Title:  The Old Yawn and Stretch
Author:  Missy Pennington
Classification:  V, UST
Spoilers:  The Unnatural
Summary:  Scully recalls the summer she learned the real 
rules of baseball.


The Old Yawn and Stretch
by Missy Pennington


I was twelve years old the summer I learned to play 
baseball.

I was gangly, all arms and legs and braces, and my world 
up to that point had been centered around my family: 
parents who loved me, brothers who allowed me to tag 
along more often than not, and a sister who, though 
somewhat aloof to my nagging presence, remained the 
pretty, popular, feminine ideal to which I hoped to aspire 
after puberty.

It was the summer of 1976, and we were celebrating the 
bicentennial at Emmons Lake.  Baseball was a family affair 
for us, and I'd been participating for as long as I could 
remember.  Everyone did, except Melissa, who was never 
one to willingly participate in anything that might result in 
sweating.

I, on the other hand, thrived on it.  I was a fierce 
competitor to the end, spurred on by my brothers' always 
superior speed and strength and my father's edict that 
there was no room for second place.  

I played, and I played hard.

It was a friendly, five-inning game with several other 
families.  Our team was down two runs in the third, and I 
went to bat knowing that their right fielder, sixteen-year-
old Tracy Hardy, couldn't throw a ball the length of the 
field if her life depended on it.  She was the weak link in 
their outfield, and she was mine.  I knew it even before Bill 
told me.  I walked to the plate with it all planned out.

I didn't plan on Wes Murkle.

Wes was fourteen.  Tall and athletic, filled out well beyond 
his years, physically speaking.  He was the first boy I ever 
remember feeling tongue-tied around, and I avoided him at 
all costs to prevent the inevitable teasing I knew would 
haunt me forever should my siblings find out I had finally 
discovered THOSE feelings for a person of the opposite 
sex.  

When he followed me to home plate, giving me advice on 
how to hit to right field, I knew that God had given me the 
perfect chance to win his heart.  All he had to do was see 
me hit, and I would have his undying love and admiration.

I waved him off, anxious to show him my ability, and 
when the pitch came, I slugged it with all my strength, 
right between Tracy's skinny little legs, laughing as I 
rounded first base and headed for second, knowing I could 
probably take third before she would manage to fling the 
ball randomly in the direction of someone who could 
actually play.

When I tagged home on the next play, everyone 
congratulated me heartily.  Everyone but Wes, who 
seemed utterly nonplused by my feat.

We lost the game, but I didn't care.  I was still trying to 
figure out why my dazzling performance at bat hadn't won 
me the attention of a particularly cute adolescent baseball 
player.  Later that evening, Melissa pulled me aside and 
explained it to me with a patience and understanding that 
only an older sister can have:  little boys like to think 
they're better than girls are at playing sports.  Older boys 
*need* to think it.

The next day we had a rematch.  We were up one run in 
the top of the fifth, and it was my turn at bat.  For some 
unexplained reason, I suddenly forgot how to hold my bat.  
I wasn't sure how I should angle my body,  and even 
though the first two pitches were WAY high and outside, I 
swung wildly at them.  Two quick strikes and Wes was 
beside me.  

Hold it like this.

Like this?

Yeah, like this.  Now put your weight on this leg.  

I paid rapt attention to his instructions while my brothers 
stood open-mouthed behind me silently vowing that I 
would never be fully trusted on the family baseball team 
again.  They didn't realize that I had taken my 
understanding of the game to a new level; I had realized 
that baseball was a game of strategy as much as technique.

My father and my brothers taught me technique.

My sister, who never played sports, taught me strategy.

I struck out and we lost the game. My brothers didn't 
forgive me for days.  But that summer I got my first real 
kiss, and it overshadowed everything else I remember 
about that vacation to this very day.

Now, twenty three years later, I'm standing in a baseball 
field with my partner of six years, hoping fervently that 
this knowledge I gained so long ago is a universal 
invariant -- that the old truths are still valid ones.  It feels a 
bit outmoded now, like a couple of kids on a date in the 
1950s, sitting in the back of a drive in, painfully aware of 
each other's presence to the exclusion of everything 
around them.

We all know the play:  as soon as the moment is right, the 
boy will yawn inconspicuously, signaling that he is ready 
to make his move.  He will then stretch, as if his muscles 
are cramped from sitting still so long, and as he stretches, 
one arm just *happens* to make its way around the back 
of his date, coming to rest comfortably on her shoulder.  If 
he's lucky, she'll let it stay there.  It's all a matter of 
timing...playing the moment.

In this particular time warp, however, I am the one playing 
the moment, just like I played it that summer at Emmons 
Lake.

He is standing there, looking for all the world like a 
beautiful little boy, all enthusiasm and guileless charm.  My 
heart beats faster just seeing the unadulterated joy in his 
eyes.  How seldom I've seen him this unguarded.

I yawn nonchalantly.

Hit a baseball?  Me?  No... I have found more necessary 
things to do with my time than slap a piece of horsehide 
with a stick

"Get over here, Scully."

I do, blinking innocently, careful not to tip my hand.  One 
wrong move could so easily upset the precariousness of 
this symbolic first encounter.  His body inches closer 
around me, like a protective shield that keeps the world at 
bay.  He shows me carefully how to hold the bat.

I feel myself yawn again, knowing it's time to make "The 
Move."  I stretch languidly, reaching my arm around the 
back of his seat.

Like this, Mulder?  Hands here?  Turn how, exactly?  
Show me.

He is totally engrossed in this performance.  He allows my 
arm to stay.  Feeling braver, I allow my fingers to stroke 
lightly, chastely upon his upper arm.

Wow, we really hit it, Mulder.  That was wonderful.  No, I 
don't think I could do it by myself.  Would you stay and 
help me? 

He is so cute.  So cute and totally clueless, standing here 
curled around me imparting the wisdom of the gods upon 
a soul who has known the secrets of the baseball universe 
since before she could walk.  But this isn't about baseball, 
and I have a feeling he knows that as well as I do.  
Nothing is ever *just* about baseball.  It's about rhythm 
and timing, instinct and passion.  It's about positioning 
yourself just the right way, and feeling your body's 
instinctive yearning for that single moment of impact.  

It's about hips before hands.

It's about feeling your muscles coil tightly in anticipation, 
and the instantaneous euphoria of that initial contact.

It's about the power of physical freedom.

We play the scene over and over again, and when it's 
almost over, I realize that my arm, which still rests around 
his shoulder, has grown numb.  Still I don't remove it.  
Circulation is a small price to pay for the look of pure joy 
and unmistakable male pride I see on his face as he teaches 
me this game I have been taught so many times by so 
many people.  I don't mind the learning process.  Right 
now, if he wanted to teach me to breathe, I would hold my 
breath willingly until he'd fully demonstrated the process.

Am I playing games here?

I am.

But that's what he invited me out here for, and it's exactly 
what we are doing.  We are playing a game.

Our game.  America's game.  Our favorite national 
pastime.

We are also playing baseball.

And somewhere up there, Melissa is smiling.

<end>


I love email!  Joseechung@aol.com