Cassie peered out through a narrow horizontal slot in the front wall and surveyed the green grass, bright lights, and tens of thousands of spectators. “Jiminy Crickets, what a view!”

“It’s unique, that’s for sure,” the NBC cameraman chuckled. 

“Now, tell me again why you’re heah?” the older of the two scorekeepers asked her with a squint.

“I’m friends with Len, the usher over in right field. He promised me if the Sox got the series back to Fenway for a Game 6, he’d arrange for me to visit the scoreboard.”

The scoreboard at the base of the Green Monster, the wall in left field, was operated from a narrow room, essentially a concrete bunker, inside the wall. During the middle of the eighth inning, Len had smuggled Cassie down onto the field, then escorted her to the door that led behind the scoreboard. 

“Good ol’ Lenny,” the scorekeeper cracked. “Always makin’ promises that somebody else has to keep.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Cassie gulped, her cheeks reddening to match her t-shirt and her long wavy hair. “I didn’t realize he hadn’t cleared it with you.”

“That’s all right, kid,” the scorekeeper said with a phlegmy chuckle. “You can stay. We’ll put you to work.”

“You’re sure it’s no trouble?”

“Shawr I’m shawr. And besides, there’s no way out of heah besides the doah you came in. We can’t have you runnin’ out onto the field durin’ the game.”

“No, I suppose not,” Cassie laughed, her green eyes sparkling.

“You got a name, kid?”

“I’m Cassie.”

“Cassie? I’m Bert.”

The Red Sox, trailing by three runs, had put two men on base, and at this moment Bernie Carbo belted a home run to deep center field to tie the game 6-6. The walls shook as the fans in the stands went berserk.

“A three-run homah!” Bert crowed. “Hand me a yellow 3, wouldja, kid?”

Hanging on hooks on the back wall were a series of large metal squares painted green, each with a large number painted on it. Cassie eased a heavy yellow 3 off its hook and handed it to Bert, who slid it into a slot in the opposite wall.

“Dahn, that’s the end of the innin’,” Bert declared as the next batter struck out. “Now I need a white 3, kid.”

Cassie realized that Bert was going to call her ‘kid’ no matter what. She handed him a white 3, then took the temporary yellow 3 and slid it back on its hook.

Bert nodded in the direction of the other scorekeeper, who had been replacing the 29 with a 41 to indicate the new pitcher for the Red Sox. “That’s Greg.”

“Hi, Greg!” Cassie introduced herself. “I’m Cassie.”

“Nice to meet you.”

The cameraman turned and smiled. “I’m Dick.”

Cassie suppressed a giggle. “Hi, Dick!”

“This is Dick’s first time in here as well,” Bert pointed out.

“NBC wanted to get a different perspective,” Dick explained. “I hope I haven’t been in the way.”

“It’s no trouble,” Bert coughed. “It’s a little crowded, but the extra body heat helps keep it warmah. That wall absorbs heat in the summah and cold in Octobah like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Oh, I took a few physics courses at MIT,” Cassie said casually with a wry smile. “I believe it.”

“Yawra regulah Miss Smahty Pants, huh, kid?” Bert gurgled good-naturedly.

“You know it!” Cassie laughed. “I can even count to three without using my fingers!”

The top of the ninth inning began, and the bantering stopped as the men focused on their jobs. The Reds went down in order, and Cassie handed Bert a white 0 to slide into the scoreboard.

Cassie looked around at the rough walls and ceiling. “Say, Bert, I don’t see any plumbing in here…”

“Nope, no heat, no plumbin’, no nothin’.” He flashed a mischievous smile. “Don’t tell me you gotta go?”

“I can hold it,” Cassie laughed weakly. “We just need to score one run in the bottom of the ninth and it’ll be over.”

“Well, I hope you didn’t just jinx it.”

The Red Sox led off the bottom of the ninth with a walk by Denny Doyle, then Yaz doubled to put the winning run on third base with no outs. The stadium was shaking as the fans roared. The Reds intentionally walked Carlton Fisk to load the bases and set up a force play at any base. Fred Lynn lofted a fly ball to left field as Doyle tagged up and prepared to dash home with the winning run. The left fielder caught the ball, then fired it home and gunned down Doyle at the plate. Then Rico Petrocelli grounded out, and just like that, the rally was snuffed out.

The roar ended as abruptly as it had begun. Thirty-five thousand fans were devastated, but at least they all had access to the restrooms. Cassie had an extra level of discomfort as her bloated bladder began barking.

“Hand me another zero, kid,” Bert sighed. “On to the tenth.”

The Reds got one hit in the top of the tenth but didn't score, and Cassie passed Bert a 0 after the third out. The Red Sox made three quick outs in the bottom of the tenth, and Cassie fetched another 0. Neither team did any damage in the eleventh, and Cassie gingerly handed Bert two more 0s.

“Bert, I don’t think I can make it another inning,” Cassie groaned. “What do you guys do when you can’t hold it?”

“We got a steel can we use. Ah you positive you can’t wait, kid?”

Cassie shook her head. “I drank three beers tonight. I gotta go. Now. Get me the can.”

“We, uh, can’t give you much privacy, kid. Best we can do is turn our backs,” Bert stammered as he handed her a rusty can with the lid removed. Hi-C Fruit Punch, 46 fluid ounces.

“Bert. Greg. Dick.” Cassie said as calmly as she could manage.

The three men looked at her, curious.

“I don’t want you to turn your backs. I want you to watch.” And with that, Cassie unzipped her fly and slid her jeans and underpants down her legs, exposing her fiery red bush. Placing the can on the concrete floor, she squatted over it and released a torrent of pee as the men watched, spellbound.

“Ohhhh…” Cassie groaned with relief as the metallic echoes of her piss reverberated around the room.

“Jeez, kid,” Bert laughed in wonder as she finished and pulled her pants up again. “You weren’t kiddin’!”

Dick hopped back to his camera as the top of the twelfth began, and Greg tore himself away and replaced the 41 with a 38 for the new Red Sox pitcher.

“Bert,” Cassie breathed in his ear. “I’d like to suck your cock and then have you pee in the can.”

“Boy, kid!” Bert belly laughed. “Yaw the most entertainin’ visitah we’ve evah had back heah!” He unzipped his pants and called over his shoulder, “Greg, take ovah for a minute.”

“Only a minute?” Cassie teased as she knelt before him and looked up into his eyes.

“Well, maybe two,” Bert offered.

Cassie smiled enigmatically and lifted her tight red T-shirt, bunching it up across her sternum and exposing her trim tits. She began beating Bert’s cock with her hand, feeling it grow longer, thicker, and harder. “Nice wood!” she giggled before sinking her mouth onto it and sliding her lips up and down the barrel of his bat, rubbing it with spit instead of pine tar.

Bert lasted roughly one and a half minutes before he grabbed Cassie’s skull and pumped seven blasts of hot sperm into her mouth, which she swallowed with enthusiasm.

“Mmm, Bert’s dirty spurts!” Cassie laughed through gooey lips, then her eyes hardened. “Now piss in the can.”

“Whatevah you say, kid!” Bert chortled as a hot yellow stream pulsed out of his dick into the Hi-C can, mixing with a pint of Cassie’s piss. He shook off the last few drops, then pulled up his pants and shook his head in disbelief.

“Greg,” Cassie mewed. “Let Bert take over the scoreboard now.”

Greg fixed her with a lopsided grin as he approached her and fished his stiffening dick out of his pants. Cassie’s eyes lit up and then her head went down, milking his fat cock with her luscious lips and torrid tongue. Within a couple of minutes, Greg arched his back and thrust his hips forward, shooting an impressive load of thick, slick cum that slid down into Cassie’s stomach.

“Ooh, yum!” Cassie sang out with a gurgle in her throat. “Now pee in the can, man.”

“Rich people have a canopy over the bed; poor people have a can o’ pee under the bed,” Greg joked as he poured his peckerful of piss into the putrid punchbowl.

The Reds got two hits in the inning, making the Fenway faithful nervous, but Cincinnati failed to score and Cassie handed Bert another 0 before approaching the cameraman.

“Oh, Di-ick,” she trilled. “Let me suck your dick before the Sox go up to bat.”

“Is it always like this around here?” he guffawed as he pulled out his prick.

“Nope, first time,” Bert snorted. “Yaw just lucky, is all.”

Cassie scuttled over and crouched in front of Dick, then devoured his dong with deep plunging strokes. Dick was paralyzed with pleasure as Carlton Fisk stepped up to the plate. Fisk took the first pitch for a ball, then launched the second pitch deep down the left field line. Dick couldn’t follow the path of the ball as it arced through the air; all he could manage was to pan the camera slowly to the left, following Fisk as he hopped sideways down the baseline and waved his arms to the right, willing the ball to stay fair.

As the ball hit the foul pole above them and Fisk threw his arms up in celebration, the stadium erupted with a wave of enthusiasm and Dick’s dick erupted with a wave of oozy jism.

Cassie popped her mouth off his cock and looked up eagerly. “Did we win?” she panted in a slurpy voice.

“We won!” Bert cackled as he slid a white 1 into the scoreboard for the inning total.

“We won!” Greg shouted, sliding a 10 into the hits column and looking for a 7 to put in the runs column.

“We won!” Cassie shouted, then stopped short. “Wait, Dick, you didn’t pee in the can!”

Dick looked at the scorekeepers and shrugged his shoulders, then unloaded a cascade of urine as Cassie held the Hi-C can in front of him. When his flowing fountain finally finished, the fetid flagon was four-fifths full.

Cassie smirked and declared, “I’ll bet this fruit punch is a knockout!” And with that, she tipped the can to her lips and began imbibing the brackish, briny blend they had brewed before she broke off, her blowpipe burning, and belted out a big, ball-busting baritone—

“BUUURRRPPP!”

§

Years later during an interview, the cameraman was asked how he had managed to capture that legendary shot of Fisk waving the ball fair.

“Honestly, I didn't plan it. I was inside that dingy concrete room behind the scoreboard. A feral creature was scurrying around at my feet, and I froze.”

“Really, you got that shot by accident, because you were distracted by a rat?”

“Er, yes, a rat,” he replied, eyes twinkling. “It was a rat.”