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This was a long, long ago request from @diaperwetboy101, which I finally promised to fulfill by the end of January (made it!). Of course, @Piddly did a delightful version (here), but I wanted to keep my promise. Enjoy!

***

    Devin Arthur bounced his leg rapidly, willing the tram to move faster. It was the second day of the qualifying rounds for the Australian Open, and Devin was excited to get back to work as a ball boy. 

    The tryouts had been more brutal than Devin had anticipated. Tennis matches were notorious for their length, and even the young ball boys and girls had to prove they had the agility, focus, and stamina to quickly retrieve and distribute dead balls throughout the entire match. He’d gone to tryouts with several of his mates from school, but only he and Veronica, a girl from his year at school, had been chosen. 

    At 15, Devin was on the older end of the age spectrum for ball kids, but then again, he wasn’t quite as into tennis as many of the younger hires. Devin played on his school team, and, like most Australians, he was a fan of Lleyton Hewitt, but he wasn’t looking to use this opportunity to “get close” to some of the big players, get some tips, and/or catch the eye of major coaches. He was just in it for the experience. And because it made his schoolmates jealous. 

    The first day had gone well, Devin thought. He’d been assigned to Court 11 and had gotten to see 5 different qualifying matches, both men’s and women’s. The weather had been beautiful, and even those low-level matches had been well-attended. Devin admired the intensity with which each player approached their game, no matter how unlikely their odds to advance. 

    Today’s matches, presumably, would be even better, with many of the highest-ranked players scheduled. Of course, there was no guarantee that Devin would be assigned to those matches – they weren’t given their courts until they got to the park. The weather was meant to get quite warm, so today’s events were scheduled to start fairly early: 8 AM. 
    
    And so Devin was on the tram, headed to Melbourne Park on his own. They’d been told to arrive by 7:30 at the latest to get their assignments and get into position. With up to 13 active games at any one time, even sharing the schedule with the dozens of ball kids was a process. 

    The tram pulled to a stop, and Devin slid out the doors, making his way through the milling crowds. The early start time definitely kept some people away, so the stands wouldn’t be full (or however full they were going to get) for at least another few hours. Still, there were plenty of people around, and Devin could feel the palpable excitement and anticipation, even for the day’s qualifying matches. 

    Holding onto his water bottle, Devin joined the cluster of ball kids standing around Antony, the 20-something guy in charge of the ball kids. Devin grinned to himself; Antony looked just as bitter and frustrated as he had yesterday. Devin got the impression that being in charge of the ball kids wasn’t seen as quite as prestigious as being a ball kid. 

    Or maybe Antony just didn’t like kids. 

    Whatever the reason, Antony was sneering at the youths surrounding him as if each and every one of them smelled strongly of sulfur. The kids were all chattering with each other, oblivious to their leader’s disdain. 

    At 7:30 on the dot, Antony began loudly reading court assignments without so much as a “Good morning” preface. The group was mostly the same as yesterday, but, for whatever reason, they weren’t placed on the same courts. Devin wondered if they’d been observed yesterday, and these new assignments were somehow based on their performance. 

    Before he had enough time to fully work out his performance-based assignment hypothesis, Devin heard “Arthur – Court 10! Base!” 

    Devin nodded, but Antony wasn’t even looking at him. He glanced around and saw that kids seemed to be moving as soon as their names were called. Apparently, no one needed any extra instruction today. Devin half-shrugged and turned toward his assigned court. Court 10 was smack in the middle of the cluster of smaller, non-practice courts, so he had to weave past the crowds filing into other spaces. 

    As a base, Devin would be positioned at the corner of the court, ready to collect balls from the “nets” positioned at the sides of the court and then toss them back to the players. Being a base usually didn’t involve as much running as being a net, but you had to be quick and pay constant, close attention to the players, some of whom had very little patience for poorly-tossed balls. 

    The day was clear and Devin could already feel the air warming up. He took a swig from his water bottle, making a mental note of where the drinking fountains were. The breaks between matches weren’t long, but he’d have enough time to run and refill. 

    The qualifying matches were on a tight schedule, so the first players were already warming up on the court. Devin straightened his shoulders and took his place at the corner of the bright blue court. 

    The first match – a women’s match – finished in two sets, as many of the qualifying matches did. Despite being brief, the action was still rigorous, and Devin had to wipe a sheen of sweat from his forehead. He didn’t bother listening to the names of the next players; he just wanted to get a quick drink and prepare for the next round. 

    The next match was more competitive and took a bit longer. The sun rose higher, heating the park, and Devin managed a few more quick gulps of water between points. When the match finished, he was bit surprised to find his water bottle empty. He glanced up, and, seeing that the previous players were still packing up, decided he had enough time to run to get a refill. 

    Devin was quick (one of the reasons he’d been selected as a ball boy), so it took him less than 90 seconds to run to the nearest restrooms, fill his bottle at one of the drinking fountains, and run back to Court 10. He grinned at his own speed, taking another sip of water as he rounded the stands to take his place at the back of the court.

    “What are you doing?!?”

    Devin choked on his water and started to cough violently. He looked up to see Antony glaring at him, clutching his clipboard as if it were made of solid gold. 

    “I…” Devin sputtered, trying to bring his cough under control. He frowned, caught off guard by Antony’s intensity. “I went to get more water.” 

    Sure enough, Antony glared. “You do not leave until your designated break!” he snapped, looking for all the world like Devin was a soldier who’d abandoned his post and endangered his battalion. “This open does not have time to wait for the whims of ball boys!”

    Devin nearly laughed at Antony’s dramatic phrasing, but stopped himself when he saw the manager’s complete lack of irony. “Alright, mate, no worries,” he said, moving to step around Antony. “I’ll stick around until my relief comes.” 

    Antony’s glare intensified. “See that you do.” 

    Devin turned back to the court, shaking his head a bit in bemusement. He definitely hadn’t missed anything – the next players were just arriving – so he didn’t quite understand what all the fuss was about. Still, he thought, taking one last gulp of water before the match began, it was Antony’s job to keep all the ball kids organized. It was probably pretty frustrating when people didn’t stick to the schedule. 

    The befuddlement passed quickly enough, though. Devin wasn’t usually one to dwell on frustration, and the next match was about to start, drawing his focus to the court. It was another brief outing, the higher-ranked player greatly outmatching her opponent. For the second game, the winner was on the opposite side of the court, meaning that Devin had to chase down quite a few balls that snuck past her opponent. By the end of the game, Devin was breathing hard and grateful for the break. 

    He took a deliberately smaller-than-usual sip of water between games. His first break was schedule at noon, and it was just past 10:30 now. The replacement would show up right on time, even if it wasn’t between games; they’d just have to maintain focus and make a smooth swap. Then, Devin would get a half hour break to get lunch and get more to drink.

    And, he realized, go to the toilet. 

    Devin shifted a bit in his crouch. Thinking about his break made him realize that his bladder was feeling pretty full. He hadn’t gone to the toilet before the first game, and he’d downed well over a full Nalgene’s worth of water so far. 

    The next match was about to start, and Devin marveled a bit at how quickly the games were moving. It wasn’t uncommon for qualifying matches to be fairly lopsided, but even the points seemed to be coming quickly so far. Not that it mattered – Devin’s access to a bathroom didn’t depend on how quickly games finished. He was stuck at the court until his replacement came. 

    The first serve was sent, and Devin locked onto the game. He chased down the balls flawlessly, sweating in the late-morning heat. He knew he probably shouldn’t drink more, but he could feel the skin of his face heating up. He gulped down more water, almost on instinct. By the time the match ended, his water bottle was empty once again, and his bladder was dangerously full. 

    Devin’s eyes darted around the court, watching the players shake hands. He knew the closest restroom was roughly two court lengths away – he could definitely make it there and back before the next match started. He only had about a half hour before his scheduled break, but since finishing his water, he was quite desperate. He was unconsciously jiggling his left leg, and he didn’t want to be distracted for the next game. 

    Making up his mind, Devin turned to leave the court…only to stop abruptly under Antony’s pinched glare. 

    “Can I help you?” Antony sneered. 

    “I…” The shock of running into his boss had distracted Devin’s hold, and he very nearly lost a leak into his pants. Unnerved, he decided getting to a toilet was more important than pleasing Antony at the moment. 

    “I really need to go to the Gents,” he said, nearly begging. “I’ll be quick.” 

    Antony gave an aggrieved sigh, curling his lip in disgust. “You most certainly won’t!” he snapped. “The next match is going to start, and it’s an important one. Donald Young. Promising American. The stands are full!” 

    Eyes wide, Devin took in Antony’s insistent monologue. “But…”

    “Go!” Antony all but shouted, making Devin jump. 

    He turned back to the court, heart pounding. He’d very nearly leaked at Antony’s outburst, and now he was seriously questioning his ability to hold it until his replacement came. 

    Devin narrowed his eyes and took his place in the corner. By the time the match started, he’d realistically only have about 20 minutes to work, and then he could take a break. And he could definitely make it for 20 minutes. 

    Only his bladder didn’t agree. His need felt disproportionately more urgent than it did 5 minutes ago. Standing up straight, Devin tried to press his legs together surreptitiously. He was definitely past the point of needed external support to help him hold, but the 2,000 or so fans didn’t exactly make for a private scene. 

    As the players took their places, Devin tried to convince himself that no one was really paying attention to him, anyway. He tried to pretend that his shifting, wiggling movements were either completely unnoticed or, if noticed, were written off as regular, non-desperate movements. Nothing to see here. 

    Unfortunately, the game play seemed pretty equal, so it wasn’t even like Devin got a break by having most of the balls on the other half of the court. Seemingly every other play had him either running after a ball himself or waiting for a return from one of the nets. 

    Devin felt his first real leak about five minutes into the match, and he nearly cried out in fear. His focus on regaining control nearly made him miss a ball one of the nets rolled in his direction. The bobble earned him a look of disgust from the player – Donald Young, Antony had said – while he waited for it to be tossed back to him. 

    It was as if he was out of sync with the whole world around him. Devin could see all the action happening, but he couldn’t connect to it. Only his bladder – his swollen, tortured bladder – existed now, and he was on the very edge of losing all control. 

    The next serve was sent, and Devin was being taunted by the wet fabric pressing against his skin. He couldn’t help but glance to the side, hopelessly looking to see if his replacement was somehow early. Of course, no replacement was in sight, and Devin’s lower lip started to tremble. 

    He looked back at the court to see his counterpart toss the ball to Rochus, Young’s opponent, for his next serve. Rochus tossed the ball in the air and slammed it forward with a grunt. And at that exact moment, Devin’s shaky hold became a nonexistent one, and urine started actively, consistently trickling into his pants. 

    The standard noises of racket hits, player grunts, and wordless crowd reactions faded into the background as hot piss streamed its way down Devin’s leg. He simply stood there, legs together, as he slowly wet himself. Tears filled his eyes as he realized that his accident was creating a puddle, one that was now creeping toward the borders of the court. 

    With a vicious backhand, Young broke Rochus’ serve, and the crowd applauded in appreciation. Before the applause had even died down, though, Devin heard gasps and murmurs that very clearly indicated growing awareness of his accident. 

    He stood utterly still as an auditory rush of disbelief filled the stands, still peeing through his shorts. His eyes shone, the surface tension holding back both the tears and a total emotional breakdown. He heard the ref call for time, and that sound – an official time out called on account of his accident, not for any game-related reason – was the last straw.

    Devin ran. 

    He ran from the court, past the stunned spectators, his last sight the image of his disgustingly large puddle, standing out like an oil slick on the blue court. 

    There was a crowd around the bathrooms, and Devin didn’t even think before turning away, running all the way past the show court to the Function Centre. The doors were open, but the crowds were sparse, so he was able to run into the meeting room where they’d had their ball kid orientation just a week ago. 

    The door swung shut behind him, and Devin stopped, breathing hard. His shorts were soaked and heavy, and he had no earthly idea what to do now. He was too stunned even to cry. 

    After a minute or so of panting and panicking, Devin heard quick, angry steps approaching the meeting room. Seconds later, the door was batted open, and Antony stormed in, looking positively apoplectic. 

    Antony sputtered for a few moments, before finally forming words. “What…how could…are you…”

    But he was cut off as an authoritative-looking woman with a walkie-talkie clipped to her belt walked into the room. Antony stopped talking immediately as the woman quickly took in the scene in front of her. 

    “Parker,” she snapped at Antony. “Outside. Now.” 

    Cowed, Antony followed the woman back out into the hall. Devin sniffed, his lower lip still trembling. 

    They apparently didn’t walk far, because Devin could clearly hear the voices of the woman and Antony through the meeting room door. 

    “Are you mad?” the woman sounded furious. “Can you please tell me why I have a delay caused by a puddle on Court 10 and a ball boy standing in my conference room in wet pants??”

    “I…he…” Antony stammered. 

    “There are toilets less than a hundred meters away! Why wasn’t he given a break?” 

    Devin heard Antony snort indignantly. “His break was at noon.” 

    “That’s his full meal break!” the woman was nearly shouting. “Why did he not run to the toilet between games?” 

    There was a pause, and Devin felt an odd mix of guilt and validation So he was meant to be allowed to leave between games. Which meant that he didn’t have to…

    “I was trying to keep things on schedule,” Antony finally answered, his voice reedy. 

    There was another pause before the woman spoke again, her voice fierce. “If you are telling me that you actively denied this child a chance to use the toilet, you are absolutely finished here. Strike that. You’re finished anyway. Give me your clipboard. You’re done.” 

    A shudder passed through Devin, a physical manifestation of his adrenaline crash. His heartbeat felt irregular, and he couldn’t even sort out his breath, much less his emotions. 

    The door opened and the woman stepped back into the room, her gentle face belying the ferocity Devin had heard just moments ago. 

    “Devin Arthur?” She took a step towards him, but not too close. “I’m Mary. I’m one of the event managers for the Open.” 

    Devin knew he should at least say hi, but he couldn’t speak. 

    “I’m so sorry, Devin,” Mary continued, and she sounded sincere. “This never should have happened.”

    Devin kept his head down, but a tear dripped off his nose and onto the carpet. 

    “It won’t happen again,” Mary insisted. “I promise.”

    Devin hunched his shoulders. He couldn’t even think about the possibility of stepping onto a court again. He just wanted to hide. 

    “Do you have someone here with you, Devin?” Mary asked, not put off by Devin’s silence. “Or someone you can call? Your mum?”

    Devin’s voice was shaking when he finally answered. “She’s at work,” he mumbled. “I…I took the tram.” 

    His voice squeaked on the last word. He hadn’t even thought of the possibility of having to get back on the tram and ride all the way home in wet pants, in front of everyone. 

    “Alright, okay,” Mary soothed. “We can mange this. Don’t cry, now.” 

    Almost frantically, Devin wiped at his eyes. He didn’t want to be any more trouble. 

    “Stay here,” Mary ordered gently. “I’ll be back in a moment.” 

    So Devin stood, still unable to move and unsure of what he was going to do. The confirmation that yes, he should have been allowed a visit to the toilet, did him no good now. He’d completely pissed himself in front of thousands of people and possibly ruined a match in the largest sporting even in the Southern hemisphere. 

    After a few minutes, Mary returned. “Here,” she said simply, and Devin finally looked up from the floor. 

    Mary was holding a pair of shorts, likely from the gift shop. 

    “They didn’t have any underwear,” Mary explained, “but these will at least get you home.” 

    “Thank you,” Devin whispered, taking the shorts, trying not to focus on the humiliation of needing to accept a gift from a complete stranger after peeing on himself at age 15. 

    “I’m so sorry, Devin,” Mary said softly. “What was done to you was very wrong, and I feel awful about it.” 

    Mary’s walkie-talkie crackled, and she turned toward the door. “Don’t worry about anything,” she insisted as she walked out. “We’ve got today covered, everything’s fine. We’ll have someone call later to make sure you got home okay.” 

    And then she was gone, off to take care of real issues, not teenage ball boys who pissed themselves in the middle of a match. 

    Devin sniffed again and peeked out the door to make sure no one was in the hallway to the toilet. He dashed in to change, fighting the urge to just chuck his gross, soiled shorts and underwear into the bin. 

    Dry, but definitely not feeling clean, Devin made his way out to the tram stop, avoiding all eye contact. He heard some clapping coming from one of the distant courts. 

    The Open would go on. But Devin knew he could never bear to be a part of it again. 
 

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23 hours ago, Altiat said:

Theres was a ballboy recently who peed his pants during a major event and resulted in stoppage of play

Yes!! I'm so sorry - I completely neglected to specify that this is a fictional telling of the story of the ball boy wetting himself at the 2010 Australian Open. I tried to include as many of the details from the news stories as possible. This is NOT a scenario I came up with on my own. 

On 1/31/2020 at 7:18 PM, KarenParker said:

Awesome story!

Thank you!

On 2/1/2020 at 3:46 PM, Pilly said:

Aw, my heart. Poor boy! But it was a great story again 🙂

Thanks, Pilly!

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