Billy, Brawn, and Basketball

By Aardvark2

“Mom, did you see this? They fired Powers.”

Billy, clearly flabbergasted, dropped the sports section onto the kitchen table for his Mom to see. “He’s such a great coach! I can’t image why they’d fire him.”

Mrs. Klein rolled her eyes and picked up the paper. “You mean besides the fact that he was giving the players illegal drugs?”

“Well…they should’ve just reprimanded him. U of A was gonna win the Big Dance this year! And Powers is such an emotional guy…I hope he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Mrs. Klein listened to her son prattle on about the college basketball team and all their workings. “Oh, you’re just like your father.”

Billy’s face fell. “Don’t talk about Dad like that.”

“Sorry. You taking the bus today, or do you want a ride to school?”

“I’ll take the bus, it’s cool. I don’t wanna risk making you late to work.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

Billy took a last swig of juice and threw his backpack over his shoulder. He looked at his house while he waited for the bus. The paint was peeling on the modest rancher, and one of the shutters was about to fall off. If he was old enough to fix that, he would, but he was only eleven. All he could do was mow the lawn, and he hated having to always ask his neighbor if he could borrow his lawnmower.

The bus pulled up, and he got in. Just another day.

-------------------------------- The man ran his trembling fingers over the basketball, and read once more the inscription on the bottom. “Love this game and coach it well/be a man and nothing less/if immoral this will tell/but if wise, success.” He wiped a tear out of his eye. He knew that he hadn’t been a man. He’d been unwise, foolish, greedy…immoral. He didn’t deserve the ball anymore.

He got out of the car and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt tightly over his head, obscuring his face, and walked into the Salvation Army thrift store.

“Hi…just donating this.”

“Thanks!” The clerk took the basketball. “Wow, this is really nice quality. Thank you!”

Coach Powers wiped away another tear and walked out of the store and into his car without saying a word. He felt like he was getting weaker, and it felt like his features were sliding down his face, pulled by gravity. He put his hands up to his head and felt wrinkles, and whimpered silently. He pulled off the hood and stared at his face, horrified. His hair was white and tufty, but he was mostly bald. His eyes were empty, his face wrinkled, his body, old. It was like Coach Jasper Powers had become a modern Dorian Gray, but that wasn’t the case at all – he’d reverted back to his old form. His form before he’d gotten the basketball.

-------------------------------- Carol Klein hung her head slightly as she walked into the Salvation Army. Sure, she was buying birthday gifts from a thrift store, but money was super-tight and she wanted Billy to go to a good college. That’s what all the savings was for: Billy’s college. It was all that mattered. Plus, he’d never know that they’d come from the thrift store, and she’d never tell him.

She went into the back section and grabbed a couple old basketball jerseys and a polo. She continued to browse and saw a Nintendo game that was a really good buy. But Bobby loved basketball! He needed a nice basketball. She looked, but to no avail. Oh well, a trip with some purpose, she thought.

She walked up to the desk and put down her merchandise. “This all for you?” The clerk smiled.

“Well, I was looking for a basketball, but I couldn’t find one. Other than that, I’m good.”

The clerk hesitated. “Well, we just got one in, but it isn’t priced yet…” She trailed off. “But whatever. I’ll give it to you for three dollars.” She reached under the counter and grabbed the basketball. “It’s a really nice one.”

Carol felt it in her hands. “Oh, it feels expensive. I’ll take it!”

-------------------------------- “Happy Birthday, sweetie!”

Billy blinked his eyes and rolled lazily out of bed. “Mom, it’s seven in the morning…on a Sunday…”

“Oh, I know, Billy, but I just wanted to be your FIRST well-wisher!” Billy just stared in disbelief.

“Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Of course. Sweet birthday dreams!”

She shut the door, and Billy sat and stared up at his ceiling. Damn it, he was awake. Now he would NEVER go back to sleep.

He groaned and shifted out of bed, stumbling through his morning ritual, and then went downstairs.

-------------------------------- Sunday passed quickly, as birthdays do. That night, Carol showered her son in presents, carefully wrapped with pre-used wrapping paper. Billy unwrapped everything with glee before getting to the ball-shaped package last.

He laughed. “I wonder what THIS is, Mom!” She smiled at him as he tore off the paper to reveal the basketball. “Thanks! This one’s my favorite.” He gave her a hug and looked out at the rain pelting the driveway. “Aww, I can’t play. It’s raining.”

“It’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow. You can play then, and then watch the game with me! Here, take these up to your room so they don’t stay in the den for three weeks.” She winked. “Happy Birthday again!”

Billy walked up the stairs with the ball carefully balanced on top of the rest of his gifts. It didn’t work. The ball rolled one way and when Billy tried to counteract it, it rolled off completely and bounced down the stairs, landing against the wall with a loud crash at the bottom.

“What was that?!” He heard his mother’s voice from the den. “Nothing, Mom. Just dropped the ball.”

He set the clothes down and bounded down the stairs after the ball.

“Hey, what’s – ‘Love this game and coach it well, be a man and nothing less…’” He read the whole inscription out loud, running his fingers over the grooves of the letters. “MOM! Did you have them write on this?”

“No, sweetie.”

He continued to run his hands over the writing, and then read it out loud again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

-------------------------------- “Billy, the game’s on!”

Billy looked at the ball in his hands and grinned, then walked to the old TV set where his mother was sitting. “Sweetie, are you wearing that polo I got you?”

Billy nodded and his mother sighed. “It fit so well yesterday! And now it’s already a little snug. You should just stop growing!” She laughed at her own joke, unlike her somber child. Her son sat down and put the ball beside his feet, intently staring at the screen. He said, through furiously gritted teeth, “Wilson shouldn’t be coaching this game. He’s the worst assistant by far.” Then, without even thinking, he stood up and began to pace around the room, back and forth, back and forth. He took a napkin sitting on the coffee table and began scribbling notes about the game. And then, a U of A player committed a flagrant foul.

“FUCK!” Billy grabbed his hair and shook his fists vigorously. “We don’t have time for that shit, Beardsley!”

Carol sat on the couch, completely shocked. “Billy! What on earth…”

She was interrupted. “GODDAMN IT!” The veins on Billy’s neck and forearms were standing straight out as he yelled. His fists were clenched, his face was red. “Oh, fantastic! Now our defense is down to shit.” He began scribbling more on another napkin. “Johnson, go in for Beardsley,” he grumbled as he wrote.

“WILLIAM BRADLEY KLEIN!” Carol stood up. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I never want to hear those words in my house ever again. Stop acting as if you’re coaching the game!” She ripped up the napkin and quivered violently. “Go to your room.”

Billy looked confused and pale. “But, Mom, I…”


He began to grumble profanities under his breath as he stormed back up to his room. “But I’ll miss the game!”

Carol stood at the bottom of the staircase. “Well, then, I hope you learn something from this bizarre little experience.”

-------------------------------- Billy looked at the clock in his room; it read 8:14. Damn. He had no radio, no computer, no television. Nothing to do but read a book or go to bed, and no eleven-year-old in their right mind would choose the former.

He stripped down to his tighty-whities, wormed his way under the sheets and flipped off the light. Something didn’t feel right.

He sat up and scratched his chest and face. They were so itchy. Where was his…? He smiled. There it was, right in the corner. He walked over and picked up the ball, then happily climbed into bed, chanting the mantra he had long since memorized: “…but if wise, success…”

He drifted off to sleep.

-------------------------------- The loud sound of a buzzer made his eyes snap open. He was awake.

But then, he realized, he wasn’t awake. The whole atmosphere around him was dreamlike. He was wearing his usual school outfit – a polo and khakis – but he was standing in the middle of the U of A basketball arena. But the arena kept shifting in and out of focus, and it was slightly blurry and dark. To the naked eye, he was alone, as he saw no one. But he still felt a presence – many, many presences. The videoboard above him sprang to life, and instantly came into focus. He could see the area around it, but not the screen itself. There were letters on the screen that spelled out a message, but it was unreadable.

He felt something hitting his face and instinctively hit it away, only to realize it was a rose. He picked it up and smelled it, and turned around to see roses and carnations all over the court. Someone was yelling. He could hear the voice, but not what the voice was saying.

Then, bouncing, distant and quiet. But then, the noise began to increase. It got louder and louder, until, through some unknown force, he whirled around and the ball – HIS ball – bounced right into his hands. He palmed it in his right hand, something he had never been able to do before. He held up his left hand and inspected his right with it, but sure enough, his right hadn’t changed, and neither had the ball. Somehow, his small hand could palm the full-size basketball.

Only in dreams.

-------------------------------- Billy tossed and turned in his sleep, smacking his tongue and lips and making the bizarre, unintelligible noises of sleep. His bed creaked as he shifted his weight back and forth, back and forth. He continued scratching his little chest and smooth face.

But, at the same time, one part of his body was awake. It became harder and longer, the blood rushed to it, and it stiffened to its full, unimpressive height. Billy’s first official erection.

-------------------------------- The stadium had begun to fill with people. They cheered Billy’s name, a two-syllable chant: “Bil-LY! Bil-LY! Bil-LY!”

Billy held the ball in his right hand, still, marveling at how secure his grip was on it. Then, he felt the movement in his pants. He looked down and could see it pushing straight out at the crotch – “tenting.”

A quick intake of breath. “Oh, shit.”

He quickly moved his right hand and smashed his dick in between the ball and his arm, so that the people in the stadium wouldn’t see. He could feel it pushing longer and harder, to unnatural lengths for him. His cheeks flushed, and he breathed in and out, slowly, trying to relax.

It began to work. Slowly, he calmed down, and the foot-long snake sticking out of his pants began to recoil. Magically, none of his audience had managed to see -- he turned around in a 360 fashion to watch as the very top of the arena filled up. He couldn’t see the people walking to their seats in the bleachers, but he could see them when they finally sat down. Every seat was filled, and they were all cheering for him. “Bil-LY! Bil-LY!”

Suddenly, he felt so constricted, so pent-up. These people were all there for him… -------------------------------- It was completely black in Billy’s room, except for one beam of moonlight shining in through his blinds. It seemed to dance across the room as time went on, until it landed right on the boy’s face. Because of it, an onlooker would be able to see his lips crack open to reveal his big white teeth in a broad smile. His hands moved away from their usual scratching position and went down to his smooth, hairless legs. He rubbed his quads and thighs with precision, and then, his small voice broke the silence.

“Come on. Come on. Do it.” It began to rise in intensity, not volume. “Do it. Come on. COME ON.” He grit his teeth. “DO IT. DO IT.”

-------------------------------- He put his hands up straight in the air, goading the crowd, and began to laugh, showing his gorgeous smile. “I’m doin’ it!” The crowd roared its approval. “Bil-LY! Bil-LY!”

He looked down and saw his tennis shoes wiggling strangely, which caused him to smile even more. They bulged and he clenched his fists, slightly growling because of the pain. “Tough it out, Billy,” he said to himself. He could hear the shoes ripping, and he laughed, but it didn’t sound like his normal bubbly laugh. It was deeper in his chest, more resonant. The tips of his toes pushed out and he wiggled them, feeling the smooth court below. His feet grew and grew. He could see the little brown hairs sprouting on his toes, he could feel the bones reshaping and growing. Almost the whole foot was visible, now, having burst through his shoe, and they were so big they looked like clown feet.

Size 16 clown feet.

His whole body began to creak, and groan, and stretch…he giggled as his ankles became fully visible. His socks began to rip at the top, while his bellybutton pulled itself farther away from the belt of his tightening khakis. His belly was fully visible as the polo became shorter on his new body, and his dick began to tent again. This was just too hot.

“Come on. Do it.”

Five-four. Five-five. Five-six.

“Bil-LY! Bil-LY!”

-------------------------------- Billy grabbed his headboard and continued to grind his teeth. “COOOME OOOONNN.” He pushed with his lengthening arms and heard his footboard begin to crack, and splinter. His feet were becoming more and more proportionate to his rapidly growing body, and his bed creaked violently due to the stress of his new height.

He wiggled his pelvis back and forth, becoming increasingly in touch with his sexuality. As the man in Billy developed, the little boy began to disappear - his voice was getting deeper, and his itchy chest began to sprout light, tufty hair.

His feet kicked out and the creaking of his bones and bed began to get louder. The footboard cracked, and with a violent crash, fell to the floor.

-------------------------------- Billy rubbed his aching bones and groaned loudly.

Six-three. Six-four.

The crowd began to shift in and out of focus, again, and suddenly, Billy was in total darkness. He could hear the screams, he could feel the heat, but he could see nothing. He scratched his chest and saw the light hair on it, then felt the bristles sprouting on his chin.


Six-seven, six-eight, six-nine…six-ten.

He heard the cracking of his bones stop, and he began to feel his body over. The ground seemed so incredibly far away.

Then, the influence of dreams prevailed again. He realized he could see himself, as if he was staring at his reflection, but there was no mirror. He, for the first time, saw how gawky he looked, and it made him laugh. When he laughed – that deep baritone that he had only heard once before – he could see himself laughing.

His eyebrows were thick and heavy, and he had grown a day-old layer of stubble. Other than that, his face was unchanged. He hadn’t gained any weight during the growth, so he looked as any six-ten, one-hundred pound manboy WOULD look – like a comical beanpole.

He spun around wildly in the darkness, looking for something to grab onto to support his new and wildly out-of-whack balance. There was nothing, and he fell. When he hit the court, he heard a loud squeaking of bedsprings.

Pulling himself up was a mammoth task for a mammoth man, and he heard the roar of the spectators. Looking around, they slowly came back into view. Men, women, children. He smiled. They cheered – but a different cheer this time.


His bed shuddered violently, and he could hear part of the frame snapping in his delirium. Billy was so firmly asleep that he barely mentally registered the weight he was packing on. His small, boy-sized bed was now so small for his six-ten body that his knees hung over the end, with his feet resting on the broken footboard. Now, instead of bones stretching, the noise of muscles growing filled the air; like a balloon being inflated underneath Billy’s skin.

He began to show off for the crowd again, smiling and laughing more and more like a man every second. And when he raised his hands, he could see them growing. He reached up and his fingers continued to reach, higher, stretching. The little brown hairs that had grown on his feet were now growing on the back of his hand and fingers, up his forearms. He held his hands up and stared at them, then palmed the basketball again. His hand entirely covered the top this time, and he wasn’t palming it with any assistance from his dream, he could tell.

He had been laughing and cheerful through the whole change, but suddenly he was gripped with intense pain. He was focusing on his thickening biceps – tearing through his small polo sleeves that barely covered his lats – when he heard horrible snapping at his rib cage. His ribs were pushing out, widening his torso, and at the same time, his shoulders began to grow outwards as well. His abs burst forth and he could feel them against his arm as he grabbed his chest in pain. The snapping noises were sickening. Billy was completely melting away, and Bill was taking over. His shirt ripped right down the front as his pecs grew – first, little mounds, then plates, then big, perfectly shaped bowling balls strapped onto his chest. For an ex-player turned coach, his physique was as magnificent as Adonis.

Slowly, his ribs adjusted to his new height and weight, and the soreness in his ten-pack began to go away. His collarbone continued to push out to the side, broadening his increasingly muscular shoulders, wide enough to easily seat a child on each one.

His calves had blown themselves into the size of footballs, and his massively muscular legs were chiseled from stone. His ripped khakis fluttered to the floor and his underwear began to bulge obscenely. His pubic hair sprouted rapidly and began to poke over his worn waistband, traveling into a treasure trail up his abdomen.

There was so much movement in his groin that it was as if someone had stuck their hand in his underwear and was groping his cock. He could feel – and see – his balls swelling and dropping, pushing against his legs. He could feel the explosion of itchiness all over again as he sprouted hair there, and he could see the dick itself lengthening to the size of his previous erection, twelve inches, soft.

His cock and balls swelled enormously and began to peek out from under the fabric of his tearing underwear. He tried to cover himself, but when the underwear inevitably fell off, even his gigantic hands couldn’t hide his nakedness.

But what was there to be ashamed of? His tanned body was gorgeous. Every muscle was primed, every vein bulged, every hair was groomed. He could feel his face beginning to change shape, too. He massaged his temples and behind his ears to ease some of the ache, but he could still feel his whole head literally growing. His jaw was pushing out on the sides, becoming very square, strong enough to cut stone. His eyes changed color to a beguiling, twinkling grey, and his lips reddened and plumped up. He could feel the itch once more, due to a mustache and goatee growing around his mouth, and he ran his hands through the brown whiskers.

Throughout his life, his looks spanned every desirable trait: cute little boy, dreamy high school jock, twentysomething soap opera stud, then, his face aging slightly, a stunningly rugged man.

He waved to the crowd, who cheered with incredible enthusiasm, and neither party seemed to care about the three-hundred pounds of prime naked muscle.

He looked at his golden, glistening body, bulky and brilliant, and then…cracking. Splintering. He looked down and barely registered that the floor was breaking apart before he plummeted through it.

-------------------------------- Bill sat bolt upright in bed, caked in sweat with his silk sheets sticking to his naked body. He looked around the room. It was covered with trophies and medals, and U of A Panther gear was all over the room. He rolled out of bed and stood up to his full height, decided he wouldn’t bother to put on any clothes, and walked out of the room. The house was massive, with huge glass walls that reflected light like art on the walls and a modern construction that obviously cost quite a bit of money. Almost every room had a cathedral ceiling, to due its occupant’s sheer mass. The basketball was in a glass case on the mantle, and he made a quick stop to touch it and make sure it was real.

Bill walked through the house and saw the paper lying on the marble kitchen counter. The headline, “Leader of the Panther Pack,” was followed by a page long story and a picture of Bill, towering over the University’s athletic director. He was wearing a practically skin-tight blue polo with the pouncing panther mascot on his right pectoral. His biceps bulged out of the sleeves that covered just two inches of his arms. It was a good picture.

“Former NBA superstar Bill Klein was recently hired as the Panthers’ new head coach, replacing Jasper Powers, who was fired for misconduct and has since disappeared. ‘I’m terribly excited to be the head of this program. I’ve been practicing coaching the Panthers since I was a small boy,” said Klein, 39…” He folded up the paper and stuck it under his arm, smiling. •

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