I COULD HAVE BEEN A HERO - Book 2

Book 2 – THE SCHOOL CARNIVAL

Even though Willy Mays, who was my childhood hero, would have hung his head in shame at the way I acted on and off the field that Friday afternoon at Aztec School, all was not wasted.  I was able to gather a following, and after all, that was my goal.

My parents were hoping that maybe the new friends and the atmosphere would be a blessing to me and them.  There was a gang of guys I ran around with about which my mother was none too happy.  Don’t misunderstand, gangs, when I was in the sixth grade in the late 50’s, was nothing like what one pictures now when the word “gang” pops up in a conversation.  We were just a group of 5 or 6 gangly kids that were always looking for someway to amuse ourselves.

As I think back, I can understand why my mother looked so worn out when she was but 30 years old.  It seemed that I was always getting into some kind of trouble and being sent to the principal’s office.  This was really frustrating for my mother, because she knew what a wonderful little boy I was.  In fact, she was the only one who understood, I think, as I pleaded my case after each suspension.  I could not understand how a guy could get suspended for something that was not his fault.  You be the judge.

I spent most of the sixth grade at Beardsley Elementary School.  We did not move into town until later that year.  I guess it was fashionable for the girls to chase after the boys and try to put lipstick or rouge on them, or at least it was at Beardsley.  I had no idea why they did that, but to tell you the truth, there was a little of that testosterone thing going on as well, because it was a little titillating knowing that a bunch of girls were chasing you.  There was a rule at the school that prohibited running in the hallways, but everybody did it.  In fact, the only time kids walked down the hallway was when a teacher was yelling at them to stop running.

I had managed to lose the girls successfully at one point, but just to make sure; I halted my flight to freedom just long enough to push my back against a side wall and ever so carefully rounded the corner of the hallway with just the edge of my eyeball.  As I was looking down the corridor, Mrs. Schotz, who had been teaching at Highland School ever since schools had been invented, snuck up behind me.  Now, if she would have tapped me on the shoulder, or cleared her throat, or just plain yelled at me, I would have turned around, said something dumb, and then would have been on my way.  But that was not the way Mrs. Schotz did things.  She tip-toed up behind me, stood tall, which was saying something since she was only about five foot two, folded her arms and planted her feet firmly on the floor.

“There he is!” one of the girls at the other end of the hallway screamed.

“Oh crap.” I mumbled as I turned to scramble down the hall and out of their reach.

I tried to explain to the principal that I was sorry that I knocked Mrs. Schotz down, and I was terribly sorry that she was rushed to the hospital and that I hoped that her broken hip healed soon.

My poor mother just sat there beside me with this pitiful look on her face.  Mr. Harvey, the principal, glared at me over his glasses that sat on the end of his nose.  He said nothing, just stared.  The silence was killing me.

“Mr. Harvey, it really wasn’t my fault.” I begged.  “I didn’t know that those dumb girls would spot me, and I certainly didn’t know she was standing behind me.  Besides, if she would have retired way back when she got too old to teach, none of this would have happened.”

Mr. Harvey finally spoke.  But he spoke to my mother instead of me.  He told my mom that perhaps she might want to encourage me to stop talking.  Which, I did.

I’m sure my dear sweet mother was hoping that this would be the end of her having to come in to see the principal about her darling little boy.  I was hoping the same thing, but it just wasn’t meant to be.

“DO NOT BOUNCE THE BALLS IN THE HALLWAY!”

That was what the sign read that was posted on the door of the equipment room.  That rule never did make sense to me.  If there was a teacher trying to teach their students something in an adjoining classroom, I would have understood how it could have been disrupting.  But the fact was, students were not permitted to check out balls except during recess and during recess all the classrooms are vacant.  So, I just assumed that the rule was made a long time ago, and it was no longer enforced.  Besides…everyone did it.

I was going through my usual routine, which was crowding in front of the fifth graders so I could get one of the better balls.  After I checked out the ball I wanted, I headed down the hallway towards the playground where a bunch of my friends were waiting to play kickball…I was bouncing the ball, of course.

At that moment, I thought of a way to test the supreme accuracy of my eye/hand coordination.  “I wonder how close I can bounce this ball to my foot, without actually hitting it.” I thought.  Never in a thousand years did I think I would hit the corner of my shoe, but I did.  The crazy ball hit right on the edge of my big toe.  Now, it could have bounced straight up, back into my arms, but nothing is ever that easy.  Yes, I know, it is much more likely that the ball is going to carom off in an unpredictable direction.  As such, it could have hit against numerous objects without causing alarm…a classroom wall, a bulletin board display, even a girls head.  But, it flew up against one particular part of the wall…the exact, precise area where the fire alarm was attached.  It was a perfect bull’s eye.  In fact, I have thought about the incident since, and have come to the conclusion that I could have probably stood off about ten feet or so and threw the ball at the fire alarm and never have hit it.    

It was actually kind of funny.  There were kids running all over the place screaming and causing quite a stir.  Teachers were standing around looking at each other with that look of “what’s that?  It sounds like the fire alarm.  What are we supposed to do, again?”  Fire drills occur during class, not during the recess, as I recall.  The whole playground soon was pandemonium.  Everyone, that is, except my teacher, Mr. Busser.  He had been standing down at the end of the hallway doing his daily supervision gig and saw my exercise in expert ball handling.

“Hello, Mom?  Mr. Harvey said that I have to call you and ask you to come down to the school for a meeting.”

“But, Mom!  Mom! I didn’t do anything.  Really!”

The third week of March was always a festive time at Beardsley School, plus it proved to be my last hurray there because it was the very next week that we moved back into Bakersfield where I finished up sixth grade at Highland Elementary School.

There was a carnival that some weekend outfit had put together to entertain school kids.  They set up their Ferris wheel and other less spectacular rides in the field across the street from the school.  In reality, the carnival was not all that entertaining, unless you liked gawking at poor animals that looked as if they had missed way too many meals.  However, the reason the kids loved the carnival so much was because we were released from school a lot during that time.  The highlight of the week, according to the parents and school staff, was Black Thursday, as we called it.  Apparently, one of the school board members thought it would be a great idea if all the parents were invited to go to school with their children on that particular day.  They would actually go around with us and sit by us and listen to the teachers as they presented their very polished lessons, obviously, for the benefit of the parents.  In theory the whole concept of this special day sounded pretty good.  But, when you’re a sixth grader…it was Black Thursday.

One of the advantages I had throughout the week was the fact that my father worked during the day.  Therefore, I only had to please my mom, which generally wasn’t all that difficult.  My dad, on the other hand…just let me say, if Dad had been with me on Black Thursday, I wouldn’t have been able to sit down for a week, after the commotion I some how inadvertently caused.

I was really trying to be on my best behavior, because I really did want to make my mom proud of me.  And, how much trouble could a guy get into with his mother sitting in a chair right next to his desk all day long?

I guess it must have happened during a breakdown in concentration.  I can remember Mr. Busser talking about something to do with Joaquin Murrieta and his band of merry robbers, when it happened.  I was really trying to listen, but at the same time, I was dreaming about my mansions on high, an activity I did quite often, as I recall.

I had one of those old kinds of desks that had a hole right in the middle up toward the top.  When we asked our teacher about the purpose of the hole, we were told that they were for the bottles of ink used by the students years ago.  That fact, alone, made me wonder how kids survived those days.  Imagine, a bottle of ink setting right there on the top of a ten year olds desk?

 

I was fiddling around with the brand new pencil my mother had given me so I could start this special day out on the right foot, as the saying goes.  I was lost in deep thought as I pondered all the ways a guy could use that ink.  My pencil had a nice sharp point on it and I hadn’t had time to chew the eraser off yet.  I was trying to balance the pencil on the rim of the ink well.  The eraser was nestled up against the wall of the hole, and the point was sticking straight toward Billy Shields, who was sitting directly in front of me leaning on his desk with his head resting in his hands.

Billy was pretty good at faking out Mr. Busser.  He would appear to be totally engrossed in whatever Mr. Busser was saying, but, actually, he was fast asleep.  I can’t imagine how Billy thought anyone was fooled, especially when his body started jerking and jumping all over the place like what happens to some of the people who fall asleep at church.

Well, as fate would have it, on that particular Black Thursday, Billy wasn’t sleeping, and suddenly, without any kind of warning, he decided to lean back in his chair and stretch.  He threw his arms out to his side, and slammed his upper torso against the backrest of his desk chair with amazing velocity.

Billy screamed so loud that Mr. Busser dropped his book.  Even though I knew it meant another trip to the principal’s office, it was kind of funny.  That pencil was stuck right smack in the middle of his back.  Even when he jumped out of his seat, the pencil remained intact.  It looked as though he had been shot with a little yellow arrow.  I tried to be a “Pollyanna” about the whole thing, and looked desperately for something positive about the predicament.  “At least they won’t have to bother my mom at home.” I thought as I glanced over at her for the first time since Billy’s blood curdling scream.  She had this horrified expression on her face, and I just knew this wasn’t going to end well.

Mr. Harvey was pretty cool with the whole ordeal, actually.  I wasn’t sure if it was because my mother was there or what, but he only lectured me for awhile, and told me how dangerous it was and all about lead poisoning and such, but I wasn’t suspended.  If the week could have ended on that note, everyone would have been much happier, but it was not the case. 

During the carnival week, as tradition dictated, there was a big baseball game between the fifth graders and the sixth graders.  The sixth graders usually won, but on occasion the fifth grade would come up with a couple of super stars and would show the sixth graders who the real pros were.

We were kind of cocky and figured this would be the usual year in which we would kick the fannies of the fifth graders and was pretty confident that it was going to be a lopsided affair.  And, it should have been, had it not been for Mr. Weeks.

Mr. Weeks was a fifth grade teacher, and he decided that the teachers ought to be able to play if they wanted.  That was a definite disadvantage to us, because Mr. Busser was rather rotund, to say the least, and was a little on the feminine side of life.

“This is just great!” I said to myself.  “Mr. Busser probably doesn’t even know who Willy Mays is.”

Mr. Weeks, on the other hand, was a jock.  He was OK when it came to playing sports, but then it was really hard to make an accurate assessment.  After all he was playing against a bunch of elementary school kids.  Even though he was a pretty cool teacher, most of the guys didn’t like him when he donned his sporting gear.  He was always talking about how great he was, and how he was an all-star in every sport when he was a kid, etc, etc, etc.  And…worse yet, the girls thought he was cute, which was just wrong.

The game went as I thought it would when Mr. Weeks announced that he was going to play.  We were getting our proverbial butts kicked, thanks to Mr. Weeks hitting the ball into the kindergarten playground every time he came to bat.  I was getting more and more frustrated as the minutes ticked by.  My only consolation was that the busses were ready to take kids home, so the game would have to end soon.

“All right, we have just enough time for me to bat one more time.”  Mr. Weeks yelled.

I groaned.

He stepped to the plate, turned and looked at me.  “Well, Mr. Catcher,” he said with a pompous grin smeared across his face.  “Watch me knock the cover off it.” he smirked.  I really just wanted to spit on his nose and be done with it, but figured it would probably just hit my mask’s crossbar, so I discarded that thought as quickly as it came to mind.

Sure enough, with one mighty swing, the ball quickly sailed out of sight.  I do not recall what came over me at that point, but watching Mr. Weeks jogging around the bases laughing and holding his arms in the air like he had really done something special, well, something inside me snapped.  As he rounded third base heading for home, I faked it like the ball was being thrown to me.

“Thanks, Mr. Busser!” I yelled.  “Come on you guys, throw the ball.  We can still get him!”

Mr. Weeks didn’t turn around to check out the situation, which would have made it clear to Mr. Weeks that I was bluffing him.  All he would have seen was a bunch of dazed sixth grade boys staring at the scene that was unfolding.  So, because Mr. Weeks thought I was on the up and up, he got this real serious look on his face and started pushing himself down the line.  As he got closer and closer to the plate, I played as if the ball was almost in my glove.  It was a little surreal in that it seemed like everything had switched into slow motion.  I saw his eyes as they glared in determination.  The fatty part of his cheeks was bouncing up and down on his face.  I could even hear his belabored breathing as he stumbled toward me.

At that moment, I really had no control over what my body was about to do.  Even though Mr. Weeks was playing in black slack pants, a white shirt with his tie loosed about his neck, I couldn’t resist.  When he struggled toward the plate, slightly off balance, I ever so carefully stuck my foot out.  I didn’t really expect him to fall face first into the powdery dirt, and I really didn’t expect him to jump up and start chasing me all over the field.  However, as I think about it now, it must have been quite a sight.  There he was, a grown man covered in dirt, chasing a little kid around the ball diamond yelling and shaking his fist, with another grown up, Mr. Busser, chasing behind him, pleading for him to stop.

Being a hero can be really confusing sometimes.  All the kids thought I should have been chosen player of the century…even the fifth graders.  But instead, Mr. Harvey said that even though I was moving that weekend, he was going to inform the principal at Highland that I was enrolling at his school with a suspension hung around my neck.  And the worst of it was that I got my butt whipped so hard that evening, thanks to my dad’s lack of a sense of humor, that I couldn’t help much with the loading and unloading of boxes that weekend.  So, actually, I guess it wasn’t a bad trade off.

I COULD HAVE BEEN A HERO - Book 1

Book 1 – THIS COULD BE THE START OF SOMETHING BIG…OR NOT.

Have you ever seen one of those war type movies, where it appears that everyone is in trouble, and the future looks hopeless?  It seems as though there is always a John Wayne type guy who suddenly emerges from nowhere to save the world.  As a general rule, he has not slept in three days, hasn’t had anything substantial to eat in eons, yet has the strength to singlehandedly fight off the entire Japanese Navy, disregarding his hunger and fatigue, and delights in the fact that his reward is the opportunity to carry the beautiful helpless maiden to safety.

Well, my name is John Hill, and for some reason, I have always pictured myself as that kind of person.  I am a big burly sort of guy, and even though it looks as if I’ve had a few too many helpings of mashed potatoes, I still see myself as the “here I come to save the day” character when the chips are down.

I have had numerous opportunities throughout my life to be a hero to some degree, but it always seemed that I would fall short of the mark, as was the case when I was in the sixth grade, and on the school baseball team.

I grew up in a quiet neighborhood just across the river from Bakersfield in the golden state of California.  My father played farmer when he wasn’t driving a truck for Standard Oil Company, which was almost always.  Needless to say, that left the farming to my mom, my younger sister, Mary and my little brother, Kenny, and I, who at the grand old age of ten, wasn’t worth a tick in a haystack when it came to farming.  As a result, my mother soon had had her fill of “Green Acres” and suggested to my dad that perhaps it was time to move back to town.  I think I recall her saying something like “enough is enough” or close to it.  A short time later we moved back to the big city.

I was a little apprehensive about switching schools in the middle of the year.  I was comfortable with a pretty set routine at Beardsley Elementary School, and I didn’t know anyone at Highland Elementary School.  I’m not sure why I was so nervous.  I was probably afraid that the high falutin’ kids at Highland would discover cow dung on the bottom of my shoes, or even worse.  Whatever the reason, I knew that the only way I could get in good with the new kids was to do something extraordinary, and I had to do it quick.  I decided that the fastest and easiest way to accomplish this was to join the school baseball team.  I knew the tryouts had already taken place, but didn’t really worry, because I knew as soon as the coach saw me in action, I would be on the team.

I considered myself a pretty good ball player.  At least I thought I was good enough to turn a few heads, and figured it would be just a matter of time before I had a fairly impressive following.  I was pretty surprised when Coach Thompson informed me that the sixth grade “A” team was pretty well set, but I would be able to play on the sixth grade “B” team.  At first, I was devastated.  “How could I not make the first team?” I asked myself.  However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was the middle of the season, and how was the coach supposed to explain to some kids’ parents that he was going to have to kick their kid off the team because this super star stud had just moved in.  So, I decided to go along with the coach, for now, so the poor kid could stay on the team.

Aztec Junior High School is a tiny little school way out of town in the middle of some oil slick.  They were to be my first victims.

“Hill!” the coach yelled at Thursday’s practice.

“Finally,” I thought, “the “A” team can’t make it without me, and the coach is pulling me up to the big leagues.”  I kind of felt bad for the third string outfielder that was obviously being sent to the “B” team to make room for me.

“I have been watching you this week.” He started.  “You’ve been real impressive.”

“Here it comes.”  I thought as I tried to look humble…but it was hard.

“So…I want you to start tomorrow…as the pitcher…for the “B” squad.”

I just about choked as the B rang in my ears.  I felt like a bush-leaguer…a big bozo.  I was bewildered, morally busted and betrayed.  A total boob.

I watched him walk back to the dugout where his elite team was waiting in respectful anticipation.

Sure, I was disappointed, as I recall, but I was grateful at the same time.  At least I was playing.  “I’ll have a chance to prove to Coach Thompson what a great player he was passing up.” I thought.

When we arrived at the ball field, which was nothing more than a glorified pasture surrounded by oil derricks, we immediately grabbed our gloves, searched for the old army duffle bag for a ball and headed for the diamond to get warmed up.  After a few practice pitches, I caught sight of Coach Thompson heading our way.

“Hey fella’s!” he called us together.  “Their coach has just informed me that they have but one sixth grade team this year, so we are going to have to make some changes.”

“Oh great!” I thought, “I’ll get to sit and watch and hope that the first, second, and third string pitchers all blow out their arms and then maybe I’ll be able to play.”

“So,” Coach Thompson started, “we have agreed that you guys will play their combined fifth/sixth grade team, and our “A” team will play their combined seventh/eighth grade team.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!” I protested.  “We gotta play a bunch of little…”  That was as far as I got in my tirade when I noticed an intense glare in my direction from Coach Thompson.  I wisely decided to leave well enough alone.  But, as I walked away, I could feel the bitter disappointment of having to play a team with a bunch of little fifth graders on it.

The game was going pretty well, much to my silent surprise, and even though it was hard to admit, the reason for our success was the rag-tag bunch of guys playing behind me.  Most of the batters I faced were hitting the ball, but usually right at one of our players.  And, to my amazement, they were catching them.

At one point in the game, I think it was about the third or fourth inning, I had already walked a couple of batters, and another was safe on an error, which loaded the bases.  Much to my horror, I glanced over at the on-deck circle, and there, smiling like a Cheshire cat, was the shortstop.  Now this guy had been a thorn in my side all afternoon.  The score at the time was 5 – 2 our favor.  It should have been 5 – 0, but the shortstop, the guy who was pointing his bat at me as he walked to the plate, had already hit two solo homeruns earlier in the game.  I had to admit, I was a little nervous.  That shortstop could flat out hit that ball.  He walked slowly to the plate, stopping only to knock the mud off his cleats with the bottom of his bat.  Stepping to the plate, he peered down at me with a grin that said, “throw me the ball…I dare ya.”

Now, I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, but at that moment, I was secretly praying for a freak hail storm, or tornado, or something.  It didn’t come.  I tried to put a little something extra on my fastball, but despite all my anxieties, he blasted that ball clean out of sight.  I mean that thing stayed in the air for what seemed like an hour.  Our outfielders didn’t even chase after it.  They just turned around and watched it go over their heads, and threw down their mitts.  The score was now 6 – 5, their favor.  One pitch and a three run lead was gone.  And, to make things worse, Coach Thompson had left the “A” game to see how we were doing, and got there just in time to watch the ball as it sailed into outer-space.

We finally got them out without anymore runs being scored.  Now the pressure was on us.  We had to score at least one more run in that half inning or the game would be over.  As fate would have it, I had the opportunity to redeem myself.  We had a runner on third and first with just one out.  I stepped to the plate.  I felt as if all eyes at the ball park were on me.  I was feeling the pressure, especially because I hadn’t done very well at bat thus far in the game.  In fact, I had been up three different times, and each time I had either grounded out, or flied out to none other…the shortstop.

I was determined.  The balance of the game was on my shoulders.  I understood how Atlas must have felt.  The pitcher looked down at his catcher, as I bounced the bat on my shoulder.  I could actually see the ball in my mind flying off into orbit.  The whole team would be on the field carrying me back to the dugout.  Finally, the pitch.  It was right down the middle of the plate.  I gripped the bat and took a mighty Casey swing.  Crack!  I hit a line drive right between the third baseman and the shortstop.  “All right, the run from third will score and the game will be tied.  I finally came through.” 

All of a sudden, the sky fell.  It was the shortstop.  He dove for the ball and knocked it down.  “I can’t believe it!”  I bellowed.  I put my head down and started tearing up the base path.  As I started moving down the line, I looked up just in time to see the shortstop throw the ball to the second baseman getting the force out at second.  That was when it hit me.  They were trying to get a double play.  The second baseman would throw the ball to first and if the throw beat me the game would be over…OVER!  “It might me close,” I thought, “but they could never get me, I mean this is the sixth grade, for crying outloud, nobody gets double plays in the sixth grade.”

No sooner had I dismissed that thought, when God pulled the rug out from under me, or the ground to be more precise.  Even now, I don’t really know what happened, except that I still remember the laughs coming from the few spectators that had stuck around to watch their team play.

There I was, face down in the dirt about ten yards from the base, chalk stuck to my face.  “What happened?” I thought, as I lifted my head from off the turf.

The celebration had already started on the field.  It was their shortstop who was being carried to the dugout, not me.  I slowly rolled over and looked up into the faces of 12 dazed teammates lost in disbelief.

“I caught my cleats on something!”  I tried to find an excuse.  “Really!” I explained.  I watched them walk away mournfully shaking their heads. 

“Really!”  I begged.

I was quietly making my way back to the bus trying desperately to figure out how I ended up face first in the dirt halfway down the first base line, when all of a sudden, I looked up and saw Coach Thompson coming my way.  He wasn’t alone.  Walking beside him, as if he had just signed a contract with the Yankees was the Aztec shortstop and their coach.

“John!” Coach Thompson said.  “I’d like to introduce you to Aztec’s coach, Bob Franklin and their shortstop, whose name is also John.  They want to meet you and congratulate you on a good game.

“Congratulate!” I mumbled, assuming they wanted to rub my nose in it, or at least the shortstop.  “Yeah?” I answered in my regular voice.  “Well, just because we got the same name doesn’t mean you’re anything special.”

“Jonathan!” Coach Thompson snapped.  “Sportsmanship makes an athlete.  And I do not allow anyone on my teams who are not athletes.”

He was right, I knew.  I just didn’t want to admit it, especially with Johnny Super Star standing there.  But, I was also smart enough to know that Coach Thompson had the upper hand.  If I wanted to remain on the team, I was going to have to swallow some pride, stand tall and take some ridicule.

“Sorry Coach.” I finally said, and stuck out my hand.  “Nice game.”

“Thanks.” He responded.  And HE took off HIS hat, and HER hair fell to HER waist. 

“Actually,” she said, “my name is really Johanna.  Everyone just calls me John.

I was absolutely mortified.  I just stood there with my bottom lip on the ground.  I heard the coach mumble something about the confusion.  I didn’t know what I felt.  Finally, I just screamed in frustration.  “You’re...a…girl!”  I threw down my mitt and kicked it halfway to centerfield.  All the guys on the team were standing around and after the initial shock, they started laughing.

I don’t know whatever happened to Johanna.  But one thing I do know.  At that particular moment, I felt that she had ruined my chance to be a hero.