There’s no right way to eat crow
No matter how it is prepared
It tastes quite the same
Hardly edible, but readily eaten
A mainstay for some
Sticking their foot in at times
There’s certainly no right way
Or wrong way to eat crow
Just don’t eat it often
It’s less appetizing that way.
“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 to his home.
***
An Alan Trammel signed Sasaki Sports baseball mitt rested on his lap and his favorite 30 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 giant oak trees, the old section of Birch Run High Schools looms eerily in the shadows. Joe remembered being inside of that building 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 turned into the grass to park. 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 his 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 wannawub 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 quickly fixed 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. 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.
Joe brushed off the insults and regained his composure in left field. Harold came up to bat and skipped a grounder passed Scott that was easily picked up by the short stop. Joe had moved in to back him up, but was in no position to contribute more to the play. The throw went to first where Harold was called out.
Coach Bob called in a handful of boys to bat. He called Joe’s name last, but he was grateful. Now Joe will have his chance to redeem himself with a solid hit. He imagined sending it over the fence. Then he remembered what his father always said, “Base hits win games.”
Travis went to bat and sent a solid line drive between the short stop and second, landing just in front of Eric who now stood in centerfield. He threw the ball well from there to the first baseman, but was too late to get Travis out. Then Chuck hit and grounded out to first. Now it was Joe’s turn. Joe ran up to the plate and readied himself for the pitch. Eric yelled, “We got a lefty!” He and several other boys repositioned themselves for a hit that would go more to the right. His feet were planted shoulder width apart. His knees were slightly bent. His torso leaned slightly toward home plate. His bat was back, just off his shoulder and his left elbow was up. Scott threw an absolutely perfect pitch across the plate. Joe swung and his bat went underneath the ball. “Don’t drop your shoulder!” Coach Bob barked. Joe took a deep breath and composed himself again. Scott threw again and, for a moment, it looked like the same pitch. Joe swung and connected with a breaking ball that bounced foul off the end of his bat. “Good swing, Joey!” his dad yelled. He was feeling more confident now. Next pitch is mine, he thought. Scott threw a fast ball and Joe was ready for it. He swung and the ball bounced beautifully from the sweet spot on his bat. The ball sailed over Nick’s head and curved toward right field. The right fielder ran and positioned himself near the fence. Joe watched the ball fall straight into his waiting glove. Standing near the first base, all the wind was out his sails now. No amount of “good hit, Joey” from his dad, his coach, or his teammates could shake his feeling of defeat. Today is not a day for redemption, Joe decided.
Ryon Grant has been writing for many years and enjoys the craft. Every now and then, he dreams of becoming a published author. However, like the boy in his story, he is bound by a life of missed opportunities. That’s never stopped his sense of adventure and wonder. He served in the Navy as a young man and then has lived all around the United States, seeking new opportunities wherever he has gone.
Mountain Jay Books 