Angel in the Outfield

My taste in men started out as desperation, a first kiss flavored with Salem Menthols under a moonlit sky on Wrightsville Beach. I was indeed desperate for that milestone to be met as I dreamed of taking the wheels off my training bra and riding around town with real boobs. It turned out High School boys didn’t mind groping at minimalist chests in the back of their mother’s wood-paneled station wagons and, eager for more of those tingly feelings, I was a willing participant. That is until their desperation for more made me stop, angel mom’s voice whispering “Good girls don’t” in my right ear while devilish Kirk tried to tell me that they do. A lot of them really do.

  In hindsight, I am grateful those cigarette boys didn’t push for more. Somehow, I knew that going further would mean Wayne or Chip or John or Jim Bob would then need to become my boyfriend for it to be even slightly ok, and I didn’t like any of them that much. All I needed to do was say “I was saving myself for marriage” and, likely having at least heard that message in some form in their fire and brimstone Baptist churches, perhaps even in the one just 50 yards from our local Blueberry Hill Lovers Lane make out spot that was the gravel Ephesus Baptist parking lot. The shadow of the steeple nearly touched the backseat of the station wagon or Pinto or Pacer hidden under the sycamore branches as far away as possible from the only streetlamp. On any given Saturday night in the hour or so before most 10 and 11pm curfews, you could find five or six dusty cars with steamy windows tucked away against the possumhaw and chokeberry shrubs.

  My taste became erudite my Senior year when I started dating our gentlemanly Valedictorian, and my grades improved too. He went on to continue his scholarly pursuits throughout his life and is now a University Chancellor. I broke his heart shortly after we went away to our colleges, as I expanded my quest to play the field.

  And speaking of the field, my tastes became beefier in college. Boys who played football, lacrosse and baseball caught my eye. First up to bat was Glenn, the center fielder, whom I watched catching balls in Boshamer stadium from the 9^th floor balcony of Morrison dorm. We went on a couple dining hall dates and laughed over pitchers of beer at Four Corners. I really liked him, blue eyes and Rob Lowe hair falling across his forehead. When I returned to school after a Labor Day visit with my family, I was greeted with a bouquet delivered by University Florists. A delivery of flowers! I hadn’t experienced that since the deaths of my grandparents. It was the stuff of romantic dreams. A card in my scrapbook reads “A little bird told me you like roses. I missed you so much.” And I was smitten.

  One night he took me for a picnic to his spot at center field. It was like a fairy tale as he spread out the Carolina blue-checked blanket, placing a couple of Sadlacks Heros and a bag of Funions in the middle and we cuddled up, looking at the stars that glistened like little promises of the magic yet to come as the full moon rose over the lush green outfield. A tuna sandwich never tasted so good. He made me a sweet bouquet of dandelions and clover that I pressed between the pages of my Astronomy book when I got back to my dorm room. We talked about his dreams of playing major league baseball – which I don’t think he ever did, but his roommate had already played for the Olympic team and went on to have a successful career in Milwaukee. My dreams were of him as we looked up at Cassiopeia’s heart nebula and I melted into his letter jacket.

  We made out in the moonlight and I didn’t care about the scent of tuna, onions and funions on my breath as his hands slipped up under my pink polo shirt and expertly unhooked my bra. I was seriously considering that this might be time to at least go to third base if not all the way, but definitely not right there in public with the high-rise dorm balconies looking down on us…but soon. Maybe even in the dugout? Maybe even tonight?  

  Just then the sprinklers came on and we grabbed all our stuff, soaked and laughing, the stems of dandelions and clover crushed in my palm, and I was falling deeper in love by the minute as we leaped over the pitcher’s mound and settled into the bleachers for another make-out session. I felt so bad for him that his sweet effort amounted to nothing more than soggy sandwiches and my cold feet.

  After a couple more dates, dates in which my mom’s "Don't do it" angel spoke louder than Glenn’s "Come on baby", he dumped me for a cheerleader.

  I played the field for another decade, and I’ve picnicked in Paris in the shadow of the Eiffel tower, on mountaintops with views for miles and under palm trees on white sand beaches. But that date in center field? It was the bar no boy could ever reach. Not even my husband. One time we picnicked under the Grandmother Oak in Topanga, we climbed that tree and had bumbling, barely balanced sex on one of the thickest branches and it even started drizzling, but it wasn’t Boshamer Stadium when the sprinklers went off.

Years later, when I was having drinks with a friend who’d played shortstop for our college team, we talked about our best dates ever. I told him about my crush on Glenn back then and our magical night picnicking in the outfield and my friend laughed and said, “Oh Suzanne, it wasn’t that special.” Turns out the team had a calendar and they all scheduled dates for picnics when they knew the moon would be full. They knew exactly when the sprinklers would come on and that girls couldn’t resist that sense of spontaneity. It was a sure-fire way to score and it turns out, up until me, Glenn was batting 1000.

  Now my tastes have changed. No interest in curve balls for me. I’m an appetizers on the couch with a glass of wine alongside my husband of 30 years kind of girl. And if I’m wearing my pajamas and there’s a tube of Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookies involved, well now THAT is my kind of homerun.

As shared at Story Salon on March 4, 2026.