Chapter Four: Excitement at a Mets Game
Spring break for Farragut High was the second week of April, beginning the previous Friday (Good Friday), and I left school on Holy Thursday carrying a stack of papers, including essays from the students that I would have to grade during the vacation period. Again, as in past holiday periods, I was going to be alone; I had no family with which to celebrate Easter Sunday or to enjoy outings during the long week. My new friend, Jon Edwards, would be gone most of the week, planning to fly back to his family’s home in Wisconsin as well as to spend romantic time (as he had confessed to me during our time together) with his boyfriend from college days.

Hank Duke, the physical education teacher, had also become friendly with me, which I found weird, since I knew he despised weak, sissyish men, a category into which I felt he had placed me. The Mets had opened the season with three straight losses, and he was in despair as we shared coffee in the teachers’ lounge one day of the week before break.

“Have no fear, Hank, they always start out slow, but when the money’s on the line, they’ll respond,” I said, more to ease his apparent suffering than because I believed it. After all, in the previous season, the team went into a complete funk near the end.

“I suppose you’re right, but they gotta start hitting,” he said.

It began a morning routine for the two of us as we pored over the morning Daily News sports pages and the box scores. I had always liked baseball, even though I was terrible when I tried to play the game, often being criticized for “throwing like a girl,” which I guess I did since I never seemed to be able to throw it too hard or far. Of course, my bats usually produced only foul balls or weak dribblers to the pitcher. I loved the beauty of the sport, the well-manicured green field of Citi Field, the symmetry of the baseball diamond and the usual graceful moves of the fielders.

Often I imagined myself as one of the many pretty girls in the stands at the ball park, wearing blue mini-shorts, a David Wright uniform top with the “5” embroidered on the back and wearing a Mets baseball cap, with my ponytail bobbing through the opening at the back. In my imagination, a young man who looked like Randy sat next to me, sometimes putting his arm around my shoulders and holding my hand.

Hank cornered me as I was about to leave on Thursday for the break.

“How would you like to see the Mets play on Wednesday afternoon?” he asked.

He took me aback and I looked at him without saying anything.

“I have an extra ticket, Jason. My friend who usually goes with me can’t join me ‘cause she has to work and I don’t know anyone around here who seems to like baseball more than you do.”

“Well, that’s nice of you to ask me, Hank, and I’d like that very much.”

“Good.”

“Let me know what the ticket costs,” I said.

“It’ll be my treat.”

We argued the point briefly, but I sensed he would be offended if I refused to give in.

He offered to pick me up about 11 a.m. that morning at my home in Queens. Hank lived in Brooklyn and I argued that he’d have to drive quite a few miles out of his way to pick me up, but he insisted. “You’re my guest,” he said, his persuasiveness finally overwhelming me.

I had a strange feeling about the invitation. He seemed to be treating me as if I was his girlfriend.

*****
There was a bright sun shining through the haze that hovered over Flushing, helping to bring a semblance of warmth to the chilly mid-April day. We joined the bumper-to-bumper traffic along Grand Central Parkway before inching our way into the parking structure.

Hank Duke had seemed surprisingly uneasy in the drive from my home in Astoria, talking nervously about the Mets and the traffic, in an apparent effort to sound normal. I knew something was bothering him, and particularly wondered if he was concerned about being seen with someone as effeminate as I apparently had become. It had dawned on me only recently that my movements and mannerisms must have become more and more feminine without me realizing it. The number of times I was being misidentified as being female also seemed to be increasing.

I had tried that day to look as masculine as possible, having been able to locate my old pin-striped Mets uniform top as well as my blue and orange baseball cap. I was so tempted to tuck my longish hair through the hole in the back, but realized that would make me truly look like one of baseball’s many female groupies. With jeans and my dirty New Balance shoes, I felt I passed muster as a guy.

I shared Hank’s nervousness, which seemed to grow as we waited in the traffic line. When we finally got parked and began heading to the stadium I again began to feel that Hank was treating me as if I were his girlfriend. I felt his arm move around my waist to guide me easily when we had to dodge through the groups of milling fans; at one point, he took my hand to lead me through a particularly tight part of the concession area in the stands.

“Can I get you something to drink, Jason?” Hank asked when we were finally settled in our seats, which were in the Terrace Level, just about at first base.

“No, Hank, I’m fine. We can just wait for a vendor,” I suggested.

The grounds crew was giving the field a final manicuring after the two teams, the Mets and the Milwaukee Brewers, had finished their warmups.

“These are excellent seats, Hank, and I can’t thank you enough. I’ve always had to sit way up in the cheap seats here.”

“I glad you like the seats and that you like baseball,” he said, smiling at me.

“I do, even though I was never any good playing the game, but I try to follow the Mets every year.”

As the game went on, I tried to buy the drinks and hot dogs, but Hank refused to let me, even though I argued with him. “Look, let me buy. Migosh, you bought these expensive seats.”

But he would have none of it. Suddenly, I felt I was his girlfriend – his date – and the thought disturbed me. Was Hank – who chided Jon Edwards for being gay – in truth a closeted gay man? It was a troubling thought since I had no desire for a gay relationship; if I were to be with a man I would have to be his girl, not his male toy.

The game turned out to be an exciting one; the Mets starting pitcher gave up two runs in the first inning, but settled down after that to pitch shutout ball the rest of the way. The Met batters, however, were being skunked, getting many hits off the Brewer pitchers, but then stranding the runners on base. The score was still 2-0 going into the bottom of the ninth, when the Mets finally erupted. My hero, David Wright, who had been hitless in the game to that point, came to the bat with bases loaded and two outs. He was the last chance!

He doubled in all three runs and the Mets and the game ended in glorious victory, 3-2.

I squealed very girlishly and jumped up waving my arms as the last Met runner scored. I saw Hank look at me and in the excitement he grabbed me and hugged me as we both jumped with joy. The hug lingered on for a while, and neither of us did anything to break the embrace. I looked up at him and he smiled. Suddenly, he let go.

“Wow that was something,” Hank said. I couldn’t tell whether he was referring to the last-minute victory or the prolonged hug.

When the excitement settled down, we began the arduous task of exiting the stadium and getting to his car. He said nothing to me except for perfunctory words like, “follow me” and “let’s duck through here.”

It took us more than twenty minutes to get out of the parking structure; neither of us said anything for a few minutes in the car until Hank finally said:

“I’m sorry, Jason. I don’t know what came over me.”

Obviously, without referencing it, I was certain he meant the hug.

“That’s OK, it was the excitement of the moment,” I replied, hoping to have the matter disposed of.

“No, I shouldn’t have done that, and in the midst of all those people, too. It’s just that I thought . . .”

His voice trailed off, not finishing the sentence.

“Thought what?”

“Oh, never mind, I’m sorry. Let’s change the subject.”

I nodded, happy to leave the question unanswered for the time being. We were silent for a while; Hank turned on his car radio to hear the postgame wrap-up by the commentators as he navigated onto the Grand Central Parkway and back to my home. The post-mortem on the game brought out a bit of wit from Hank that I hadn’t seen in him, causing both of us to laugh as he made fun of the serious nature of the announcers, making out like this one victory, early in the season, would bring in a change of prodigious proportions.

“I wonder how they’ll take the next loss the Mets suffer,” he said cryptically.

“Like the end of the world, I guess.”

It was a light-hearted moment and as we pulled up to my home, he was able to find an empty spot right in front, a rare occurrence. I suggested he take it and then surprised myself with a spur-of-the-moment invitation: “I don’t know how to thank you enough for the game today, Hank. The least I can do is to invite you in for a drink or something.”

As soon as those words left my mouth, I had second thoughts. I sounded like a young woman who might invite her date up for a drink after going to the movies, when all the time it might be an invitation for sex. I didn’t want that, certainly. I just wanted to do something to thank him for his kindness.

He considered the invitation for a minute and said: “You’re sure you want me to come in?”

I didn’t take that opportunity to change my mind and replied: “Of course. I can make coffee or tea, or I have some beer and wine or whatever.”

“That would be nice,” he replied. I was both excited and scared at what might occur in the house.

*****
As we walked to the house, tall, husky Hank Duke followed me and I began to feel very much like a young lady escorting her date into her house. Perhaps I might have sashayed a bit, too, I feared, using a dainty motion to retrieve my keys to the side door.

“This is a lovely home,” he said when we were settled down in the living room, he on our couch and me on an adjoining side chair. A bottle of pinot noir was open on the coffee table in front of us, and he raised his glass, inviting a toast. We touched glasses.

“And here’s to a lovely friendship,” he said.

I know I must have blushed when he said that; I had developed affection for the rough, bluff man who just a few weeks earlier I had hated for his demeaning treatment of my other new friend, Jon Edwards.

“To a lovely friendship,” I echoed.

For over an hour we talked, nearly emptying the bottle of wine. I learned that Hank was raised in foster homes, his mother having died when he was eight and his father having long before deserted the family. For several years, he had a terrible time, being a scrawny, undernourished kid with terrible anger problems; fortunately, when he was twelve an older couple adopted him and he finally found warm, loving affection after years of being treated with cold, strict discipline.

“Mom treated me right from the start with lots of love and understanding, and dad, well he was something else again, he was strict but also was patient and understanding,” Hank began. “Dad was a high school teacher who coached football and he took me under his wing, taught me how to play the game, and with mom’s cooking, well I finally gained weight and got muscles.”

“Are your parents still around?” I asked.

“Oh yes, but they live in Buffalo. That’s where I grew up.”

“Did you play football then?” I asked.

He blushed a bit. “I guess I did. Played running back in high school and was drafted to a big school in the Midwest.”

“You must have been pretty good, then?”

He nodded. “Well I made all-conference tight end in college and was drafted by the Jets.”

“Oh my God, I’m sorry,” I said. “How could I forget? You were supposed to be a top pro, I thought. What happened?”

I was awestruck. The name, Henry Duke, was hot news a few years back, I recalled. And, here he was sitting in my living room and teaching in the same school as me.

“Blew out a knee in the pre-season with the Jets and never did play. The damn thing still hurts,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said.

“Thanks, but it is what it is. Blame it on my first twelve years of life when I rarely got the right nourishment. I guess my bones weren’t made to play football. But I really enjoy teaching and working with the kids, particularly those who are growing up in some of the terrible situations that I faced as a kid. I love to help those kids find their future in life, whether it’s in sports or business or music or social work or whatever.”

I found out that Hank went to work in the school district right after he left the Jets; he had apparently been a serious student in college and had gained a degree with two majors, physical education and history. And, while he was already a well-tenured teacher, he was not yet thirty years old. I had heard that he was being considered the top candidate to become the Farragut football team’s coach in the following season; the school’s longtime coach was retiring and Duke, who had been an assistant, was seen by some to be an obvious choice.

“Are you interested in becoming coach next year?” I asked him.

“Don’t ask me that, Jason,” he said. “It’s a demanding job.”

“Yet you want it, don’t you?” I prodded.

“I guess you must be devastated over the loss of your mother, Jason,” he said, quickly changing the subject.

“Yes, but I knew her death ended her suffering,” I said. I felt a sudden sense of sadness come over me and began to tear up.

“I’m sorry, Jason.”

“No, it’s OK. I am getting over it. She really was my best friend, and I left the house pretty much as she had it,” I said, hoping to explain the heavily feminine atmosphere created by the fluffy curtains and light, pink tones that permeated the house. I didn’t tell him, of course, that I loved such a feminine environment.

“You look very comfortable in this house, just like you belong in a place like this,” he said.

I felt I should take exception to the comment, but I knew he was right. I did love it. As we talked, I realized I had tucked my legs under me in a most feminine manner, just as I did when I was reading in that chair, or watching television. I suddenly felt most girlish.

“I’m sorry for what I did at the ballpark, hugging you like that, Jason,” he said.

“Forget it, Hank.”

“You know for a minute, in the excitement at the game, I just seemed to feel you were my girlfriend, and I just instinctively hugged you. I’m sorry for that.”

I was nonplussed. What could I say? That I loved the idea of being a girl and maybe even his girlfriend?

“Really, Jason, you have the prettiest face and . . . ah . . . ah . . . I sometimes look at you as if you were a young woman.”

How much I loved hearing that! What woman wouldn’t? All I did in response was smile and return his words with an exaggerated effeminate flip of my wrist, as if to take the part of a lovely young woman.

“Oh, I shouldn’t have said that, Jason. That was cruel,” he said quickly.

“No, no, that’s OK, Hank. I guess I have had too much of a feminine influence in my life, being raised by mom and all and never really being very strong. You must despise weak men like me,” I said, beginning to cry.

“No, I don’t despise you,” he said. “Just the opposite, since I realize how difficult it must be for you, yet you have come into this tough school and so far done just fine. You should be admired for your courage.”

With that, I began crying in earnest and he got up and pulled me onto the couch with him and held me tightly while I bawled. I stopped after a moment, and he found a clean tissue and wiped my eyes, and then kissed me gently. I melted into his strong arms.

His hands gently caressed my thin arms and moved down to encircle my butt; we kissed vigorously, but Hank rejected any thrust by me to insert my tongue between his lips.

“I don’t want any sex between us,” he announced. “I’m not interested in male-to-male engagement, but I love imagining you are a girl or should I say, a lovely young woman?”

“I like that idea, too.”

Finally, he released me from his grasp and we sat together without speaking for a while. He broke the silence with a question: “So you like the thought being a woman, Jason?”

I smiled at him; I’m afraid to admit that it was a flirtatious smile, and said, “Call me Julie.”

He looked at me strangely, and I suddenly became fearful that he would find my statement to be offensive and would think me afflicted with a shameful perversion.

“Julie,” he said smiling. “It fits you.”

“Hank, I think I can trust you,” I said. I knew I was taking a chance.

“Yes, Julie, you can. You’ll find me open-minded, even though it didn’t seem that way when I insulted Jon that day. I was wrong and you should know I apologized to him.”

“That’s good you apologized. I hated you at that moment and thought you were a bully, and I guess I was wrong about that.”

“I know, and I don’t blame you.”

I smiled sweetly.

“Hank, I need to change my clothes and get into something special for you,” I said.

“Oh?” he said, appearing puzzled.

“It’ll take a few minutes, but I hope you’ll like it.”

After I told him to make himself comfortable and showing him the remote to the television, I went into my bedroom to change. My heart was pounding and I felt anxious.

*****
I gave myself a quick sponge bath to rid my skin of the grime from a day at the Mets game, brushed my hair so that it flowed freely down to my shoulders, a natural bob developing. I put on a black bra and matching panties with lace trim. Reaching into the closet, I found what I was looking for almost immediately among the rack of dresses, skirts and blouses. I pulled out a black cocktail dress and carefully brought it down over my head, adjusting the spaghetti straps over my narrow shoulders and smoothing the dress so that it hung properly. It ended at mid-thigh, exposing my legs.

I toyed with the thought of putting on stockings, but decided against it since it would take time. I looked at myself in the mirror and realized that in my haste to put on the dress – my favorite of all my lovely clothes – I had forgotten to put on makeup. I hated to do it after I put on a dress or blouse, since the powder or make-up might get on the dress.

I put a towel over my shoulders and put on a light foundation, a bit of blush, and light pink shade of lipstick and gloss and a quick touch of eyeliner. I exchanged the tiny studs in my ears for a pair of silver, rhinestone earrings, gave my hair a quick brush and smiled at the result.

“Voila,” I said, prancing into the living room, looking expectantly at Hank, who had been reading the morning paper.

“Oh my God,” he exclaimed, looking up from his paper. He was clearly shocked, and I worried that I had done the wrong thing by dressing up in my girlish best.

“Is that you?” he said, his face still a mystery to me.

“Meet Julie. I hope you like her,” I said.

He eyed me up and down, still silent, and I grew concerned. He disapproved, I was certain.

“Should I change back?” I said finally.

He smiled. “No. No. No. Stay like that. My God, you’re beautiful.”

He got up from the couch and said, “Come here, honey.” I walked into his arms and surrendered myself to him, finding my slender, soft body buried into his muscular frame. We cuddled and kissed that night, but did nothing more sexual. I explained I still had my male member but was to begin seeing a doctor as my first step to a sex change.

Neither one of us, it seemed, was interested in a male-to-male experience; he treated me only as he would any girlfriend. I loved it.

“You’re already a girl in my mind,” he said as the evening ended.

“I’ve always felt more girl than boy to be truthful, Hank,” I confessed.

“I can see that.”

It had been a marvelous day, and as any girl would do for her man, I fixed us supper. I found some ground beef in the refrigerator and whipped up a quick casserole, fixed some salad and with another bottle of wine we had a lovely candlelight dinner, too. What could be more romantic?

*****
When Hank left my home that night, I found myself full of conflicting thoughts. What an exciting day it had been, as I found the events rolling through my mind. I could think of only two previous times in my life when I had felt stimulated and appreciated and those, of course, were the times I met Randy on the previous Labor Day and Christmas Eve.

On all three occasions it was my femininity that made me an object of affection. In Randy’s case, he knew me only as a young woman and he obviously was enthralled not only because of what he thought was a beautiful woman but by his youthful sexual cravings. Now, here comes Henry Duke, who seemed to dismiss me at first as an effeminate sissy boy and now seemed to sincerely adore me as a woman. Was Hank’s affection for me, in fact, a homosexual urge on his part, in spite of his earlier seeming homophobic actions in bullying Jon? Or, did he honestly see me as a woman as evidenced by his apparent spontaneous hug and kiss he affixed on me in the excitement of the baseball game?

Then there was the fact that I was living as a young man teaching high school students in a job I loved. I was only a substitute and had no protection and thus had to be a good teacher of good morals. Would not my donning the cocktail dress and cuddling and kissing with Hank Duke and involvement with a sixteen-year-old boy be cause for instant discharge? Of course, it would, I concluded.

Before going to bed that night I cleaned off all my makeup, tied my hair in a boy-style ponytail and donned a pair of pajamas carrying the New York Giants logo that I wore in high school. Shame and guilt overwhelmed me as I settled down to try to sleep; I couldn’t. As I tossed and turned, the lingering scent of femininity that had permeated my lovely bedroom overcame me and I thought alternately of the kisses of both Randy and Hank. I thought of how marvelous it was to be a young lady and finally I slept.