Dinner was, to say the least, a nervous affair. Roddy and I kept looking over our shoulders the whole time, thinking we’d catch a glimpse of Autograph-Man. I know, it’s cumbersome, but what else to call him? ‘The Audiophile’? or perhaps ‘The Audiophile-Paedophile’? I really shouldn’t say that, but that’s what my instincts were yelling at me. Heck, after what happened to Jason Price when Simon and Elliot rescued him?! You can read about THAT in “Simon & the Paedophile Ring”, though.

But back to dinner. I think Grandma & Grandpa must have noticed how jumpy we were, too, because once we had finished, (having more dessert that we probably didn’t need) we were all about going home. I hadn’t eaten much of the meal myself, as I hadn’t been sure what the ‘mystery meat’ in thick gravy was. Grandpa seemed to like it, though, and he ordered it. I have to admit, it was better than Southdown’s meat pies, though. Note that I used the term “meat” very loosely with the word “pie”.

“Are you feeling all right, sweetheart?” Gran … Grandma, rather … asked me, as we got in the Lexus to go home. Funny, how I was thinking of their house as “home” already, isn’t it? I assured her I was, maybe that it was just the jet lag or all this rich American food getting to me?

“Well, you and Robby should go to bed earlier tonight, then,” she added. Roddy didn’t correct her this time. So far, he’d been: Roddy, Robby, Rodney, Roger, Robert, and Bobby. I figured it was about time for Gran to start in on the “B-names” next. He’d probably be known as ‘Barney’ by the morning! (Sorry, but it’s the truth!)

Back at the mansion, seeing as how that’s what it was, Roddy and I went straight up to bed. Roddy was looking queasy as well, and when we found our pyjamas laid out for us, that was just the cap of the evening. “I am not wearing zip up yellow pyjamas with attached FEET,” Roddy declared, even if he was small enough to fit into them. The tag read “BOYS XL 20” and while they did fit, they itched. They were also hot, despite the fact that Grandpa turned the air-conditioning up at night to cool the house.

“You sleep better in a cool room with a blanket in the summer,” he told us.

Into the laundry the pyjamas went. The sheets felt nice, although they weren’t the silk kind that Simon had in our suites at the Centre, or like the ones he’d bought for our dormitory beds. Still, they felt soft enough to sleep bare in, so into bed we got.

That should have been it for the night, but it wasn’t.

I’d never had to endure the “being tucked in” ritual before, even with Dr. Geller. When I lived there in the Orient in her orphanage, lights out was lights out, and all the “tucking in” consisted of was making sure everyone had a blanket on right. In fact, we were lucky to have a light bulb. When it got dark, we went to bed. Good thing Grandma didn’t check the laundry! I’m not sure how she’d have reacted to two neutered boys, bare, in the same bed.

Remember when I said I don’t like sudden, loud noises? Well, have any of you ever been woke up in the middle of the night by a thunderstorm? We have weather in Britain, but it’s NOTHING compared to that storm that rolled through that night. The first clap of thunder almost made me hit the ceiling, and if hadn’t been for the fact that I’d drained my bladder with the Robinson cath before bedtime, I’d have probably peed the bed!

To make a long story short, I screamed. A lot. I’m not sure how Roddy reacted to it, since I was in too great of a panic to notice. All I remember is that I had a hold of him, until Grandma and Grandpa showed up and I got hold of THEM. Grandpa finally got a little yellow pill down me, and it knocked me out until noon the next day. Dr. Bruce came by again, and left a whole bottle of them for me.

“Didn’t know that castrati were prone to panic attacks,” he commented, “Just be glad you don’t live in a trailer park, boy!”

What the heck was a “trailer park”, and where’d the doctor pick up that word?

All I knew was that if that storm could shake a brick mansion like that, it must have been some serious business.

There were some pretty big tree branches down on the lawn, but other than that, nothing serious. At least the storm cooled off the heavy, hot air and I could breathe again. Dr. Bruce also left us two asthmas inhalers, just in case. “Must be jet lag, they’re looking a bit sick,” he also pointed out. “Food here not agreeing with you?” I didn’t have an answer for that. “Maybe some more exercise, Wendell?” He also suggested, “I don’t know much about boy-eunuchs, seeing as how there haven’t been any since way before our day, you know?” I could tell he was beating that proverbial bush that Gran kept talking about, and I had a feeling I knew what he wanted. In the end, Roddy finally piped up and offered that a complete physical probably wouldn’t hurt either of us, as the last we’d had had been for sports at the beginning of the school term. Dr. Bruce was elated, although he tried not to show it. In the end, he was fascinated that Roddy had been neutered by a Neutersol Plus injection, while I’d had old-fashioned surgery.

“You know, Dicky,” (I didn’t bother to correct him this time), “Seeing as how you were operated on, it’s very likely that your erectile nerves are still intact. Other than being sterile, there’s no reason you couldn’t take hormones and mature into a fine, young man? You would develop normally, and even have a normal sex life. Why’d they have you fixed, anyhow?” he asked. I explained the laws in the Orient about neutering ‘half-breeds’ to him. “They why don’t they just do a quick vasectomy, then?” He asked. I had no answer for that. That was the second time I’d been confronted by that question.

I thought about that hormone comment, but the look on Roddy’s face made me not want to talk about it. After all, Roddy’s erectile nerves had been destroyed by the Neutersol, and he’d be impotent for life - hormones or not. All hormones could do for Roddy was turn him into something that he didn’t want to be.

We were surprised when Simon phoned us up later on. It was getting on towards eleven back in Britain, and he just wanted to make sure that everything was OK. I mentioned the incident with little Shekhar on the plane, and he laughed.

“I wish I could have seen his Uncle’s face,” Simon said, “Anything else exciting?” I told him about the storm, and about seeing Dr. Bruce. He seemed pleased that my grandparents were looking out for us so, and added that it wasn’t unusual for some boy-eunuchs to have problems peeing if their cock kinked up inside when it shrank up so much.

I was walking around with the mobile talking to him, taking turns with Roddy, when we ventured back into the kitchen and I noticed that the rubbish bin was overflowing. I grabbed it up to take it out, the bag burst, and while Simon talked to Roddy, I picked up my mess.

Then I saw the leaflet – all coffee stained and soggy:

My heart skipped a beat.

Surely it couldn’t be?

No one had seen Dr. Geller – MY Dr. Geller – since the fire at the Grand Met! And she was a wanted criminal, anyway! There was simply NO way she could be in practice in the States – could there? I grabbed the mobile and showed the soggy paper to Roddy while I was reading it to Simon. There was silence on the line for a bit, and I thought I’d lost the connection.

“Read me that telephone number again, Ricky,” he said coldly. I did that. “I’ll get Jan Raxworthy on it and let you know. Anything else?”

I didn’t want to, but I told him about Audiophile-Man. Oh, and incidentally, Raxworthy is a computer hacking genius. Between him and Simon, there’s nothing they can’t break into.

Simon’s reaction wasn’t quite calm. I won’t repeat here what he said, other than, “You stay AWAY from anyone like that, Ricky! And don’t be caught out alone anywhere! The world is full of perverts who’d just love to get their hands on a pair of neutered boys like you and Roddy! Promise me that you’ll keep close to your grandparents when you go out?” I did that, and after what must have run up a huge phone bill, Simon bid us goodnight. There was something in his voice, though, that bothered me.

One yellow pill later, and Roddy and I both slept through the whole night.

As for the exercise part that Dr. Bruce had suggested, we were both very surprised when Grandpa took us downtown to a bicycle shop the next day and promptly dropped $250 USD on each of us for new bikes. I bit my tongue the whole time; I wanted to protest about the money, but my manners got the best of me. After all, if Grandpa had a house like that and a new Lexus, he could probably afford two new bikes. I picked out a metallic green one, and Roddy a metallic gold one. They were both 20”, with front and back axel pegs and multi-speed on shifters on the handlebars. The brakes were also handbrake-type, and the bikes came with the obligatory helmets, pads, you name it. That was it for the rest of the day. The absolute cap of the evening came when I got the brilliant idea (it seemed brilliant at the time!) of setting up an old board on a brick at the end of the drive and jumping the little brook there. Things were just going smashingly well until Gran saw me fly off of the ramp, sail over a downed tree branch, and come to a skidding halt that send sod flying. That was the end of our ramp.

Gran was still tirading about breaking our necks when a lorry came rumbling up the drive. At least, I mistook it for a lorry. It turned out to be a “pickup truck”, a white Ford F-350, to be precise. It had four doors, a long bed, rattled like a Lorry, and had tires half as tall as I was. It also blew clouds of black diesel smoke from chrome stacks when the driver went by. When the awful contraption finally fell silent, a man in an athletic uniform of some type jumped down from it, along with a young boy.

The boy was a sturdy, tanned blonde with closely cropped hair that was gelled into short spikes near the fringe. The rest was fairly close shaven. He was wearing the same strange outfit as the man I assumed was his father, and also had on red leather cleats that scraped loudly on the pavement. He had a splash of freckles on his nose, and his tight red-pinstriped-black pants (trousers, pants as Americans call them; I’ll go with that) not only accentuated his behind, but also gave no doubt to the fact that he was a boy-eunuch. They were absolutely flat and snug in the crotch area, and his bright red socks went up to his knees, where the pants stopped. He also had on a black jersey with red lettering, an emblem of a red running horse, and a red cap to match. The red belt was a bit much though, I think.

“You must be our two ‘ghost-players’!” The man greeted us with arm-breaking handshakes, “The Judge told me all about you! I’m Coach Sherwood, and this is my son, Michael.”

About then, Grandpa came dashing (well, as fast as he COULD dash) out the front door. “Todd! I completely forgot! Oh dear, Lib, you’re going to have to remind me on things like this! Don’t tell me first practice is today?” Todd nodded.

“Practice?” I asked Roddy.

“’Ghost players’?” Roddy asked in return.

“Hey!” Michael then cut in, while the adults all began talking about games and schedules and whatnot, “You must be those two British kids Dad’s been talking about? Where were you all regular season?”

“Errrm, in Britain?” I offered. Silly boy – where else would we have been? I could tell from his red cleats that we’d obviously been signed up for a sports team of some kind. It was Roddy that realized what it was.

“Baseball?” Roddy asked. “Isn’t that the American game that’s something like cricket?”

Michael looked shocked as he pulled his red ‘bat-bag’ out of the back of the truck, and then handed one to each of us as well. It was quite heavy. It turned out to be full of the equipment that we’d need to use. I recognized the box, what Michael called “a cup”, at once, and discarded it. Michael just blinked.

“Well, hurry up and get dressed!” Michael then said, grinning. “We’ve got to finish regular season, then tourney, then All-Stars starts!”

“Aren’t you running a bit late in the season, Todd?” Grandpa was asking.

“Well, usually the regular season is over by July 1 or so, but we had to postpone some. A lot of the boys were out for that latter half of June, healing up, and tournaments haven’t even been held yet. That, and I’ve got two of my players out with injuries,” Todd explained. “And the weather’s just been crazy, all those rain-outs!”

“I wonder what they had to heal up FROM?” Roddy whispered.

Michael pulled a face and sort of tightened his legs. His face went a bit pink. “Uhhhm, well,” he offered, but I cut in before he could say it.

“A bunch of you got neutered, didn’t you?” I asked. I saw Todd wince, and the look he gave his son was apologetic. I also figured that if we had to wear trousers like Michael’s, then he’d soon know that we had been, too. But Roddy went ahead and dropped that bomb on them.

“Haven’t you people ever heard of Neutersol?” Roddy asked. “A lot of the boys we know rode their bikes to and from the doctor’s office to have it done. It’s no big deal, actually, and there’s almost zero recovery time.”

“Oh, are you both…?” Michael asked, realizing why I’d tossed box…cup…testicle-protector…whatever. Useless thing that it was…

“Well, now, would they be on OUR team if they WEREN’T?” Todd asked.

Michael looked down at his bright red high-topped cleats. “We’re gonna get creamed in tournament, seein’ as how the only balls on our team are the baseballs,” he said, his face even pinker and his ears red.

“West Chester Mustangs, huh?” Roddy asked.

“More like ‘the geldings’,” Michael replied sourly. Then he seemed to look at me for the first time; I mean, really look at me. “Are you Chinese?” He asked, confused. (I do that to a lot of people. I rather like it.)

“Half,” I replied. “The Bensons are my grandparents on my mum’s side.”

Michael grinned. “I like your accent!” He laughed. “It’s cool!”

“What bloody accent, old boy?” Roddy asked sarcastically, laying the accent on thickly.

Coach Sherwood was by then flipping through some papers. “Rod Fisher and Richie Benson, right?”

I looked at Grandpa. He just nodded. Apparently, he’d pulled some strings and had us registered in the league all season long. I suppose being a Judge, you can do that, as well as fit fourteen-year-olds onto a twelve-and-under team. Then again, I could have been twelve, and Roddy sure looked more like ten or eleven.

Well, to get right to it, Roddy and I changed into our ridiculous red and black outfits. Roddy commented that there had to a bad castrati joke in those uniforms somewhere, and it was probably the red belts. “We look ridiculous,” I growled, when I saw myself in the mirror. That hurt Michael’s feelings, I could tell, when Roddy reminded me that Michael probably felt the same way about baseball as we did about rugby. I felt bad and apologized.

“So how long you two been fixed?” He asked, as we climbed up into that behemoth of a truck to go to the pitch…field…park…whatever they called it.

“MICHAEL!” Coach Sherwood exclaimed.

“It’s quite all right, sir,” I assured him, “We’ve both been eunuchs for a few years now, along with about 100 other boys at our school.”

“A hundred?!” Michael squeaked, which made us grin. “Before that Dr. Geller came to town, there was only a couple of neutered boys around. She did FIFTEEN of us the day I got cut!”

I exchanged a hard look with Roddy. It certainly was beginning to sound like our Dr. Geller.

“Whereabouts is she located?” I asked.

“Over on Lincoln, corner of 14th street,” Michael answered, “Why?”

“Just wondering, old boy,” Roddy replied, and promptly changed the subject to baseball. After all, neither of us knew a bloody thing about it.

To make a long story short, there didn’t seem to be that much to it.

There are nine players on the field at once, while the other team sends one boy at a time up to the starting point, called ‘home plate’. The team in the field will have one, the pitcher, throw a baseball at him. That boy will try to hit it with a long, thin, round bat. If he missed, it’s a ‘strike’, and their boy behind the batter, the ‘catcher’, throws the ball back to the pitcher. Three strikes, and he’s back on his bench so the next boy can try. If he hits it, he runs forward to ‘first base’, and he’s out if the boys in the field can get the ball to their boy guarding first base before the batter gets there. If the next boy at bat hits it, they all advance a base. There were four bases, laid out in a square called a ‘diamond’. (Made sense to me…) Also, not all the throws were good. Sometimes the official called them a ‘ball’ (really?!). Four balls, and the batter goes to first base for free.

This can go on for a while, I might add, until three boys at bat are out. You can also be out if a boy on the field catches the ball you hit, before it hits the ground. He can also touch you with his mitt (the large glove on his one hand) if he has the ball, before you make it to the next base, and you’re out. After three outs, the teams change places. Once both teams have had a go at bat, it’s called an ‘inning’. After six of them, the team that moved the most boys all the way around the diamond, (runs, they called the scores) wins.

Catching balls wasn’t hard, we soon found out. Coach Sherwood seemed impressed with that, though, and said we’d make great outfielders. We soon came to find out that this involved a lot of standing around in the grass near the far fence at about 63 metres and counting dandelions. (190 feet for you Americans.) Hitting that little ball proved to be more of a challenge though, but after an hour so, Roddy and I fairly well had the hang of it. Again, the coach seemed impressed. I tried to tell him it might be easier to hit the ball with a cricket bat, which he called a ‘paddle’. Well, I suppose you could row a boat with a cricket bat if you had to…

“Well, it’s not like the other players are trying to tackle you and stomp your face into the sod,” Roddy offered. Coach just blinked at him, and we explained the game of Rugby to everyone. We tried to explain cricket, too, but that was a lost cause.

I should probably give you a rundown on the team. I’m sure you Americans all know the nine positions, but for those who don’t:

Roddy and I were to be the substitutes. That meant that a boy or two could take a break for an inning. Coach explained that a few of his boys got tired more easily now, since they’d been castrated, and needed a rest during the game. I just sort of shook my head. Roddy and I didn’t have all that much stamina for hard effort, but how much could this baseball thing require? It wasn’t like swinging a cricket bat all day long, or running for your life in Rugby?

The other boys we met, as I should introduce you to them, were:

Michael Sherwood, you know already; he was the pitcher/catcher, and he’d cried a great deal when he’d been castrated as his twelfth birthday present. It turned out he could sing, and Roddy made a note to get him some of ours CD’s. I should probably mention that the pitcher stands in the center of the diamond and throws the ball to the catcher, who sits dangerously close to and behind the batter.

Bradley Jones was also a pitcher/catcher, and he was a bigger boy for his age who traded positions with Michael. He’d been neutered by surprise at his “routine checkup”, also by Dr. Geller. Come to find out, all but one of the boys on our team had been castrated by her, and all of them recently. Bradley, however, was entering puberty and the sudden cut-off of his recent testosterone surges was really getting to him. He tended to burst into tears, and he got tired more than the others and was always hot. (I don't recall that ever happening to me, but I digress.)

Gary Martin was a lanky and nondescript boy who played first base. He’d been neutered because he didn’t pay attention in school, got bad grades, but he also had a girlfriend named Selma who sounded like a clone of Melanie. Selma just adored having a gelded boyfriend, since he couldn’t get stiff and penetrate her. He seemed like a good kid, though.

Kerry Robinson played second base, and while the youngest at just having turned nine, he was a big nine. He was also a very good player, and had been Rookie MVP for two seasons. (Rookies are the boys on teams who are younger and have to have their coach pitch five times to them.) He was a ginger, and reminded us a great deal of the Roebuck Twins. His mum had seemed to think that neutering would be good for him, never really told him why he’d been castrated, and so there he was in all of his gelded cluelessness…All Kerry knew was that he didn’t need to wear a box/cup anymore.

Third base was played by Tyler Moretti. Some of the boys called him a wimp, and he DID look rather frail. At first glance, the androgynous child might have been a girl! But he had a passion for the sport, and he could steal a base faster than anyone. (Stealing is when you run to the next base before the next batter can hit the ball.) We never found out why Tyler got neutered. Tyler told us he’d thrown a fit in the doctor’s office, though, and didn’t WANT to be a eunuch. Well, I guess he was stuck with it now, though?

Jamie Grigor was the shortstop, and he was almost ten. He was also a singer, but had had a history of wetting himself and had to wear diapers. He had done it for attention, and castration soon broke him of that. Jamie was also one of those boys who were proud of the fact that he no longer had balls.

Our other outfielder was Jeremy Orman, a good friend of Bradley’s as well. He’d “been snipped” because his parents thought it would be a good idea, and he was slightly autistic. He could sure play ball, though, even if he didn’t talk much. I think I'd heard of that before, in certain cases of autism.

The other original outfielder was Stevie Smith, and while he hadn’t actually been cut yet, Bradley informed us that his genitals were so tiny that he should have been born a girl! Stevie was all for the idea of getting “snipped” though, and no one on the team was making any effort to talk him out of it. I supposed misery must love company, though, seeing as how most of the boys on the team would later tell us that they just weren’t sure about this eunuch-thing at ALL. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

So, with Roddy and I as subs, that gave us ten men…boys…fellows…on the team. That meant that someone was always on the bench for a rest, in a building called the ‘dugout’.

The rules of baseball stated that only nine of us could be in the batting lineup, however. As Stevie was quite small and just rubbish at batting, he sat out of that. In fact, waiting to bat consisted mainly of sitting in the “dugout” (it wasn’t dug out, it was a block building with a bench in it), chewing bubble gum and drinking sugary sports drinks, and just chatting while shouting encouraging words at the boy at bat. I soon learned that not every pitch was good, and that sometimes, the batter got hit by a “wild pitch.” In this case, he could go to first base for free. It looked quite painful, though, but I’m getting ahead of myself again.

The first two innings (‘inning’ - that’s where both teams have had a try and had three boys get out) went by quickly. There was also an announcer, but we tended to ignore him. It was some boy with a changing and squeaky voice, and I found that quite irritating, in addition to his commentary. I won’t bore you with that. Needless to say, he found himself quite entertaining, even if the rest of us didn’t.

Our first three batters – Kerry, Gary, and Bradley - all struck out. Kerry cried when he came back to the dugout, which we found wasn’t all that unusual. Bradley was our starting pitcher and struck out two of the other team’s batters and fielded a ground ball to Gary at first base for three outs.

At our next ‘at bat’, Tyler walked, which meant that he had four bad pitches not in his ‘strike zone’ (the ball has to pass by the batter in just the right spot to be a strike); he got first base for free, but was thrown out at second by their catcher when he tried to steal on a dropped ball, which happened when Jamie was at bat. Jamie struck out, and he cried too. I was determined that ‘I’ was not going to cry for the entertainment of the other team. Especially NOT when some of them looked quite older and had bulges in the fronts of their pants! Michael was up next, but he was thrown out at first on a weak hit. Bradley then struck out all three of their batters in a row, and at the beginning of the third inning, it was apparent that things were going to get exciting.

I should probably mention that most of the parents shout encouraging things to the boys, some of them to boys on the other team, even. Our parents did that; theirs didn’t. In fact, all they seemed to do was gripe at their players, while ours encouraged us. No wonder those boys in the other dugout all looked so surly. We were having a good time – they weren’t.

Then there was the “chatter”. This involved chanting things to distract the batter, or pitcher. “We want a pitcher, not a belly-itcher,” was one. I thought this must be intended to make the pitcher angry and throw a ‘ball’, maybe four, so our batter could get to first base for free? Another was the continual chant of “Yep, yep, yep,” done very out of synch by the outfielders. My favorite, however, was “Batter, batter, look at me! I’m a monkey in a tree!” The word “tree” was then yelled when the batter was intended to swing. I guess it was supposed to make him miss the ball. Some of those other boys had no clue how close to correct they were, though…apes was more like it! Were the officials certain that they were all 12 and under?! I think a couple of them were even shaving.

So there we were at the top of the third inning, no score, and Jeremy at bat. Jeremy wasn’t a great hitter, and our coach had staggered his ‘big hitters’ and others to keep things even. Most teams, he said, put their three best up first, then the “clean up man”, who had the job of hitting a good one and getting them into home again in a thing called an RBI – run batted in. So many new terms and rules to learn! By this time, I was almost considering a rugby match by the way the other side was acting. Things might turn ugly at any moment, I could sense. So could Roddy.

“Hey batter,” the other team was all saying, “Hey batter!” I guess they wanted to distract him. “Hit it to me! NO! Hit it to ME!” They’d all add in rotation, as if arguing about it.

Their pitcher then fired off a fast one, and it hit Jeremy right in the bright red helmet! Good thing he had one on, because it took him right off his feet and flipped him over backward! He just lay there and didn’t move. It was quite terrifying. Now, I’ve seen blood and broken bones on the rugby pitch, but everyone always yelled and cried and bled and it was such a bru-ha-ha. The crowd here went deathly calm. I thought Jeremy was dead!

“OH, THAT had to hurt!” Announcer-boy commented. Was he daft?! Of course it hurt, you prat! I thought.

Then the umpire held up two fingers in front of Jeremy’s nose, and he giggled. “Four!” He shouted, then he went limp again, giggling. Coach Sherwood carried him off the field and into the concessions stand. (That’s where you go to get a drink and snack, and business was always booming there. No wonder so many of the mums were so … large! They didn’t come to watch baseball – they came to eat.)

It was then Roddy’s turn at bat, and Michael was called in to be the pinch-runner for a loopy Jeremy. Michael went to first, as Jeremy would have, for free since the ball had hit him. Roddy took the plate, trembling.

“Redcoat!” One of the other boys in the field yelled, and the chant was on. Roddy let the first pitch, a strike, go by him.

“Now you see it,” Coach yelled at him. “Get the next one!”

The next two were balls, thrown too low. The next, Roddy took a great swing and missed.

“STRIKE TWO!” The umpire shouted.

The next pitch was also a ‘ball’ over his head, too high.

“FULL COUNT!” He called out, which meant that the next pitch was either going to make Roddy walk to first, or strike out. I hoped he wouldn’t cry as I watched him from my warm-up spot. I too had a silly red helmet on, but I was glad of it as I saw Jeremy sitting at the food stand with an ice bag on his head.

The next pitch was quite fast, and I held my breath.

Roddy swung.

CRACK!

The ball was in the air and going high, sailing out over the second base line and into the outfield. Roddy ran, but only after the umpire poked him and yelled “RUN, BOY!” as Michael took off for his next base, too.

Roddy hit first without stopping, the base-coach (I forgot his name) sent him to second base. Roddy slid into second base in the dirt as the fielder threw the ball in, which he’d failed to catch on the fall and gotten shouted at over. Michael had rounded third base. Their second baseman dropped it, though, and it rolled – hard. More angry yelling from their coaches. Michael crossed home plate. There was cheering. Even I was screaming.

“UP! Come on!” Coach Sherwood yelled from his place near third base, as Roddy got up and ran for third as Coach waved his arms like a mad Dutch windmill. I should probably mention that by now, our legs had begun to lengthen and we’d been doing track and field back home. Roddy slid into third base, sending dirt and dust all over, and the throw was close. The umpire yelled “SAFE! Under the tag!” It seemed that Roddy’s cleated foot had touched third base before the boy playing third base could touch him with his mitt. I think. The other side went nuts and began shouting insults at the official, rather, the umpire. He put a stop to that, though, when he threatened to eject some of them.

I took the plate as Roddy dusted himself off. He was covered in reddish-brown dust, and he looked thrilled.

I had decided right then and there that I was not going to draw this out, nor cry. On the first pitch, I swung – hard. “STRIKE ONE!” The umpire called. Did he have to shout so loudly?

“China,” Someone then said; I think it was their shortstop.

“Japan,” Someone else added. Then it was “Korea, Viet Nam,” and back to “China.” Apparently a jab at my dubious ethnicity. I was a bit put off, but then again, most of these boys had probably never seen an Asian before and were probably lucky that they knew that much Asian geography. Talk about pure racial stock – I hadn’t seen one mixed-race boy since I’d arrived here.

“Malaysia, actually, old chaps,” I yelled back, thickening my British accent intentionally, and that shut them up. It seemed they didn’t know what to do about that!

The next pitch was also fast, but it was high. I let it go by, and the catcher missed it and couldn’t see it through his helmet.

“GO!” Coach yelled at Roddy.

“Outta the box, boy!” The umpired yelled at me, and I jumped back to see Roddy coming hard for home plate.

Coach had sent him to ‘steal home’, as they called it. A quite difficult maneuver, I would later find out.

I got out of the way as the catcher grabbed up the ball and charged the plate. He charged at Roddy, bent down, spread his legs, and made to tag Roddy with his mitt. He hadn’t counted on several things, however:

1. Roddy was moving fast on those conditioned legs of his.

2. The catcher wasn’t wearing a box/cup, and he obviously wasn’t a eunuch.

3. Roddy had a very hard red helmet on.

4. Roddy’s velocity as he got down to slide was frightening.

5. Roddy’s head was positioned just so…

In short, Roddy’s foot went between the catcher’s legs and touched home plate just as his helmet touched the catcher’s bulging crotch - hard. Needless to say, the catcher dropped the ball right in Roddy’s lap and bent over with a great “OOOF!” His eyes were wide, and his hands went to his overdeveloped crotch as he toppled over. Fortunately, Roddy rolled out of his way just in time and avoided being flattened. (This kid probably weighed more than three of us put together!)

Roddy had scored, and we were up 2 – 0!

Then the arguments broke out.

“He left third too soon!”

“He was leading off too far!”

“He didn’t slide right!”

“He attacked the catcher!”

Then our side:

“You can’t block the plate!”

“HE was attacking the runner!”

“He shoved Ricky!”

The umpire let this go on for about a minute before he held up his hands. All the while, no one seemed interested in the very-probably-now-neutered-catcher, who was still rolling about in the dust and moaning in agony. At least we’d never have that problem again, and it was one I certainly didn’t miss!

“The runner is safe, no illegal moves,” The umpired declared, as he then turned his attention to the catcher.

“Well if that Chink knew to get out of the way, he might have had a chance!” Some parent shouted.

The umpire stood up slowly, and the crowd went quiet. I just watched, still holding my bat and wondering if I’d need it for self-defense?

Chink? How original, I rolled my eyes.

“You’re outta here!” The umpire then yelled at the parent, who stalked off to his car muttering things I’ll not repeat here.

That was it.

My next pitch, I was determined to hit and show them. I wasn’t that bad at cricket; I just didn’t have the stamina for all that batting. This bat wasn’t that heavy, though, and I’d been swinging the hell out of it at practice.

The pitch was fast and low, and I had to ‘dig’ for it, but I hit it. (Digging is when you swing at a very low throw.) The bat made a very loud CRACK! sound, and I vaguely heard Announcer-Boy squeak, “It’s a high drive up the middle! Second baseman jumps, but it’s WAY over his head! It’s going, going…Benson is rounding first and he’s not letting up at all…it’s going…HOLY COW! IT’S GONE!”

And it was.

Right over the fence, all 190 feet (about 63 metres) of it.

Coach Sherwood was going mad at third base, and he slapped my bum hard as I rounded it and slid into home, sending a cloud of dust all over my entire team who was congregated there, waiting for me. It seemed to be a ritual to greet the runner at home plate when he hits a ball out of the park, in what is called a ‘home run’. It also seemed to be a custom for the coach to touch our bums whenever he liked, which I wasn’t too sure about. Was that even legal?

“Uh, Ricky, you didn’t have to slide,” Michael coughed, as I was mauled by them all, all the way back to the dugout.

“Absolutely smashing, old chap,” Roddy commented, sounding as British as he possibly could, and overdoing it, I thought. The team just laughed. We were back to the top of our lineup, 3 runs up.

Kerry was up to bat again, and he’d just come scampering back from the toilet with Stevie and missed all the excitement. “Boy, am I glad I can still stand up to pee, that restroom is a MESS!” He declared. I raised an eyebrow at Roddy. That could be a problem…

Kerry then grabbed up his bat, shoved his helmet on, and dropped a small foil packet in my lap. “Hang onto that, found it in the bathroom!” He called back. Kerry got walked, it turned out – four bad pitches. He’d crowded the plate and hid his strike zone so the pitcher couldn’t find it. Gary hit a double into the outfield, and that got Kerry back around to home plate when Bradley went to bat. He seemed to be OK, over his short bout of being tired, and his hit moved Gary to third. We were up 4 – 0.

In all the excitement, I hadn’t looked at what Kerry had handed me. It was a metallic foil package, puffed and vacuum-sealed. It had two cylindrical objects in it, hard, I could feel. When Kerry got back, he grabbed it and said, “What’s ‘Neutersol Rapid’ do?” I almost choked on my Gatorade. (I know, carbohydrates and calories and sugar, but it was hot and I was feeling run down already! I’d already used the inhaler once!) In the meantime, Bradley was taking some pitches and had three balls, two strikes, and kept hanging in there with ‘foul balls’ he hit over the back fence. (I won’t make a pun there.)

“WHERE did you get that?” I demanded of Kerry, as I grabbed it back. Then Roddy grabbed it. He recognized it right off.

“Tha’s what they did ME with!” He exclaimed, “Look at the label! ‘Licensed for sale in the UK to professionals only’!”

“I think the photo guy dropped it,” Stevie said, “He was showing me some shots on his camera, us playing, you know, action shots, they’re so cool!” He chattered away, “And when he pulled a memory card out of his pocket, this fell out!”

“What’s a photographer in the USA doing with a UK packet of Neutersol?” I asked Roddy.

“Good question,” Roddy nodded, “But it’s got a lot number printed on it. I think it’s time to call up Simon and Jan again?”

CRACK!

Bradley had hit the ball, and it was a close play at second as he tried for a double. We were all hanging on the fence, suddenly very excited and screaming at him as the fielder overthrew it. But Bradley was thrown out at third in a call that just drove our parents wild. The boos and insults were deafening. It did knock Gary in, though, putting the score 5 – 0 with one out.

“The lot number will trace this to who bought it,” Roddy told us, as he handed it back to Kerry. “It’s not expired.”

“What IS it?” Kerry asked again, as Stevie began studying it.

“It’s a quick-neutering pack,” Roddy explained, as the umpire called time to go and pee. THAT was funny! “You see, the syringes are preloaded with Neutersol, just the right amount to prick a boy’s balls with. See here – ‘for ages 8-12, if not in puberty’. All you do is open it, place the round end firmly on the testicle, and shoot the drug in. In a few weeks, your balls die and shrink up. In a month or so, they’re gone, along with the cords. You’re a eunuch.”

“That’s gotta be better than surgery!” Stevie crowed, stuffing the pack into his bat bag. “The safety seal ain’t even broke!”

“It looks safe,” I told Roddy slyly, “But it’s ‘Rapid’; that kind makes your balls dissolve even faster!”

“Think about it, Stevie,” Roddy said darkly. “There’s not a set of bollocks in this dugout, but for yours. And once you shoot this stuff into your balls, you CAN’T undo it. Your balls die, and you never get hard again – ever, no matter what you try ‘cause it destroys your erectile nerves, too. No more erections, not for the rest of your life! You can’t fuck girls, you can’t wank, and your cock will shrink up so much you can’t even pee standing!” The rest of the team just listened.

“Dude, I wanna be castrated,” Stevie declared. “I didn’t think it was fair that Jamie got castrated so early, and I’m eleven already! I don’t wanna grow all that hair and turn into…into…THAT!” He pointed at the other dugout. We looked across the field, and granted, what we saw wasn’t all that appealing. If the wind shifted, you could even smell some of those boys.

“They’re your balls,” Roddy told Stevie. “Just think about it, OK?”

Stevie nodded as the umpire came back and the game resumed.

To make a long story short, we won 10 – 1 and played all six innings. The last inning was tough, though, as the other team didn’t like the idea of being beaten by a bunch of smaller boys. I wondered if they knew that they were being beaten by a team of boy-eunuchs, when it was apparent that only one or two of them MIGHT have been? Then again, I had no proof of that. They could have just been boys who hadn’t hit puberty yet. For twelve and under, it wasn’t impossible, after all.

The cap of the game, though, was when little blonde Tyler Moretti (the wimp) hit a hard grounder right to the pitcher. The ball took a ‘bad hop’, got him right in the old bollocks, and took him down! Tyler then stole second, and took third on an error. Jamie batted him in, and once Michael (who had relived Bradley at pitching) struck out their last three batters and that was the ballgame!

For the record, I had another hit, but not over the fence. It was a single. I struck out once, too, and to my own surprise, I had to try hard to not cry when I got back to the dugout. It was humiliating, and I now understood why some boys cry. Grandpa and Grandma telling me it was OK over and over didn’t help, either. I just wanted them to be quiet.

“It’s OK to cry,” Bradley and Michael both told me. “I cried like a baby when they cut my balls off, you know,” Bradley added, and that made it OK.

Must be one of those eunuch-things, like Simon always says…

Another of those baseball-things in America is the party after the big win. Although we were all sweaty, dirty, tired, somewhat smelly (but nothing compared to those pubescent boys!), we were obliged to all go to the local pizza place and eat pizza and drink cola (fizzy drinks) until we were ready to vomit. This must be some obscure American sports ritual that Roddy and I didn’t understand. Once we got washed off in the bathroom and cooled down, though, we found that we WERE ravenous. Did our parents know that, too? But come to find out, the reason for such a big party was that our win over SafeHome Insurance (THAT was their team, I remember now!) had put us at the number-one position for the tournament, which was to begin the day after tomorrow!

And so, we ate pizza. And breadsticks. And salad. And pasta. We ate until our trousers were uncomfortably tight! Then followed the cola-chugging (rapid drinking) and burping contests. The waitresses took it all in stride. I supposed they were used to being invaded by rowdy ball teams? All too soon, it was over, and I was surprisingly disappointed.

“Did you have a good time, boys?” Grandpa asked. “How do you like baseball, Ricky?”

“It’s just brilliant!” I exclaimed, then I yawned.

“And not nearly so bloody as rugby!” Roddy added happily.

We were tired again. Roddy and I were asleep in the back seat of the Lexus, and the AC felt so good…all I remember was waking up (clean, I might add) later that evening in a clean dressing down (and nothing else) on a daybed (a small bed not used at night) in the family room. Roddy was, too.

By then, Grandma was asking what we wanted to do. All WE wanted to do was sit and rest. It was amazing how tired we both were! I wasn’t this exhausted after a rugby match back home! All this running about in the heat and sweating! And so we spent the next few hours that evening watching the next DVD in that boy-wizard series that Roddy just adores. Another ritual at this time seems to be eating more pizza, left over, but cold. So we did that. By then it was bedtime, but I remembered we had to call Simon.

It was nearing four in the morning there, I think, but we called him anyway. Luckily, his mobile was on, and yes, there was a phone in our bedroom! I told you the place had it all, just like a room at the Grand Met!

We told him all about the game, then I mentioned how Stevie and Kerry had found the packet of Neutersol.

“And you let this Steven-boy KEEP IT?!” Simon squeaked. Simon squeaks too, by the way, when he’s excited. “How did a photographer in the USA get a UK pack of Neutersol, though?”

“No idea, hoped you’d know?” I replied.

“But Steven’s going to use it on himself?” Simon asked anxiously. “He should be supervised, you know.”

“Well, he does want to be neutered,” I offered, “He’s the only boy on the baseball team who isn’t, and it WAS still factory sealed.”

“Yes, the seal is the giveaway, so it’s perfectly safe. The packets are a bitch to open,” Simon agreed.

“I don't recall!” Roddy laughed.

“You were asleep at the time,” Simon said gently. “Are you both really all right? You sound like you’re having such a good time?” He asked, sounding all misty again. I found that I missed him, and I sniffled again. WHY do I do that?! Anyway, we told him all about the game, over and over again, and about the party. Once I explained the details about hitting the ball over the fence, which I compared to cricket, Simon was quite impressed with me.

“I wonder if the other team realizes they just got pounded by a bunch of eunuchs?” Simon laughed.

“I don't think so,” I replied, “I think most of the boy-eunuchs in this town all hang out together and don’t make much of an issue of it?” Then it was back to chattering about the game.

He listened for about half an hour, then yawned.

“Give me the lot number and expiry date,” Simon added, and Roddy did that. “I’ll get Raxworthy on it at once, see if we can break into the pharmaceutical database. Did this photographer approach either of YOU?” Simon then demanded. I said no, and tried to describe him from Stevie’s ramblings. The best I could come up with was that he was sort of a ‘dark personality’, kind of thin, and scary. “That’s half the men in the world,” Simon muttered. “You say there were two, taking photos? Hmmm,” He mused. “Keep me posted, boys. In the meantime, must have a rest! Big day with Melanie tomorrow, you know!”

“Goodnight, Simon,” we both said.

“WAIT!” Simon yelled, “Your phone has video, right?” It did. “Shoot a video of this guy and email it to me – both of them, if you can! Just to be safe.” Then he bid us goodnight and hung up. I then headed to the toilet to fully drain my finicky bladder with the catheter. Once that was done and our teeth brushed, we were done for the night! The day had just done us in.

“Simon sounded terribly excited about these men?” Roddy wondered, as we dropped our gowns and got into bed. “I had fun, Ricky. Thanks for bringing me along!”

That made me wonder about what Roddy did on vacations. He now had no family, and was a ward of the school. What would he have been doing if I hadn’t invited him along? What would I have been doing, for that matter, if my Grandparents hadn’t surfaced when they had? I knew quite well how lonely it could be when you were an orphan, and it made want to cry again. No surprises there, is there?

“The fun’s just started, I think!” I smiled back, and much to my surprise, Roddy kissed my cheek! I had no idea what to do, and while it made me feel funny, it also made me feel good. It was like when Melanie had kissed my cheek, and I felt my face flush. I returned it, and felt Roddy moved closer to me.

“I was scared of being hit by that big boy who was throwing,” Roddy whispered, “At least I hit it and didn’t look like an idiot. I don't think it would have looked good to come back to the dugout crying. I probably would have, and…” his voice drifted off, and he was asleep with his head snuggled up into my shoulder. I think we fell asleep that way.

Sorry if you were expecting some lurid description of graphic sex. We’re both boy-eunuchs with practically non-existent cocks…what were we going to do?!

That was all I remembered before waking up late the next morning with what Grandma called “the party hangover.”

Oh, God, WHY did they let us eat all that JUNK?! Why didn’t someone stop us?!

Breakfast was out of the question, as both of our stomachs were making these odd noises and we were both having pains. Grandpa called Dr. Bruce, and his advice must have come straight from Matron!

“They’re not used to this rich American food,” Dr. Bruce diagnosed, “Give ‘em both a good dose of the salts and see if you can get a warm enema into ‘em!”

That was the problem, I realized.

Matron had cleaned us both out before we’d left, but good, as I said before. It had been a few days, though, and the boy-eunuchs our age got at least two enemas a week from her. Roddy and I were in the Wednesday & Saturday rotation, and we were due for one. Of course, all that greasy pizza floating around in our guts didn’t help.

Much to our mutual surprise, Grandma produced a standard red bag. After gulping down some fruity-tasting fizzy drink from a small glass bottle (it was a powerful laxative, she told us, AFTER we drank it!), we were trotted right up to our bathroom for a good cleaning out. It was a bit embarrassing, lying there nude, while Grandma administered our enemas with a skilled hand. She went easy on the soap, though, which Matron tended to overdo sometimes. At least there was no ‘rubber band on the penis’ thing…I hate that! I haven’t wet myself since I was like four!

“The last thing you want is more cramps,” she said, as Roddy volunteered (begged, really) to go first. She couldn’t get the full two quarts into him, but she came close. Then it was my turn.

I should point out that all of us in my year are used to this. Enemas are a standard procedure, as I’m sure Simon has told you. Some of the older folks, like Matron, are true believers in them. So it didn’t bother me to have the tiny little white nozzle poked up my bum. In fact, I was used to a much larger one. It didn’t feel the same as Matron’s enemas, though, and it was a struggle to hold it in.

“Good Lord!” Grandma exclaimed, when we were all done with the first round. “I had no idea a boy could smell that bad!” Then she laughed. I felt my face burning. Then it was another round of salt-water rinses. When it was all said and done, both of us felt much better and went right back to bed. Those high-volume enemas were exhausting, and we always needed a nap thereafter. Of course, the rest of the afternoon, we were pretty much confined to the house as the oral laxatives began working on us, and of course, I was having to pee a lot. I was going to have to start using the catheter more often.

“I’m calling a urologist today,” Grandma informed me, and there was no arguing with her. I had to wonder if she’d call Dr. Geller, though, so I suggested it.

OK, I admit it – I wanted to see her. Rather, I had to know if this Dr. Geller was MY Dr. Geller.

We had just gotten up to try a bit of a bland late lunch when the telephone rang. I thought it would be Simon, but then I recalled how he’d said he’d email my phone if he found out anything. It turned out to be Coach Sherwood, and in a few minutes, he came over.

The photographer was with him.

One of them, anyway.

“Judge, you just HAVE to see these wonderful shots of the boys!” Coach was saying, as we looked up from the video game we were playing.

Stevie and Kerry had been right – this guy looked like an undertaker, or something. More like one of those creepy movie extras they always use when they need a villain to come out of the woodwork! He was tall, thin, and he just looked “dark”. I was frightened of him, and didn’t want to go near his laptop, where images of us playing ball were scrolling by. I couldn’t help but wonder what else might be on there.

“Hello, Ricky, Roddy,” he greeted us. Coach must have told him our names. “Come and look at your pictures!” He said sweetly, which didn’t come out too sweetly at all. It sounded, to us, more like: “Come here, little boy, so I can do wicked things to you!” At least, that’s how WE heard it!

“Bloody good game, for a gang of castrati, don't you think?” the photographer asked, and my fuzz stood up again. Americans don’t use the word “bloody”, unless they’re talking about first aid, and I hadn’t volunteered any information to this stranger about the state of my genitals! How did he know that the Mustangs team were all a bunch of geldings? Something was wrong. In addition to that, Roddy had vanished, leaving ME at the table with the creep.

Of course, Grandma went insane ordering photos, and after about a half hour, the photographer presented her with a CD-ROM that she could take to have prints made from. “Oh, look, Wendell!” she crowed, “Here’s where he hit it over the fence! I have to have enlargements made of this one!” I made a note to give her MY new camera and save her money.

“Iain might have some other good shots, I’ll ask him,” the photographer said, as he and Coach were leaving. Iain must have been the other one who had been there with his long lenses, following us, watching us, stalking about and clicking away…

We politely walked him and Coach back out to the F-350, and it rumbled to life like a train engine when Coach started it.

“Where’s Michael?” Roddy asked him, as he just then came out the door with my mobile in his hand.

“Oh, he’s sleeping it off. Ever since he got…snipped…,” Coach said it in a whisper, “He just sleeps like a baby after a game, and he’s quiet and pretty inert until the next evening. Just wears him out, you know.”

Of course we both knew. We were both still tired. Of course, Michael was probably used to eating this American food, too.

“You should email a few of those image files to Simon, boys,” the photographer said, as Coach backed up the truck. He was grinning at us from the open window and waving.

Roddy and I looked at each other after they’d gone.

“How does HE know Simon?” Roddy asked.

“Good question!” I agreed. “Roddy, I don’t trust this guy!”

“Me either,” Roddy grinned, holding up the mobile phone. “What say we take his advice, though, and send Simon the video I shot of him just now?”

“Genius!” I breathed.