There is no _s_e_x_ual activity in this story about baseball, the friendship of two 11 year olds, and -- of course, some spanking of the same. Let me know if you enjoy it!

Chris Daniels was so excited! The Eagles -- an American Legion team he was a bat boy for -- had been invited to Cuba to participate in a cultural exchange. His parents decided it would be an unique educational opportunity for the eleven year old, so they gave their consent.

The fifth grader spent every minute of his spare time reading up on the island nation and some of its major league baseball stars like Luis Tiant and the current Yankee ace "El Duque." He could hardly wait for spring break, when the trip was scheduled.

Chris was awestruck as the plane landed at the Havana Airport. Although everything looked kinda old, the people were warm and friendly. And the weather was awesome!

The American high schoolers and their Cuban counterparts were scheduled to play five games. The first three were on consecutive days, then there was two days off before Friday's doubleheader. Then the weekend would be for sightseeing.

It was Chris's responsibility to have all the team's gear and uniforms ready. It was a task he was very conscientious about and the older boys appreciated the lad's efforts.

He looked over the field where they would be playing and was impressed at how well manicured it was. He saw an old man smoothing over the dirt areas of the field. The Cuban was quite meticulous.

Chris headed off to the locker rooms to check on the team's gear. The facility was not quite up to U. S. standards, but it had obviously been well cared for.

The American preteen spotted a young Cuban boy about his age, but maybe an inch shorter. The youngster had jet black hair, dark expressive eyes, and a tan that showed his proud heritage.

"Hi!" said Chris -- not sure if the boy spoke English.

The Cuban youngster smiled and replied in very good English.

"Hi! I'm Pepe."

He stuck his hand out and Chris accepted it warmly.

Pepe explained that his was the bat boy for the Cuban team the Eagles would be playing. The boys quickly fell into a conversation about their favorite thing -- baseball. Both played in youth leagues for 11-12 year olds. Chris was a first baseman and Pepe a shortstop. Chris learned that Pepe was just a few months younger than him.

Pepe and Chris took an immediate liking to each other. Pepe was proud and eager to show the American boy around the place, and promised to help however he could. Chris was delighted to have made a new friend so quickly.

While the two boys were getting the equipment ready for their respective teams' practice sessions, Pepe suddenly stopped. Chris looked up expectedly.

"Ummmmm -- did anyone tell you about "zurrar?" asked Pepe hesitantly.

"Zurrar?" asked Chris -- finding it hard to roll the double 'rr' like his host did.

Pepe sighed and sat down.

"They're not supposed to do it, but they do anyway."

"Who?" said Chris. "What?"

"The high school guys."

"Do what?" asked Chris.

"Ummmm -- spank us."

"WHAT?" Why?"

Pepe went on to explain that the high school players in Cuba had this secret custom of spanking the losing team's bat boy. In a series like this, they would wait until the first three games were over. Then the difference in cumulative runs scored would be the number of swats the losing team's bat boy would receive. Pepe said the adults frowned on the practice, but that did not stop it.

Chris was astonished.

"You're kidding!"

Pepe shook his head solemnly.

"How do they do it?" asked the incredulous American.

"Just with their hand on the seat of your baseball pants, well, unless "

"Unless what?" asked Chris.

"Unless there is a shutout."

"Then what happens?"

"Then you get spanked on your bare bottom," replied Pepe.

Chris gulped hard.

"Has this happened to you?" he asked.

Pepe shrugged his shoulders.

"A few times. It's a tradition"

Then he laughed.

"That's why I am the bat boy for our best team! It doesn't happened much to me!"

"Does it hurt much?"

Chris felt stupid as soon as he asked the question.

Pepe didn't say a word, but nodded.

"We better get this gear ready,'' said his Cuban counterpart.

Chris busied himself, but he had his mind on what his new friend had just told him. The had never been spanked by anyone other than his parents. He kept looking at Pepe's small buttocks and grimaced at the thought of this poor kid getting spanked by his teammates. Of course, Chris didn't want to get spanked either.

The next morning, Chris dressed at the hotel. He put on his jockstrap and white nylon baseball pants. He pulled on his bright red Eagles' jersey and slipped on his hard rubber spikes. With pride, he put on his red Eagles cap over his blond hair.

Chris took a moment to look up the word in his Spanish - English dictionary. To his dismay, he found it meant "to wallop." He didn't say a word to anyone on the way over to the ballpark. He wondered if the guys knew about 'zurrar.'

The first game would feature the Eagles' ace pitcher, Lance Johnson, against the Cuban's best, Omar Figueroa. At the ballpark, he spotted Pepe looking sharp in white baseball pants, a royal blue jersey and a matching cap. He thought the boy's little rear looked especially vulnerable in those tight white pants. Then Chris realized his didn't offer much protection either. He wondered if Pepe wore briefs or a jockstrap like him.

The contest proved to be a real pitcher's duel. The Americans prevailed, 2-1, and Chris breathed a sigh of relief. As things stood now his friend would only get one swat. He wondered who would do it.

After both teams cleared out only the two boys and the old groundskeeper were in the locker room. The man was far enough away from the two boys, so that they could talk in private.

"You okay, Pepe?"

"Sure," said Pepe. "It's just the first game. And we got great pitchers!"

He smiled. Chris felt uneasy.

The lads talked about major league baseball for the rest of the time as they did their work. Both aspired to be pro players. Pepe talked about the island championship his team had won. He hoped to go to the United States when he was older and play in the big leagues.

"Pepe?"

"Yes?"

"Do you get spanked at home?"

Pepe grimaced a bit.

"I live with my grandpa. He tans my hide good if I get outta line too much."

Chris didn't want to know more.

After their work was done, the boys went out to the field to play catch under the indifferent eye of the old groundskeeper. The two had the time of their lives. The last thing Chris wanted to think about was his buddy getting spanked by anyone.

That night, Chris tossed and turned overwhelmed with the prospect of Pepe or him getting spanked. He thought -- 'Geez, what had either of them done wrong?'

The next morning, as he had done before, Chris dressed carefully in his baseball garb. He thought about wearing briefs instead of his jockstrap, but decided against it. Nothing would happen today. Besides, wearing briefs was not something baseball players wore on the field.

The eleven year waved to Pepe on the field, as both boys readied their teams' equipment for the second game.

Game Two was an unmitigated disaster for the American squad. The players were _c_o_c_k_y and played like the fools they were for being up too late the night before. The pitching was mediocre, the fielding atrocious, and the hitting dismal. When the dust had cleared, Chris stared unbelieveably at the scoreboard, 8-1 in favor of the home team.

He did the math in his head. Two games -- Cubans 9, Americans 3. That's six swats he thought. His little rear tingled beneath his nylon baseball pants.

Once again, Chris and Pepe found themselves alone in the locker room with the old groundskeeper out of earshot.

"Pepe -- were you serious about the 'zurrar' thing?"

"Yeah," said the Cuban boy dejectedly. "Don't worry, Chris, there's still another game to go."

Pepe did not sound all that convincing to Chris.

"Ummm -- do you wear briefs or a jockstrap with your uniform?"

Pepe laughed and turned his back to Chris. He quickly pulled down his stretch baseball pants, and playfully mooned his friend. Chris marvelled at how that tan little bottom contrasted with the bright white color of the Pepe's baseball pants.

"A jockstrap, of course! That's why real baseball players wear!"

"Come on!" said Pepe pulling up his pants. "Hurry up so we can play some ball."

Both boys worked double time and scooted out on the field. Except for the old groundskeeper watering the grass, they were alone and spent several hours throwing, catching, hitting, and chasing each other around the diamond until they were exhausted. Chris fell into a deep slumber that night.

The next morning, Chris debated once more about wearing briefs instead of his jockstrap. Professional pride won out once more. Besides, he decided he could be as brave as his best bud. Chris glanced in the mirror as he put on his baseball pants. His jockstrap sort of framed the target area. He shuttered as he pulled the stretch pants up tight across his round buttocks. He had never imagined this trip to lead to a spanking of any kind! He had certainly tried to be on his best behavior.

Chris immediately sought out Pepe when he got to the field. His friend had a look of worry on his face.

"We are pitching our ace -- Carlos Fuentes -- today."

"Your ace," Chris nearly shouted. "I though Omar Figueroa was your ace!"

Pepe shook his head solemnly.

"No, the coach decided to save our best pitcher for Game Three. I'm sorry, Chris. I should have told you before."

Chris's head was swimming.

Fuentes was a cunning left hander who lived up to Pepe's billing. His breaking pitches had the American hitters swinging at air.

The Eagles' pitcher, Darin Thomas, was having trouble finding the strike zone, but he managed to keep the Cubans off the scoreboard for five innings. In the fifth, however, he walked two and an error -- on a sacrifice bunt loaded the bases. He fell behind 2-1 in the count.

Chris was ready to bolt to his coach and plead for a relief pitcher. But before he could summon such courage, he heard a resounding whack. He turned just in time to see Jaime Ruiz's mammoth blast clearing the rightfield wall. His heart sank. He glanced at the Cuban dugout to see a host of jumping players -- and Pepe covering his eyes.

Chris felt panic stricken and unconciously rubbed the seat of his too thin nylon baseball pants.

A relief pitcher was brought in -- much too late for Chris's liking. Fuentes kept the Eagles scoreless through eight innings. In the bottom of the eighth, the Cubans tallied two more runs and Chris was sick with worry.

"Please guys", he prayed, "score at least one stinking run."

The Eagles got the first two runners on in the ninth, but the next batter struck out. Howard Collins crushed a ball to the gap in right center and Chris felt elated, as he was sure this was extra bases. So did the two Eagle runners, as they took off at full speed.

But Jose Carlos, their centerfielder, was even faster and made a miraculous grab for out number two. He whirled and fired to second where the lead Eagle runner had way over committed himself on the base path. DOUBLE PLAY! Chris was stunned!

Some of the Cuban teens shouted "Zurrar" as the scoreboard flashed the final of 6-0. Chris felt like everyone's eyes were on the seat of his pants. Twelve swats he thought! Bare bottom no less! The eleven year old was sick to his stomach.

Pepe came over to him with tears in his eyes.

"I am so sorry, Chris. You don't deserve this. You didn't know. Let me take the licking for you."

"No," said Chris. "I am in your country and I will honor its traditions."

"But this is one they aren't supposed to be doing anyway," said a tearful Pepe.

"It doesn't matter. You wouldn't have tried to weasel out, would you?"

Pepe blinked and shook his head.

"Where -- and when?" said Chris in a barely audible whisper.

Pepe replied in a low voice.

"In the weight room -- after the adults leave."

Chris and Pepe went about their work in the locker room without a word. The sullen Eagles players and coaching staff had left, as had the adults on the Cuban squad. Only the old groundskeeper was puttering about -- oblivious to everything but his work.

"It's time," said Pepe quietly.

He took Chris's hand and led him through the old stadium's catacombs. Neither boy spoke. Finally, they stopped at a green door. Pepe sighed and opened it wide. Both boys entered silently.

Much to Chris's surprise, there was only a half dozen of the Cuban teen players inside. It seems not everyone on the team approved of the banned practice of 'zurrar' but those on hand took the custom very seriously.

Chris got some minimal relief from the fact that there was no heckling or teasing from the older boys. This was a solemn occasion in their minds.

Pepe said something in Spanish that Chris reckoned was a plea for mercy, but he was cut short by a sharp rebuke that made him step back immediately.

Jaime Ruiz led Chris over to a weight bench that was about waist high. There were a number of clean towels piled up on it. Jaime, in broken English, duly reported the scores of the three games. 2-1 Eagles. 8-1 Cubans. 6-0 Cubans. The cumulative score was Cuba 15, Eagles 3.

Chris, he announced, was due twelve swats. He paused for effect.

"And since today's game was a shutout, they will all be on his bare bottom."

Chris blinked hard.

Omar Figueroa gently undid the built-in uniform belt around the boy's slim waist. The teen grabbed the elastic waistband and slowly slid the white nylon pants down over a small white backside. Chris felt uncomfortable as the cool air carressed his bare rear.

He found himself being carefully placed over the pile of towels on the weight bench so his unprotected rump was properly elevated. Unseen hands slowly undid his rubber cleets and removed them. His baseball pants were then tugged completely off. The shirt tail of his baseball jersey was pulled up out of the way.

Chris scanned the room looking for Pepe, but could not spot him. He did find the full length mirror directly behind him and saw the reflection of two pale round buttocks staring back at him. His jockstrap seemed to be not only holding them in place, but pushing them up to their fate.

After some discussion in Spanish, that Chris did not understand, Carlos Fuentes took up a position along side the eleven year old. In the mirror, Chris saw him raise his left hand.

WHACK!

"Owwwwwww!"

The southpaw delivered a sizzling swat Chris's right buttock. The boy could see a pink handprint on his cheek.

Chris clenched his buttocks tightly. Carlos gently tapped his shoulder and said something softly in Spanish.

Chris didn't understand, but gathered this was not part of the rules. So he reluctantly relaxed his cheeks.

Carlos raised his hand again and walloped Chris's pale right cheek.

SMACK!

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Fighting back the tears, Chris could see a matching pink handprint on his other buttock.

Carlos stepped back, while another player whose name Chris did not know, stepped up. This teen delivered two crisp swats -- WHACK, WHACK! -- one on each cheek right where his bum joined the top of the back of his legs. Chris howled.

A new player, one of the reserves, took the spanking position and whacked Chris right on the same two spots.

SMACK! SMACK!

"YEOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!"

Tears started to pour forth. Chris realized he had reached the halfway point and the bottom half of his butt cheeks felt like they were on fire. He wiped his eyes and was startled at how red his "sit down" spots already were.

These guys meant business!

Omar was next. He rubbed Chris's back so the boy could settle down some. Chris appreciated the gesture and half heartedly nodded he was ready.

Omar was methodical. He raised his right palm high and brought it down with a resounding crack.

WHAP!

It landed across the middle of Chris's left buttock. The boy shrieked, but Omar held him in place and raised his pitching hand again.

WHACK!

Chris bucked as the stinging slap caught his right buttock squarely in the middle. Omar retreated and Jose Carlos came up. The centerfielder rubbed the throbbing cheeks giving Chris a chance to recover as best he could.

Jose removed his hand and delivered two rapid fire zingers on the already tender "sit down" spots. SMACK! WHACK!

"OWWWWWWWWW! OWWWWWWWWWWWWW!"

Chris was sobbing with abandon knowing two more swats were still due on his burning backside.

Jaime Ruiz, the star hitter, for the Cuban team was given the honor of the grand finale. He was the biggest player on their team and had huge hands.

He placed one of them on Chris's shoulder and waited patiently for the boy to calm down. Chris took a deep breath and nodded silently. He closed his eyes tight. This prevented him from seeing when it was coming, but definitely did not stop him from feeling when it had arrived.

Jaime's huge hand covered all of Chris's left buttock from top to bottom. The sound of his calloused hand smacking a smooth red bottom echoed off the room's walls, as half of Chris's rear felt like it exploded into flames!

"AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Jaime steadied the youngster and promptly delivered the final swat across a bright red right cheek in the same blazing manner.

CRACK!

"AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Chris nearly fell off the weight bench as the flames danced across his scorched right buttock. Jaime held him carefully in place and tousled his blond hair. A flood of tears came forth, as his little rear ached.

Each of the teens took turns patting him on the shoulder. They all said how brave he had been in either English and Spanish, as they left the room one by one.

Chris just lay there exhausted and in tears not knowing what to do next. His bottom was the color of his red Eagles' jersey.

Suddenly, Pepe appeared out of nowhere. He gently laid two wet, cold washcloths on his friend's enflamed buttocks. He handed Chris a clean towel to wipe his eyes and nose with.

Chris wiped his eyes and saw Pepe had tears in his. His benefactor threw his arms around Chris's shoulders and hugged him.

After a few minutes, Pepe told Chris to stay where he was. The Cuban eleven year old removed the damp washcloths.

"No bruises -- but man, is it ever red!"

"It hurts something awful," Chris moaned.

"I can take care of that."

Pepe took a bottle of lotion and squirted it on Chris's chastized bottom. He carefully rubbed the soothing liquid over the red areas -- paying special attention to the two tender "sit down" spots.

"Thanks," said Chris. "You sure know how to put out the fire."

The Cuban youngster smiled knowingly and expertly sprinkled some talcum powder and gently massaged the sore buns of his friend.

"I have a pair of loose fitting shorts you can wear back to the hotel, Chris. I don't think you want those tight fitting baseball pants rubbing up against your bottom now. When you get back to your room, hop in the shower, and let the cold water spray on your butt. It will help take away the sting."

"Pepe!" said Chris with a sudden realization. "This has happened to you before, hasn't it?"

"A couple times," said Pepe without further comment.

"Hey!" exclaimed Pepe. "We got the next couple days off! You wanna mess around? I can show you all the kewl spots!"

Chris finally grinned.

"Sure, amigo. Anything you say!"