that was sitting on the sink. This was going to be difficult. "Screw it," she said after glancing at herself in the mirror. She looked fine. Fumbling around with a scrunchie, she clumsily put her hair back into a ponytail. Finally, she packed up her books and gear bag and walked out to her car to begin her first full day as Michelle Holland. Turning on her car, the Britney Spears CD from last night began playing again. She made a mental note to pick up some of her old CDs at the mall soon. Surely choice of music would not be a big problem. After all, Karin listened to the same heavy metal and rock. Arriving at Thomas' house, she honked the horn twice and Thomas came running out of the house. Unfortunately, his bag was not zipped up all the way, and his books came careening out. "Damn!" he shouted as he scrambled to pick them up. Exiting the car, Michelle offered a hand. "Here, let me help you," she said, bending down to pick them up. How strange it felt, what with her ass seeming to stick out every time she squatted down to pick up a book. With the books secured, the two got into the car. "Nope," said Thomas as Michelle entered. "I don't know much about the subtle nuances of being a woman, but that is definitely not how a girl gets into a car." "What did I do?" asked Michelle. "You stuck your feet in first. Girls always sit down first and then swing their legs in." "Oh." She tried it that way. "Feels strange." "You'll probably get used to it. By the way, you look terrible. Did you get any sleep last night?" "Oh, I look terrible," Michelle said, acting offended. "And just what is wrong?" "I understand. You aren't wearing any makeup," Thomas replied. "I look fine without it," Michelle said defensively. "If you say so," Thomas said, with a smirk. Sighing, Michelle put the car in gear and headed towards school. "I can't believe what's happened to me," Michelle said, downtrodden. "Just look at me. I used to carry a condom in my wallet. Now I'm carrying a maxi pad in my purse. Unbelievable." "OK, here's what you need to know today," said Thomas, almost acting like a personal assistant. "You basically have all the same classes that Lyle took, with three notable exceptions. Second period, instead of being in Math 3, you are in Math 4 with me." "I take accelerated math? But Lyle was struggling in Math 3!" "I'll tutor you. We'll get through this. You might have to take Math 4 again next year, but I'll make sure you get up to speed with what you don't know." "This is not cool, Thomas," Michelle said, as they approached a stop light. "During fifth period when Lyle had study hall, you have private voice lessons with Mr. Keyes." "Voice lessons?" asked Michelle. "Yeah," said Thomas. "Singing is one of your talents. You have a beautiful voice." "Only I don't know how to use it." "Just pretend to have a sore throat or a cough over the next couple of days, and Mr. Keyes will work you with simple scales, so you'll be able to get into it." Michelle sighed. "I suppose I can't quit." "Probably not. It would look very strange. Singing is one of your passions. In fact, we are doing a duet in June, voice and guitar. You picked out Nelly Furtado." "I can't stand her." "We'll see. The only other change in your daily schedule is seventh period." "Lyle had wood shop. What do I have?" "Home economics." "What?!?" Michelle was shocked. As Lyle, she had enjoyed the diversion of wood shop. But home economics? "Hey, you're the one that signed up for it." "This SUCKS!" Michelle screamed as the light turned green. "Is there any other bad news that you wish to impart?" "Let's see. You have a softball game tonight in Litchton. The girls softball team is ranked #1 in the state and is undefeated, you guys should have no problem dispatching them." "We're ranked #1? You told me I don't have much talent for the game, do I get to play?" "Lately you've been playing in almost every game. The Lady Hornets have virtually no competition in the league, and the score usually becomes very lopsided. Ms. Gainey usually puts you in late in the game, even to field, which is something I never get to do," lamented Thomas. "How is the baseball team without Lyle?" Michelle queried. "Even worse than we were with him. We haven't won a single game." Thomas thought for a second. "Lyle was the whole team before." Michelle sort of grunted. "You're telling me." As they pulled in, Thomas seemed kind of pensive. "There is... one other thing I haven't mentioned yet," he said, looking at the floor. "What's that?" "You and... well... the prom is next week." Michelle put the car in park. "Oh, that's right... oh my God... are you telling me I have a date for the prom?" "Well, yeah, um..." "Who is it? Is it someone Lyle knew? Don't tell me it's one of my, uh, his old friends." "It's... uh... well, it's me." "You?" Thomas looked almost apologetic. "We're going as friends, since I couldn't find a date, and you weren't looking for one." Michelle sat back for a minute and pondered it. Thomas looked downright ashamed. "We'll do it," she said, to reassure the boy. After all, if they were going as friends, it couldn't be that bad. But her mind began to wonder about her original date. "What about Karin?" "She's going with Stan Belden." "OK." After all, Karin was a wild child, she'd fit right in with Stan, perhaps literally. "OK, I'll see you second period," said Thomas, picking up his belongings and heading to school. Michelle put on her book bag and started walking towards the school. Within her mind, she realized that there was no one in the buzzing schoolyard that did not recognize the buxom young blonde that she had become, yet there still resided some fear that one of her old friends would surprise her and begin laughing at her predicament. Just then she became conscious of the fact that yet another female quirk had reflexively taken hold; she was cradling her books in her arm rather than holding them down at her side like a boy. "Surprise!" shouted a girl in front of her. The girl had black hair and was very conservatively dressed. It took Michelle a couple of seconds to realize who she was looking at. "Karin?" "Hi, Shelly! I can't wait for your game tonight, I hope you get to play," Karin said with a youthful exuberance. Michelle was still a bit confused. It was Karin Cooper alright, but she looked nothing like the one Lyle had dated. "Are we still going to the Fashion Corner to try on our prom dresses tomorrow?" "Oh! Uh... yeah!" Michelle was still quite distracted. "Shell, thanks for all your help. We found the perfect patterns. Wait until you see my dress, you'll just die!" This wasn't making any sense. There's no way this could be Karin. The Karin she had known was quite a slut, and it was apparent just from looking at her. This one was more like Marcia Brady. "Don't mention it, Karin." "Well, I've got to get to class, see you later!" Karin giggled as she left Michelle alone to ponder what had just happened. Deciding it was time to get to class, Michelle entered the school building, feeling like a hundred eyes were watching her. The first part of the day was rough. After suffering through the same old history class, Michelle sat in the back of the advanced math class and tried to avoid answering questions. Of course, she was called on just as much as anyone else in the class, and she had to improvise. Most of the time, she just ended up gawking at the squiggles and lines on the overhead projector, trying to make heads or tails of it all. Third period was physical education, which brought the full levity of Michelle's predicament. Upon walking into the gymnasium, Michelle walked into the doorway of the men's locker room before realizing her error and pivoted around on her foot, heading instead for the women's locker room. She stood on the threshold of the room, realizing that Lyle had dreamed of being in this room at a time like this. She walked in, and realized that she had no idea where her gym locker was. She opened her school planner and found the locker and combination she would need. Michelle surveyed the room. It was Lyle's wet dream. Girls all around her were in various stages of undress. If she'd still have been male, she wouldn't have been able to control herself. Strangely, though, she found herself thinking little of it. The remainder of the locker room was just like the men's room, only without urinals and with a tampon dispenser next to the sink. The showers, the stalls, all in generally the same area. How unimpressive. What were you expecting, she thought, flashing lights and girls removing clothing like strippers? "Michelle," said Ms. Gainey, stepping out of her office. "You weren't at practice yesterday. Are you OK? It's not like you to miss practice." "I'm OK," she replied, thinking of a quick excuse. "I had extra studying to do last night." This wasn't completely untrue. "OK. Ready for tonight's game?" "Absolutely." She went ahead and changed into her gym uniform, sports bra, and sneakers, all sitting there in her locker, right where she supposedly had left them. The exercise routine of the day was a doozy: step aerobics. As the class when through the motions, Michelle couldn't help but realize that the boys class she had been in was down at the baseball field, while the girls were inside doing stupid aerobics. This female body was making her more infuriated all the time. After fourth period French class - during which Michelle thanked her lucky stars that she had chosen the same language as Lyle - it was time for lunch. Michelle sat down with Thomas alone at a table in the corner to eat. "Dammit," Michelle said, opening the conversation. "This bra feels like a straightjacket. I don't know how girls can be girls." "Probably because most of them have never had to experience being male," Thomas replied. "How is you day going?" "Everything is different. I can't get past the different way my body feels, it is so distracting. Madame Grandlait called on me several times during class, but I missed it each time because she called me 'Mademoiselle Holland.'" "Like I keep saying, you'll get used to it, unless, of course, you can find a way out of your predicament. Did you ever consider going back to the old woman and apologizing, like, on your hands and knees?" "I can't do that," Michelle said, dejectedly. "She gave me stern warning to leave her alone. If I cross her again, who knows what she'll do. Maybe she'll turn me into a dog or a big titted nympho-slut or something." "I think you'll get used to being a woman. After all, if there's nothing you can do about it, you don't really have a choice." "There's one other thing I wanted to mention." "What's that?" Karin came by and sat down next to the two. "Hi guys!" she beamed. "I'll tell you later," Michelle told Thomas as the three continued eating lunch. Fifth period was the dreaded voice lesson. "Hi, Michelle!" said Mr. Keyes, who looked absolutely weird with his polka-dot bowtie. "Do you want to pick up where we left off yesterday?" "Actually," replied Michelle, trying to sound hoarse, "I think I'm coming down with something. Can we just do basic scales?" "Sure," he said, sitting down to the piano. "Remember, just work on inflection and tone. Repeat after the note." They began tuning. Michelle did her best to keep up with the notes early on, but slipped up quite a bit. Mr. Keyes bought the excuse, attributing the errors to a throat virus. Soon, Michelle began to realize that Thomas was right: she did have a beautiful, sweet voice. Towards the end, many of the notes were even sounding right. After sixth period chemistry lecture, Michelle found herself in the class she feared more than any: home ec. She'd never met the teacher, Miss LaBounty, but she'd heard all the accusations that she was a weak role model for young women. Indeed, the class was all female, and throughout the lesson of the day, which happened to be cooking, Miss LaBounty continually talked about being a good wife and how to cook for your husband. Some of the girls ignored her and went about their lesson, but many were actually taking notes. Michelle didn't know what to think. She tried to avoid listening to Miss LaBounty because she didn't want to learn how to be a housewife, or even a wife period. She was mainly worried about spoiling the dish she was creating, a vegetable medley. After that horrifying experience, eighth period English was a breeze. With the school day finally over, Michelle took her gear to the women's locker room and donned the away orange uniform of the Lady Hornets. The phrase stuck out much like the breasts it was emblazoned on: Lady Hornets, as in "not just the Hornets, we're also women." Yet another ever present reminder of who she now was, and just how powerless she was to change anything about it. Michelle was amazed, though, at how similar the uniform was to her baseball uniform: the same old "Holland 46" on the back, belt and socks the same. In fact, the whole thing was the same except for the cap logo, team name, and lack of a jock strap. The short bus ride to Litchton gave Michelle a chance to read up on her math. This was apparently commonplace on the bus: while the rest of the team engaged in the same old girly chit-chat, Michelle would study. That suited her just fine. Thomas was right. The team was absolutely dominating. Litchton had nothing that could compare to the Whittsburgh juggernaut. The Lady Hornets' pitcher, Maureen Adams, was completely perplexing the Litchton batters. There had been four Whittsburgh homeruns.