The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

On December 26th, 1919, a single and seemingly unimportant executive decision changed the course of baseball history for 85 years. The story behind this has been contested for decades and shaped the national pastime more than any on-field accomplishment.

On the surface, it began with a drunken pitcher and a Roaring Twenties play...

“What a predicament! The sport hangs by a thread- by the seam of our pants, I dare say. We know what will happen in Chicago, and now our best player is holding out for his pay to be doubled,” Ban Johnson said in front of his Loyal Five owners at the American League headquarters.

“You neglected to mention that that best player is an obscene drunkard who patronizes pros—”

“We are all aware of Babe Ruth’s sordid habits. We’re gentlemen here, are we not? We do not need to lower ourselves to his level just because our livelihood depends on it,” Ban scolded the owner who had interjected himself.

“And Frazee already has his mind made up. He wouldn’t keep Ruth even if we begged him. He’s going to trade him for a certain very fine player from Cominsky’s crew,” another of the owners said to try and console the league president.

“Ahh, you mean Mr. Jackson? The one who will likely go to prison for throwing the World Series? I can see Mr. Frazee hanging from one of the flagpoles over Fenway Park now. We’ve already had one Boston team have their stadium burn down over crazed Royal Rooters. If we want lynching as a sideshow to our games, there’s a far simpler solution available than having Babe Ruth traded for someone who consorts with gamblers,” Ban said with anger, unamused at how lightly his league’s dilemma was being taken.

“Gentlemen, players are at a premium as it is because of the Great War, and now we have the Black Sox hanging over our heads. I doubt the actions here today will offer any aid to our dying sport, but it is the only hope we have. We need to have Babe Ruth play, and the easiest way to do that is to maneuver him to the Yankees. It will sell tickets, pull the New York press away from the Black Sox, and make everyone more money at the gate,” Ban concluded, uncomfortable with the realization but recognizing its necessity.

“You might as well wish for the moon! Frazee never will. Even if Jackson goes to prison, he can come back someday and provide them with a lift. A .300 hitter would be better than anything the Yankees could provide. I myself could provide better for Ruth, as could anyone in the National League. Even if the Yankees could bring back Carl Mays, they would not be able to match,” one of the owners said.

“Don’t forget the debt on Fenway Park. But any day now, Frazee will come to his senses and Ruth will stop wasting his power on pitching and become a daily hitter. The debt will be settled. Don’t let their little alliance blind you to the facts. It becomes easier to accept a drunkard when that drunkard pays for your house.

“Not with Barrow. He’s sick of him leaving them on trips and showing up again drunk on God alone knows what acquired God knows where. Gentlemen, Mr. Ruth will be playing elsewhere in 1920. Do any of you have a reasonable offer to present? I did not think so,” Ban said, seeing the Loyal Five balk at their president’s audacity- and his attempts to control George Herman Ruth. No manager could dare risk sitting the Babe, but no manager would dare risk tolerating him either, no matter how many home runs he hit. And Ban Johnson know it.

“I thought so. They’re all too cowardly to take the risk. And Ruth would never agree to play for Connie anyway.. And there are not enough women for his liking in the City of Brotherly Love. Now all I have to do is convince Harry,” Ban said aloud once the other owners were gone. Saying the plan aloud made it a bit more concrete for him, and made him sure that he would be able to go through with the next part of it.

“Preposterous! I still have McGreevy banging his stick at me over trading Mays. And what do they have to offer us, anyway?”

“Ruppert is wealthy, and haven’t you had enough of that drunken lout on your team? I’ve watched him run- he’s out of steam before he gets to first. And that’s when you can make use of him-since you use him as a pitcher, he only plays every few days,” Ban explained at Fenway Park.

“Must you remind me of the debt on my stadium? I know that it’s there, but if I can convince George to calm down, I can pay it off with ticket sales,” Harry Frazee replied with a smile.

“Really, Harry? Even when you double his pay to keep him happy? Even when you have to find a new general manager and a new field manager because yours have walked out in disgust? Even when he inevitably slips back into his deplorable habits?” Ban countered.

Frazee sighed. “Why can’t baseball be like theater? If you lose your star, the understudy takes over and the show goes on because of the strength of the show. The audiences don’t come to see the actors, they come to see the play based on the strength of the play.”

“And in theater, I’m sure it’s much easier to have a drunken lout fired for being a drunken lout,” Ban said, getting an idea.

“I think I know the direction of your thought, and I’m not doing that. Boston doesn’t have the theatre community, and with that damned war, there are fewer plays and people to see them than there are baseball players! And I’ve heard what Chicago is offering. I must remind you that everything has been circumstantial with Jackson. He certainly was no Cicotte. He played hard every game and helped them win the games that Kerr pitched. If he helped a useless kid like Dickie Kerr win two starts, it would be terribly difficult for a jury to believe that he was part of the scandal. The rest of them are as guilty as sin and should be punished for it, but with Joe, I can’t believe it’s so. Him leaving the White Sox would be the best way to clear his name,” Frazee said.

They made a bit more small conversation before Frazee had Ban ushered out, still contemplating the fate of his beloved Red Sox.

Weeks passed, and the situation became clearer. It was obvious that the Black Sox would be punished one way or another, and that they had put baseball in the direst of straits. When the National League teams were calling with concern, Ban knew that the storm had struck. With no prospects for the Red Sox to send Ruth to the White Sox, the end of that discussion had come. But Frazee had nothing to get in return from the Yankees, and the Loyal Five had grown tired of the alliances between the Yankees and the pair of Sox. It would be up to Ban to convince Frazee that trading a baseball investment for a theater investment was a sound plan. Then he got the strangest call of his life.

“Pittsburgh? Sir, knowing the Pirates, either you are claiming to have coaxed Honus Wagner out of retirement, or you’re so drunk that you think we’ll arrange for Ruth to join you for a whiskey party,” Ban said mockingly when he heard the slurred voice of the Pirates owner at the other end; even with the distance of the connection, he could spot when a man was four sheets to the wind.

“So you have an investor for a play... who runs a coal mine... and is a woman? We’ve only just given them the right to vote- already they want more? Never satisfied.”

The response was coarse and profane, and Ban was certain that he was the victim of a drunken prank, but he decided to play along for a bit of fun. “All right then, I’ll see them. I need some sort of play... or perhaps I’ll just sneak in a lovely woman on the side, whichever piques my interest first. Two days, you say? I look forward to it.”

Promptly at noon in two days, his assistant informed him that three women claiming to be financiers were waiting in his office. “What? Oh, yes, that call from Pittsburgh. The owner called me for a bit of folly. A good folly, to be sure, but he actually sent whores to my office? That breaks all the rules. Trust a National League owner not to know when to stop.”

“They aren’t whores. They explained it all to me. They inherited the coal mine from their husbands. They handled all the money because their husbands were either in Europe or dying from black lung. They claim that they and the company they represent have been managing the wealth of coal from before the Civil War, thanks to mine disasters.”

“Rich widows? A likely story, but one with the possibility of truth to it. It would make sense that a women’s club would be interested in financing a stage show but wouldn’t have the means to do it themselves. Let me see their card. ‘Three Sisters of the Three Rivers’? A peculiar name, and something only a woman would consider proper. All right, show them in. If nothing else, I will be able to call Pittsburgh and laugh in their faces.”

His assistant left for a few moments, and while Ban was chuckling to himself, three striking women daintily entered his office, wearing top of the line dresses and hats. The one in front wore serious, almost vicious black, and appeared to be in her thirties. The other two couldn’t have been older than 20. Their green dresses and short-brimmed hats were more suited for a jazz club or a pool hall than an office, but still proper enough not to raise too many eyebrows.

“A pleasure for us to see you, mister league president,” the leader said in a severe, no-nonsense voice that matched the rest of her demeanor.

“Ladies, please, sit down,” Ban insisted. The women politely sat down.

“I hear you have a dilemma. I am your solution. Nanette DuMaurier, Executrix of National Coal Industries, Allegheny Division, and widow of many a hero who dares to scour the earth for the energy that lets our eagle soar to the heavens. These young ladies are two of my aspiring actresses, and I apologize for their appearance- they do take after the theater. I have a show that I can guarantee to be a hit, and I have heard that there is a theater producer in your ranks who has a commodity to sell in exchange for said hit.”

Her vicious stare was relentless, and Ban was sorry to admit that even a master negotiator such as himself would recoil. “Unfortunately, Mrs. DuMaurier, the solution there involves our producer giving up a... ladies, please pardon my language... drunken, whore-addicted, fat lout of a man whose only reason for fame is using his elephantine stature to propel a baseball further than any mortal man,” he said, trying to counter this madwoman.

“Hehe, he said he has a man who can use his elephant!” one of the girls behind Nanette whispered to her cohort. Ban understood Nanette’s true trade, but before he could react, Nanette struck.

“Celeste! We do not speak so foul!” Nanette snapped. The two girls assumed perfect posture, staring off into the distance as if unaware of anything else in the world. “My young assistants are too young, and too... starved from the war. I apologize. Too many still do not know the value of fair trade.”

“But, madame, are you not in the business of the trade of the fair? Babe Ruth needs no help to be made weaker to his sins,” Ban said, readying himself to show Nanette the door.

One of the girls got the hint and got ready to open her parasol and go back out to walking the streets, but Nanette snapped, “Ida! It is horrible luck to open an umbrella indoors!” Again her words were all but fatal to the girls’ free thought. With her young assistants handled, she turned back towards Ban and said, “I assure that I am not a madam. I take girls who are lonely from the war and form them into proper ladies of commerce, and not the sort of commerce you imagine. For women to advance, their vote needs to be equal to the labors of man. These will be excellent aides, but they need to learn their true place. Thank Heaven for the war creating the proper environment free of... distractions- but they are merely human, and their penchant for the stage gets the better of them from time to time.”

Ban couldn’t understand why everything Nanette said was making perfect sense, but it did, and he let the ladies sit back down as he drank up every word Nanette said.

“As for Mister Frazee, I have a script for him. It will work. He will then trade Ruth for the money we require to stage the production.” Nanette’s words were razor sharp, and goosebumps stung Ban’s skin as she uttered them.

“Indeed, but that is not the only issue here,” Ban said, but his head was in another place, and he was staring helplessly at Nanette and her attendants.

“That will be between you and the Yankees. I trust you to do the right thing. Now call the Red Sox and arrange an appointment for us for Friday. I will be ready to negotiate then,” Nanette said.

As Ban made the call, Nanette turned to the young women behind her. “General feminine persuasion is not always the best method of getting your way. Presence that is greater than that of a mortal man is just as effective. The shock of a commanding woman will stun even the strongest will,” she explained.

The words barely leaked out of Celeste’s mouth. “Less fun.” One stare froze her where she sat, and she and Ida mechanically stood and walked out of the office as Ban finished his call.

The Red Sox office was buzzing as eight appealing young women in green dresses marched behind the older matron in black who led the way with no effort into the office of Harry Frazee. “My name is Nanette DuMaurier, and we are here for Mr. Frazee,” Nanette said with a cold stare.

“We do not need a madam to take care of the Ruth problem,” the assistant said with a groan at the women in tight, but still decent, flowing green dresses.

“Madam? No, these are showgirls! I can tell that giggle from a mile away. Mrs. DuMaurier- may I call you Nanette? Nanette, Ban told me to expect you. I am in too much of a quandary to help you, but I am always eager to hear about fine theater, so do come in. We may yet be able to work something out,” Frazee said with an excited smile- not because of the beautiful women, but because of the prospect for fine theater.

“Theater,” the assistant teased with a raised eyebrow, getting a quick look at the ample bosoms of the young actresses and needing to push his chair further towards his desk to hide his intentions.

“Carl, one day you will understand how to treat a lady properly. Until then, you can fraternize with Babe,” Frazee admonished as the nine women entered his office. Seconds later, two more walked into the front office.

“More showgirls?” Carl asked.

“Nah, we’re here for the Babe,” the girls said with a giggle.

“Um, it’s not the season...”

“They said that opening an umbrella indoors is bad luck- what do they know?” one of the girls said with a smile as the other locked all the doors.

Inside, Nanette went right down to business, handing a script to Frazee. “My Lady Friends? That explains the large number of chorus girls. But this is a spoken play... I just don’t see it. I know that times are changing and things are loosening, but this is just... I don’t know. It’s not pornography, so we can’t show it to that audience, but it’s too racy for most audiences.” Frazee sighed. “If I had the money- and no, I know that Ban sent you, so I know what you’re going to say, but I’m not giving up Babe Ruth for this kind of a play. It’s far too risky. There’s always the chance that people could want to return to the way things were before the war, and back away from some of the looser ways we adopted during the war. If that happens, then I’m out my best player for nothing and I’m in all kinds of trouble with my public.”

“My mistake. I thought you were, as Barnum would say, born on the minute, for the sake of the theater. The Black Sox will be the end of baseball. Get out while you can. Theater will be the entertainment of the future, and you get rich only when people are entertained. What could be more entertaining than a play about lady friends?” Nanette said in her sharpest tone.

But Harry Frazee had heard one too many overly aggressive play pitches to be affected by Nanette’s tone, and he shook her off.

“And it would put us poor widows at work in these hard times,” one of the dancers said, seeing that Nanette alone wasn’t working.

“No, thank you, Mrs. DuMaurier,” Frazee groaned while gritting his teeth. He could feel himself being pulled towards a bad decision by female charms, but he was no Ruth, and that made him even more determined to resist. He could not defeat the debauchery of Ruth by becoming more like him. This put his mind at ease, and he showed the women the door with even more conviction- only to find it locked from the outside. “Carl! What is the meaning of this! Open the door! This is no time for a cheap prank!” he shouted angrily, banging on the door. Behind him, Nanette moved behind his desk and sat in his chair. As he turned around he saw the nine women with their jackets off, all wearing emerald-studded corsets and revealing figures that were quickly having his manhood betray him.

“I tried reason. But you don’t need reason. You have women. Sit down, Harry,” Nanette commanded.

Frazee didn’t know why, but he followed Nanette’s instructions, painfully aware of his erection, but still fighting to keep his focus as one by one every shade in the office slammed shut.

“Good boy. As I said, I tried reason. You’ve never heard of us? We are the coal empire, the black widows who suck the will out of men so they do nothing but die in the name of cheap burning coal. Your Carl is now being kneaded into a doughboy. You at least have your good name to make use of, but we will see how good it remains. Now, educate this simple woman on your petty game.”

“Witch... no, not real, no... game?” Frazee grunted out, but his brain was slowly shutting off, all his attention focused on the bulge in his pants. He had no idea what was happening, but the emerald corsets sparkling in the low light were steadily blinding him as his office turned into a dizzying cavern of bright green.

“Why?” Frazee asked, fighting this harder than he had fought anything before. His head ached, his breathing was ragged, and his vision was blurring, but he still fought.

“I have a play. You’ll be producing it. You didn’t like it, so we’re breaking you. Simple enough. I’m in charge here now. Can’t you tell? I’m your mistress now. Why else would I be sitting behind the big desk while little nobody Harry sits in the guest chair? Now answer your mistress. What does the first batter do?”

“Goes fast, gets on base no matter what,” Frazee gasped, clinging to the last shreds of resistance he could muster up. His vision went completely green as one of the women dashed over and straddled him, letting her skirt cover the entire chair and jamming her tongue into his mouth. Soon he was powerless to do anything but return her kiss as she teased him, removing his coat and opening his shirt until he felt a spreading warmth in his pants.

“Like my dear Maude?” Nanette asked.

“I like Maude,” Harry replied.

As Maude dismounted, Frazee’s erection returned with a vengeance as once again, the remaining women surrounded him with their skirts around their ankles. They stood in sparkling panties and garters with silk stockings, and Nanette stood in the front with her cruel smile. “Now, Harry, do we have a deal?” she asked with poison dripping off her sweet words, but Frazee had enough strength to balk. “I knew you were strong, but we have a long way to go and I have much to learn. So the first man is on base. What happens with the second batter?”

“More careful. Needs to create a second runner. Move the first runner to second. Can’t strike out ever,” he replied. Another woman separated herself from the group, took him by the hand, and moved him to the couch. Instinctively, he kissed her hand, and she smiled, then undid his zipper and slowly caressed his exposed member. Within seconds, Frazee’s hands were on her breasts as if glued there.

“Careful. Well, Ban can tell you how careful Ida is,” Nanette said with a smile.

“I can fix my hair in his eyes,” Ida reported before leaving Frazee painfully hard after her cocktease. He groaned, begging for release, and saw the rest of the women with their parasols open, green and white spirals twisting slowly on each. It was obvious that the parasols were all that hid their nakedness. He dropped to his knees, drooling, shirtless, his member exposed through his fly.

“Now, shall I call Mr. Ruppert for you, or can you handle it yourself?” Nanette asked.

“What? Ruppert? Ruth? No, no, Nanette, not Ruth, too good,” Frazee gasped.

Nanette’s hands clenched in anger as her patience with petty and futile resistance eroded further. “What does the third batter do?” she snapped.

“Best hitter. Drives at least one home. Gets the big hit,” Frazee replied obediently, not knowing why.

“Celeste! Knock it home for Mr. Frazee!”

“Yes, Nanette. Now, Harry, just watch the umbrella. Watch it. Watch it pleasure you. Obedience is pleasure, Harry. You need women. Ruth is the normal, rational one. You need as many women as you can handle all the time. Women own you. Women keep you from living in trees,” Celeste cooed, watching Frazee’s eyes grow glassier as her voice became the only thing in his world.

“Women own me. I need to be owned,” Frazee droned back, his eyes vacant, his mind even more empty.

“With pleasure,” Celeste said, kicking him to the floor and removing his shoes and pants.

“Now, now, Celeste, that will do. Let me ask our little Harry what the fourth batter does,” Nanette interrupted, her cruel smile never wavering and matching Celeste’s, both of them knowing that their mark was at the breaking point.

“Cleanup hitter. Hits a home run to clear the bases.”

“Helen!” Nanette called. The most statuesque of the beauties sauntered over and mounted the sprawled out and near comatose Frazee with a wicked smile on her face. With one look at her irresistible beauty, Frazee’s world went black, and all he could feel was pleasure running through his veins.

An hour later, the shades were still drawn, but the contract was signed. Nanette sat at Frazee’s desk, looking across at the empty-eyed, slack-jawed man in his new green suit and handing him the phone.

“I need $100,000 and the debt on Fenway paid. I will give you Babe Ruth in return. I need to produce my No, No Nanette... er, My Lady Friends,” Frazee said to the man on the other end.

Ruppert quickly agreed to the low price for the great treasure. Frazee handed Nanette back the phone, but before she hung up, Ruppert had a few words for her. She smiled, mildly amused. “You are smarter than most, Mr. Ruppert. If it satisfies your curiosity, Harry here was one of the toughest fish to land. For your silence, and as a reward for your intelligence, I’ll add a little something to the price. You have my word.” She hung up the phone and turned back to Frazee. “Harry.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Frazee replied.

“What does the fifth batter do?”

“Either gets on base or protects the cleanup hitter so he doesn’t get walked on purpose.”

“You will protect Mr. Ruppert by giving him your prospects when needed.”

“Mistress?”

“Gwendolyn, please prove my point to the gentleman.” Soon Frazee was on his knees, masturbating until he was beyond sore as Gwendolyn stripped seductively down to nothing. “The Babe will need protection. Mr. Ruppert will call you from time to time and ask for players to protect him. You will comply without thought and without question, selling them for money for more plays. After all, with more plays come more... showgirls.” Nanette checked for the spontaneous and conditioned reactions to the trigger phrase she sneaked in.

“Sixth batter is only there to field,” Frazee gasped, wild-eyed and squirming on the floor in desperate need. One of the four remaining women playfully invited him under her skirt, but pulled him out right before he could get to her undergarments, forcing him to strip naked first. When he had complied, she laid him out before Nanette, his eyes empty, his breathing heavy, his mind completely open to anything Nanette could place into it.

“Seventh batter?” she whispered in his ear, causing him to spasm with delight, his eyes rolling back into his head until nothing but the whites showed.

He was gone in fantasy, and as his hand ran up and down his shaft, he could only repeat, “Plays for players...”

At last Nanette was satisfied. “Yes, seventh and eight are the two weakest, there just to play for you. Play with them and obey them for as long as you can remain virile. Jane, Victoria, it’s time for you to have your first lesson in control.” She slipped into the reception room as the threesome began.

“A Miss DuMaurier here to see you, Mr. Frazee,” Carl droned in his military uniform, getting up to report to the special boot camp in the City of Industry. Nanette nodded her approval to his two escorts as they showed him out.

“Send her in,” Frazee called. Nanette looked him up and down, taking in how flushed he was, how empty his stare was, and the proud smirks of Jane and Victoria in their sparkling dance clothes.

“Hello, Harry. I’m here to talk about the sale of Babe Ruth. I have a show you might like to finance.”

“I find it excellent and extraordinary. I will call the Babe now and send him over to finalize the sale,” Frazee replied on cue before calling to tell his best player that he was now a Yankee.

“Excellent. Now, you remember what happens when Ms. DuMaurier or Mr. Ruppert calls, right?” Nanette asked, and soon enough the tough baseball owner transformed into a puppy-eyed fool, drooling for his owner to command him. “Restoration perfect. Good job, girls. One last thing before Mr. Ruth arrives. I’m 32, after all, and I can think of worse characters to bring into the company.”

As Nanette unzipped her dress, Frazee begged, “No, no, Nanette!”

The girls looked at each other in confusion, but Nanette smiled. “Oh, it’s a term of endearment now. It’s the only thing in his empty little mind right now. And the more I think about it, it’s a rather catchy title as well.” She watched with calculating eyes as Frazee took his suit off and laid on the floor, already hard for her, his eyes open but no thoughts in his head. Nanette’s smile widened as she got ready to mount her new toy. “Of course, you do know that anyone who gives a witch of the Three Sisters a child will be damned for as long as the child lives.”

“Your damnation is my pleasure and honor, Mistress,” Frazee moaned. The other girls giggled in celebration and left the room.

Hours later, Celeste called out, “Mr. Ruth is here to see you.”

As he entered the room, the greatest baseball player of all time could no longer contain himself, breaking into hysterical laughter as he saw his hard-nosed owner completely spellbound by the woman in the green dress standing behind him. “I can almost see the strings! They always said the devil’s daughter would waste your youth on the young, but even I know better than to indulge in women like you. You know how many of the boys from my school work in their mines? Gonna ship him off or bury him in coal?” he asked Nanette, happily taking Frazee’s prize scotch as a souvenir.

“He traded you for No, No Nanette,” Nanette said in her controlling tone.

He blanked out. “I’ll hit 60 home runs for you,” he promised before blinking awake and heading out.

Nanette followed him with a smirk. “Ladies, have I ever mentioned that I grew up in Baltimore?” she asked rhetorically.

Theo swilled another shot of scotch. Down 3-0. To the goddamn Yankees. Another fan revolt, another notch for that fat bastard’s pinstriped belt. Dead fifty years and we’re still fucked.

“Theo, this groupie was fucking around the locker rooms. What should I do? She claims to know that the Curse of the Bambino can be over now?” a security guard said, busting in with a young fan in tight jeans and a tigher black and yellow tube top.

“Same thing you would do with any bimbo who shows up to Yankees-Red Sox in Pirates colors. Throw her in the drunk pen.”

“I couldn’t do that, sir. I had to bring her to you.”

“What the fuck? You’re fired! How dare you!”

As Theo sputtered, the cruel-looking blonde went towards him, undaunted, and all but shoved him into the wall. “Don’t worry, Theo. The Curse died today, if you believe in it,” she said, pulling off the tube top to reveal a sparkling green bra. Theo didn’t understand why, but he relaxed at the sight of it. “Ah, that’s how I like to see a man. We can work for you now. The will allows us to stop this silly curse, and frankly, we’re sick of dealing with sports bets made before any of us were born. But you have to let us help. A deal is a deal, after all.”

She reached into her bag and handed him a signed death certificate. Even in his dazed state, Theo could understand what it meant, as preposterous as it was. Ruth Frazee DuMaurier... born September 26th, 1920... died October 17th, 2004 “Holy shit,” he breathed. “That version of the story was... was true?”

“Oh, you’ve heard that rumor about the real Green Monster, then. Good, this makes it easier. We weren’t sure how much we could let Dan reveal. Shhh, shhh. Just let me deal with that pesky free will so you can perform at your best for us. We’ll do the same for the rest of the team, of course. Who needs steroids when you have women? When we’re done, you’ll have a champion... just as long as you follow women’s every command and don’t objectify them,” the woman said as her jeans hit the floor just before her knees.

“Yessss...” Theo breathed, already lost in fantasy.

“Good. Now, let’s reverse that curse for you. You’ve waited so long, and free will is such an overrated thing.” The blonde smiled and tapped out a text to her friends to get past security. As they started to arrive, she unzipped Theo and said, “Now, as you can see, we don’t know very much about how baseball is supposed to be played. Maybe you could tell us a little more about it. What’s the first batter supposed to do?”

“Go fast and get on base no matter what,” Theo replied.

The blonde smiled. “Go for it, Megan...”