“They’re hitting us from the left!” Dale screamed as dozens of bullets snapped through the tree branches above. Joe craned his neck above a mound of rubble to see Chinese soldiers running hard on the flank. He could hear the mortar shells whistling in and took cover behind a large tree in the midst of several explosions. Shaking off the dust, he regained his composure and began to fire upon the charging enemy front.
“We need reinforcements!” Joe yelled between bursts from his M16. Empty brass casings were strewn about him. The end of his rifle was smoking. “Where’s Lieutenant Smith?”
“I don’t know!” Nick shouted back from behind a broken wall of cinder blocks. A volley of machine gun fire strafed the ground around him and he cowered hard against the wall.
Dale got on the radio, shouting into the receiver. Through the noise, Joe could tell that he was calling out to the rest of the company for support. After a moment, he looked back at Joe and gave him a thumb down when the Lieutenant couldn’t be contacted.
“Go find him!” Joe ordered.
“But, sarge…”
“Go find him now! We need reinforcements now!”
Nick bolted off, dodging bullets as they ricocheted from the ground and the tree trunks around him, desperately searching for the Lieutenant. Joe returned his attention to the advancing Chinese, firing short bursts from his rifle. To his right, Dale squeezed off bursts of fire between calls for air support. The Chinese, perhaps a company or better in strength, ran up the flank without relent; as if almost unopposed. The situation was deteriorating fast and Joe knew his platoon was in peril.
“Sarge, no air support!” Dale announced in vain.
The news hit Joe like a ton of lead. They were in serious trouble now. “What about artillery?”
“What about artillery? The Chinese are too close!”
“We’ll have to take our chances! Call for fire!”
Dale returned to his radio, calling out coordinates. Joe assessed the situation around him, between bursts of fire and explosions. The Chinese were still advancing hard and he was losing men fast. Where is Lieutenant Smith? he thought. Firing off several more rounds, he thought, where’s Nick?
“Nick!” Joe yelled. He was nowhere to be seen. The situation was desperate now. The Chinese cannot be held off for much longer. “Nick!” There wasn’t any time left. Something had to be done. Nick must have been hit. Lieutenant Smith probably has no idea what’s going on up here. “Nick!”
To his front, Joe could see the dull glare of Chinese helmets bobbing behind bushes and trees. They were near throwing distance. Near enough, Joe decided, as he stood up on his knees for a moment to hurl a number of grenades at the enemy. Bullets snapped all around him and he flopped back to the dirt. “Nick!” he yelled.
“Are you hit?” Dale asked.
Checking himself, Joe responded, “No.”
“No fire support,” Dale announced with obvious disappointment. “They’re too busy bombarding a column of tanks.”
Frustrated, Joe mumbled, “Where’s Nick?” He turned back, looking back to where the command post had been. “Nick!”
“Joey!”
“Nick?”
“Joey, come on! We are going to be late!”
Joe stood up and shook off the dirt. He looked up toward the house. His mother was standing on the back porch in her white summer dress, waving to him.
“What are you going to be late for?” Dale asked, still clutching a piece of lumber that was fashioned into a military-styled rifle.
“Who knows,” Joe huffed as he shuffled off toward the house.
Stepping out from the woods, he sauntered through the tall grass of the backyard. His mother snapped, “Come on, Joey, put a little pep in your step. Let’s go. You’ve got to get ready for baseball practice.”
Joe looked up at his mom. The warm afternoon sun filtered through the maples behind him, illuminating the gables of their two-story home. Then he looked down to his mother’s shadow as it enveloped his own. She leaned in towards him, “Let’s go.”
“Where did Nick go?”
His mother looked down at him, almost forlornly. Joe’s shirt and pants were covered in dirt and his long, shaggy hair had twigs sticking out of it. “You’re a complete mess,” she complained. “Nick went home to get ready for baseball practice too. His mother came and picked him up.”
Joe was disappointed. He was having fun playing with his friends in their fort. Turning back to Dale he said, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Dale said. “Want to come over to my house?”
Joe looked to him mom and asked, “Mom, can I go to Dale’s house tomorrow?”
“Of course, dear,” she replied. “Now go upstairs and get cleaned up for practice.”
“It’s baseball practice, not church, Mom!” he retorted as he ran into the house.
“Don’t get smart with me. Do as you’re told!”
“Bye,” Dale yelled as he ran off for his home.
An Alan Trammel Sasaki Sports baseball mitt rested on his lap and his favorite 28 ounce Louisville Slugger sat handle up between his legs. Joe sat stone-faced in the passenger seat next to his mom. The motor of the old Suburban growled and gurgled as they drove past old farm houses into Birch Run. The struts creaked as the frame heaved over pot holes and ruts in the poorly maintained road. Then, where the township road turns into Church Street at the “Village Limits” sign, the pavement becomes quite smooth. There, from behind old, giant oak trees, the old section of Birch Run High Schools looms eerily in the shadows. Joe remembered being inside of that many years ago. The school’s wrestling program used the old gym at one time, until it was all condemned for asbestos.
Next to it was the expanse of the newer high school. Newer, Joe thought, it still looks old. His mom made a left turn there. They drove past the school buildings through the parking lot to where the ball diamonds rested between the high walls of the gymnasium and the football field. Joe kept his eye on the high school as they passed. It was such an imposing structure, encased in high walls of light brown brick. He could feel his stomach turning in knots.
“What the matter, Joey?” his mom broke the silence.
Joe looked up at his mom. Her attention never left the road in front of them, but still she could sense her son’s frustration.
“Is Dad going to be at practice?” he asked.
“Yes, dear,” she answered. “He might be a little late coming in from work, but he will be there.”
Joe sighed and slumped back in his seat.
“Don’t do that,” his mother scolded.
“I don’t like it when he comes to practice,” he complained. “All he does is yell at me.”
“He’s not yelling at you, Joey,” her eyes still fixed ahead. “He wants you to learn. The only way you’re going to learn is by paying attention and, sometimes, you have a very hard time paying attention.”
Joe scowled and said nothing more. His attention was focused ahead too. They arrived at the end of the parking lot where a gravel two track cut a path between the diamonds and led to the football field beyond. He could see Nick and felt very much at ease. Gravel popped and crunched under the tires. A cloud of dust lifted behind them. The brakes squealed as the Suburban came to a stop in the grass. Joe hardly waited for his mom to put the truck in park. He removed his seat belt, flung open the door and took off running to Nick by the dugout. His friends Travis and David were also standing there.
They stood behind the chain-link fence, talking, chewing on Big League Chew gum, spitting pink gobs of saliva into the dirt, and then kicking at the sand with their cleats. From behind them came Eric, who, despite being the same age as the rest of the boys, was much bigger and often the object of fear among this peers. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.
“Nothing, Eric,” Nick explained. “Just talking about this deer that I saw when I was eating breakfast this morning.”
“What kind of deer?” Eric asked.
“Just a young buck,” Nick replied.
“Oh, yeah?” Eric snarled. “How many points did he have?”
“None,” Nick said. “He was just a young buck.”
“How do you know it was a buck?” Joe asked.
“He had two little nubs on his head,” Nick answered.
“Your sister has nice nubs,” Eric said.
All of the boys snickered.
“Shut up, Eric,” Nick demanded.
“I wanna wub her nubs,” Eric said with a sort of baby-talk lisp. He laughed and Joe, Travis, and David laughed harder.
“Shut up you stupid prick!” Nick screamed.
“Boys!” Coach Bob shouted, appearing suddenly from the dugout. The boys froze. Their attention was fixated on the coach. “Get in here and sit down,” he said calmly.
The boys filed in behind Eric and sat next to each other on the bench. Coach Bob then began to go over the roster. “Travis, first base,” he bellowed. “Nick, second…” he went on. Until, at last, he came to Joes’ name. “… Joe, left field.”
Hardly was Joe amused by the fact that his name was called last, especially for the most boring position on the field. Nothing ever happens in left field, he mumbled to himself. Then again, he thought as he ran for the outfield, I don’t have to sit on the bench with Billy Mauer and Norman Stutz.
A ball thudded on the ground in front of him as he passed first plate. Chuck, who was in center field, waved his arms above his head, yelling for Joe to throw the ball back. He picked it up and threw the ball as hard as he could. He kind of surprised himself. Even though Chuck was standing a good distance away from him, the ball sailed well over Chuck’s glove. Joe admired the strength of his arm as he watched the center fielder run for the fence to retrieve the ball. That is, until he heard, “Aim for his chest. Control your throw, Joey!”
He knew that voice instantly, but tried desperately to pretend that he didn’t hear. Undoubtedly, the awkward jolt of his body in that instance suggested that he did hear. “Joey!” his father boomed again, louder. “Pay attention!”
Facing his father at last, Joe acknowledged, “Yes, Dad!”
Chuck threw a very well-placed throw to Evan in right field who returned an equally accurate throw back to Chuck. Squaring himself up and quickly releasing, the ball was coming in directly to where Joe stood. The ball smacked securely in his glove. Joe hesitated a moment, waiting for a comment from his father. Hearing nothing, he threw the ball and it fell short, bouncing off of the ground, before landing gently into Chuck’s glove. “Get it together, Joey!” his father hollered.
“Balls in!” Coach Bob ordered. One by one, all of the balls that the fielders were tossing for warm ups rolled up to the pitcher’s mound. Scott picked up one of the balls and poised himself for batting practice. He took a couple more practice pitches, throwing nice and evenly to his catcher, Jonathon. Mark, Andrew, Harold, and Eric stood in line to take turns batting.
Mark stepped up to the plate first. Scott pitched once just above the knees. Mark didn’t even swing. Coach Bob called out strike, but wasn’t really keeping count. Scott pitched a couple more. Mark finally swung, but missed. Joe could feel himself get a little anxious. He wanted a turn at bat too. Finally, Mark hit one; a grounder to Nick at second. Mark, of course, ran it out for first, but Travis caught Nick’s throw well enough in time for the out.
Mark jogged back to the dugout as Andrew approached the plate for his turn. Scott’s pitch came in waist high, down the center of the plate. Andrew swung, but only got a piece of the ball. It bounced off of the dirt half-way between the plate and the pitcher’s mound and jumped over Scott’s head. Nick picked up this one too. Even though Andrew was a much faster runner than Mark, Nick still had plenty of time to throw the ball to Travis who was waiting patiently on the first base bag.
Great, Joe thought, I’m never going to get in on a play. Then he noticed his dad marching up the sideline with a very stern look.
“You need to be moving in to back up the infield on those plays in case the throw goes wild,” his dad explained plainly. “Don’t just stand there like a bump on a log.”
Joe nodded, saying nothing.
Harold was now standing at the plate. Scott threw a pitch almost identical to the one he just threw to Andrew. Harold didn’t miss his opportunity. The ball connected perfectly with the center of his bat and seemed to leave a trail of smoke as it blazed a path through the sky above centerfield. Chuck was on the run for the fence. Joe was running to centerfield, intending to be the cutoff man. Chuck made it to the fence and looked hopelessly to the sky. The ball was nowhere near the top of the fence, landing somewhere far beyond in the newly ploughed cornfield beyond. Gone.
Joe ran back toward left field. His dad commended him, “Good hustle!”
Harold rounded the bases. Everyone was high-fiving him. Coach Bob was quite impressed as well. Harold was by no means one of the larger boys on the team, but he was obviously solidly built for his size. Joe was really anxious now. He wanted to show off how well he could hit. I’ll bet I can hit at least that far, he thought. He replayed the moment over and over in his head. Harold wasn’t any bigger than he was. Maybe I can hit it further, he wondered. How exciting would that be? Again, he replayed the moment in his mind, imagining instead that it was he who was rounding the bases. A monster homerun. He could distinctly hear the crack of the bat and everyone yelling with excitement, “Joey! Joey! Joey!”
“Joey!”
He then realized that he was in fact being yelled at. He looked to his father who was flailing his arms excitedly from behind the sideline fence. He then looked to the infield to see Eric rounding first base. All of the infielders were turned and looking back toward him. Everyone began yelling and pointing desperately toward the sky.
Joe turned his body and began running for the fence. He craned his neck around, searching the sky in vain for the incoming ball. He ran harder and turned his head again for another frantic search. The ball hit him squarely on the left cheek bone. Joe slumped to the ground and grabbed at his face. A shriek of pain and surprise escaped from his throat. He lay writhing in the grass. Blood filled his mouth. Tears streamed over his hands and face.
Chuck was the first to arrive and asked if he was okay. Then his dad and Coach Bob knelt down beside him. “I think I’m okay,” Joe said as he attempted to get up. Joe felt more embarrassment than he did pain as looked to see all his teammates staring at him.
“Do you need to sit on the bench for a minute?” Coach Bob asked.
Joe shook his head. “No, I’m fine.”
“Good, son,” his dad said. “Go walk it off.”
Coach Bob patted Joe on the shoulder and walked away. His dad stood in front of him for a moment, looking at him. He said nothing and walked off too.
Mark, Andrew, Harold, and Eric lined up for one more turn at bat. Joe’s face stung.
Eric began his taunting. “Hey, Joe! Way to use your head, buddy!” Then he held up a baseball mitt. “These usually work better for catching balls than your face!” Joe, of course, did his best to ignore him. “Incoming!” Eric yelled and all the boys laughed. For the rest of practice, not another hit went to left field.