The Oldest Ball “Kid”

He answered back, “I’m Gene. And I’m a big fan.” Socializing and exchanges of given names just isn’t done between players an ball kids. Well, normally.

It took three sets to take Emilio. I was much the better player—that was obvious. But he was much the fresher player. That was equally obvious. I let my guard down for just a couple of points in the second set, but those points made all the difference in losing the second set.

After the match, I opted to shower there at the venue. No other players seemed to be taking that option, though, so I had the locker room and the separated shower stalls area all to myself—or so I thought. Coming out of the shower, soap still in my eyes, I groped for the towel I’d hung on a hook. But it wasn’t there.

“Here’s your towel, Mr. . . . Cliff,” I heard a voice say.

It was Gene, the oldest ball kid, of course, and he’d come in to shower as well. He just had a towel around his waist, and his body was beautiful. Nineteen-year-old fuck candy beautiful.

His eyes probably went bigger than mine in seeing the other’s body—mine fully naked.

“God, you’re big,” Gene said. “Mr. Steiner said you were big.”