Philip Reed sat by himself in the dugout, watching the celebration. A tear slid down his cheek and he quickly brushed it away, not wanting his teammates to see. He looked at the bleachers, full of proud parents, watching their sons play Little League. His parents weren’t there.

Watching the fathers high-five each other and the mothers embrace was almost too much. His father had been up there, once, but now he was on active duty. Why did he have to go away? Why had he wanted to go away?

His Mom had been there, too. When his Dad left, she’d stand there bravely alone. Then, the accident had happened. The only thing worse than knowing that it had taken his mother was that it hadn’t taken him.

The fact that he sucked at baseball didn’t help his emotions. He loved and respected his father, and stayed on the team out of respect. James Reed had been a baseball star all through high school before going into the military, and placed his only son - and child - in Little League as soon as Philip was old enough. Philip, however, was more like his mother. James was a tall, beefy man; virile and masculine. Angela Reed had been a dancer. She had been a leggy five-nine, but still looked short next to her six-five husband. Her limbs were long and lean, her features and gorgeous white skin looked like they were carved in porcelain and set on a statuesque neck. She had been a stunning woman, and her husband was a complete Army stud. When Philip was born, both his parents agreed that he needed to be put in “boy” activities, especially his father’s beloved baseball. But Philip was like his mother: incredibly thin and delicate. He knew this disappointed his father, but James really did love his son and never expressed disappointment in his son’s femininity.

All these thoughts were tumbling around in Philip’s head as he sat on the bench. He brushed away another tear. He was living with his Mom’s sister, but even she had had to go out of town for two days for a funeral. He liked watching baseball, but the pressure of playing for his Dad was too much for an eleven-year-old, especially one who stood five-three and weighed just seventy-eight pounds.

“Hey, Philip, you okay?” The coach walked over and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Philip sniffled and stared intensely at the ground and his uniform, sparkling white from its non-use. “I’m fine. I’m gonna go use the bathroom.”

Philip stood up and walked to the portable toilets, locking himself inside. When he was finally alone, all his emotions were released in a torrent of tears and sobs. He sat on the closed lid of the toilet, crying.

Forty-five minutes later, he emerged. The clouds were black and he could see lightning rumbling through them. Then, he had a chilling realization...

...he hadn’t arranged for a ride home. The field was empty. Everyone had left him.

Philip’s tear-streaked face went white with fear. The diamond was at least two miles from his house, maybe more. He stared up at the sky, whimpering. Then, two droplets of water hit his face. To his shock, they caused him pain. They felt hot, almost burning, on his skin.

More started hitting him, and he dropped to his knees. The pain was becoming more intense, and the terra cotta dirt was turning to mud. Eventually, he became immune to the hurt searing through his body, as the rain came down in torrents, mixing with his tears. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he placed one hand on them, dropping onto his chest. They stood fully on end, and he knew what that meant. But he was anchored to the ground, unable to move, fully soaked and covered in orange mud. The mud stuck to his eyes and was caked thickly on his face and hands.

He heard the deafening thunder and felt the electricity roar through his veins as the lightning struck. Then, darkness.

Philip’s eyes fluttered open, giving him a ground-level view of the baseball diamond and the empty dugout. The clouds were gray and the sun poked through in a few places, but he could see the blacker clouds in the distance

He felt so weak, but he struggled to his feet...and immediately fell back down. “Ow!”

Was that his voice? It sounded a little...different. It still had its boyish high pitch, but it was richer...louder. He rubbed his hands on his neck, and felt a little Adam’s Apple bump. And his neck felt thicker, less gangly. He put his hands on his face but all he felt was mud and dirt, and when he pulled his hands away he could see the residue on his fingers. He immediately noticed that his hands looked bigger. His fingers were stronger and thicker, and his forearms now had little veins that crisscrossed up into his biceps, which were now, at least, visible.

He brushed off his uniform and tugged at the tight collar. His pants, too, were tight around the waist and slightly too short. The whole uniform was missing cloth in places, and other parts were singed from the strike. His bellybutton and about two inches of his torso were completely visible, and he could see soft hairs poking up Philip picked himself up and began to, very slowly, walk. As he walked, he regained his strength and began to slowly jog.

Philip heard a menacing rumble and looked up to see the black clouds had returned. The jog became brisker, and he ran at the same pace for almost twenty minutes. He could hear the rain behind him, approaching, and he began to straight-out run. He didn’t feel tired. He felt stronger than he had ever felt in his life. He was sprinting now, the sweat streaks revealing bronze skin beneath the orange mud. The water began to patter on his shoulders, and swatted at the pain, as if trying to kill a mosquito. His aunt’s house was in the distance, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to make it.

The water began to pour down on him, and he immediately felt weaker. He stopped sprinting and began to stumble. His wet clothes stuck to him and the terra cotta began to wash off his clothes and skin. He felt the hair on his neck stand on end again, and his eyes widened, practically bugging out of his head. “Nooooooo!” He immediately realized that his voice was deeper now, but even before he finished yelling, he heard the thunder and was flying through the air uncontrollably.

As he hit the pavement, he blacked out, but only for a moment before he woke back up. He blinked his eyes and shook his head. There was no pain this time. In fact, it felt almost good...actually, it did feel good. He rolled over and stood up, stumbling the last few yards to the house, fumbling with the hidden house key underneath the garden pot, and letting himself in.

His baseball jersey was in complete tatters now, barely staying on his body. He made it to the mirror in the living room, and stared. He was completely covered in dirt and grime, and his face had a few minor cuts on it. But as he wiped the dirt off, he slowly revealed a boy - no, not a boy, a teenager - made in his father’s image. No longer was he incredibly thin, with those delicate, feminine features. His black hair was thick and slightly shaggy, and he had actual whiskers poking out on his upper lip and chin. The rest of his facial hair was still pubescent fuzz.

He rubbed his face and stared, his mouth agape. “Holy shit...” He loved the sound of his voice. He rubbed his Adam’s Apple, now standing out from his neck. His pants were tight, and he could see a big bulge in his crotch. Every muscle - abs, pecs, shoulders - were well developed, and he had turned into Daddy’s Little Baseball Player. He looked like he belonged in one of those Teen Beat magazines, with his thick eyebrows, dreamy bedroom eyes and tight little six-pack.

He walked up to the shower and took his burnt uniform off, then threw it in the trash. It was obviously unwearable, and it didn’t fit anyway. He grabbed the remote and turned on the small TV that was set on the bathroom counter, and flipped on the Weather Channel. “It’s a beautiful sunny day, perfect for summer activities...” Philip stared at the screen for a second, then shrugged it off.

He stepped into the hot water and saw the water turn the orange-red of terra cotta, swirling down the drain like a whirlpool. He rubbed his hands over his body and smirked.

He stepped out and toweled himself off, then looked out the window as the lightning cracked and the rain pattered down on the window. He wrapped the towel around his waist, and looked at his teenaged penis bulging through the fabric. His abs and pecs were small but strong, and he had an impressive physique for a sixteen year old.

Then, the doorbell rang.

A few hours before, Philip would’ve rushed to change before he answered it. But now, with his new six-pack and daytime-soap-stud good looks, he didn’t care. He tightened the knot slung low around his waist, and walked down to answer it.

Philip’s front door didn’t have windows around it, so he was shocked to see two soldiers in full Army dress standing on his front porch. There was also no overhang over the front door, so the rain was pattering down on the soldiers’ heads. One soldier spoke.

“Are you Philip Reed?”

Philip went white. “Oh, no...oh, shit...is it my Dad?”

The soldier nodded, grimly. “Yes, son. It’s your Dad. He’s...” Philip could feel his breath quicken and the room began to spin, and before he knew it, he had dropped his towel and stumbled out onto the front porch. He could feel the rain smashing into him. It didn’t seem to affect the soldiers at all, in fact, Philip had noticed that they didn’t even seem wet. He began to sob and his body shook from head to toe, then he wrapped his arms around the nearest military man. “Nooo...noooo...”

His voice was even deeper than it had been before, less polished and more rough, harshened by life. He knew his grip was tightening around the soldier, and he was now able to get his arms completely around the shocked man’s back. He was growing, too. At first, he had been shorter, now, he was resting his chin on the man’s shoulder, pretty soon, he was even taller. He could feel the other soldier pulling at his body, and he heard his own guttural cries that seemed out of his control. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise...

...and then he woke up, in a bed. He rubbed his head and ran his palms down his cheeks, feeling thick, bristly, unshaven stubble. The bed was comfortable, and the 100% silk sheets felt amazing against his naked skin.

He swung his legs out of bed and stood up to his full height, which all at once felt different and strangely familiar. He knew he was above six feet now. His pecs were thick and tanned, and his teenaged six-pack was now a manly eight-pack. He looked around the room.

There was a plasma screen TV, and next to it, a glass trophy case overflowing with ribbons and awards. The case was shut and a small computerized lock was on it. A gym bag was on the floor, and the door to a walk-in closet was open, full of every type of clothing imaginable. Pajamas, suits, workout clothes, tight t-shirts, jeans. Another door next to it led to a bathroom, in disarray with various toiletries all over a gold countertop. The mirror was gold-framed, the shower was gold, the toilet seat was gold. It was like Donald Trump had swept through.

Pictures frames were around the room, and he walked up to the closest one. It was a Sports Illustrated cover, adorned with a photo of an incredibly handsome young man, his body in full swing as he smashed a home run. The bright caption was “PHIL REED: Boy Wonder.” His brows furrowed, and he walked onto the next one. Newspaper articles, magazine covers, photoshoots with supermodels. In the every photo and article was a studly man, probably about twenty, with unshaven, yet neat, black stubble, a la George Michael. His dark hair was thick and combed back, and his face looked like it had been carved from marble. His cheeks and chin were chiseled, and his thick eyebrows hovered over eyes that still screamed teen dream.

He walked into the bathroom and stared into the mirror. He was that man. He was Phil Reed, boy home run wonder.

But he was no boy. He was twenty-one years old, but his body was packed with muscle and beauty. He flashed a Hollywood smile and looked at his long cock, framed by black pubes. He held it in his hands with an incredibly strong grip, and then ran those manly hands over his equally masculine face. He had pretty, sparkling eyes, like his mother, but his face was masculine, like his father’s. His head was atop a thick neck that ran into two rippling shoulders, which were atop a V-shaped back that had every muscle jutting out of it. His pecs were huge. His cock was huge. His feet were huge. His legs were tall and strong, and he wanted to run. His six-three frame craved constant movement, be it during baseball, walking, or sex.

He remembered when his father had died and how much it had affected him. He knew it was four years ago, but it still hurt as if it had just happened.

He hopped into the shower again, then brushed his teeth and wrapped the towel around his body. He looked at his towel-covered ass in the mirror. It looked like he could set a drink on it.

Philip flexed his muscles in the mirror and grinned, then walked downstairs and out the door to get the paper. There were two men with cameras waiting by his driveway, and as soon as he walked out, the flashes began going off. “Hey Phil!,” one of them shouted. “Think the Angels are gonna go all the way again this year?”

“Hey, boys.” He heard his deep voice boom across the lawn. “Do you have to do this every fucking morning? You know my answer.” He smirked. “Of course we’re gonna win the Series again.” He raised his hand so they could catch a picture of him wearing his Series ring. “Now, fuck off,” he said, with a great deal of humor in his voice

“Sorry, Phil.” One of them shrugged. “Gotta pay the bills.”

Phil flashed a smile for them and then turned to walk back into his house, purposefully slipping his towel down to reveal a little bit of his ass. “And I,” he said, “gotta please the ladies.”

He heard the cameramen laugh, and could see the white light flash against his house until he shut the door. •