Melanie hates Troy (and she isn't alone) because he calls her "Buck-tooth Betty," "Ugly Wuggly," and pulls up her dress sometimes and makes fun of the patterns on her panties, and just won't stop doing it.
James was staring at Troy because a rubber band just struck James' cheek and, when Troy glared over, James quickly looked away so Troy couldn't see the welt rising.
Cheryl only pretended to concentrate on drawing but she was just doodling circles, knowing Troy sits right behind her, fearful he might tie her hair to the back of her chair, again, which really, really hurt when she arose to go to the restroom, which is why she now pulls her hair forward over her shoulder.
Brent saw Troy shoot James in the cheek, but he's not a tattletale and Troy would probably punch him or spit on him at recess because Troy is the biggest kid in the whole 4th grade.
Two teachers on playground duty saw James trip Troy and stomp on his knee joint, so they hauled James off to the principal's office while a screaming and limping Troy was taken to the nurse.
The next day, the principal got the call he expected from Troy's livid parents, threatening a lawsuit, and the principal was forced to refer James to the school district's child psychologist for evaluation as a 'bully.'
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Fate on a Steamy Afternoon
Perspiration held the falls of her honey blonde hair against her face, adorning a deeply tanned and strong body of solid bone supporting developed musculature, wrapped in flesh as firm and thick as half-inch neoprene.
Every pore was open as if alternating extrusion of sweat beads between breaths, salinated beads that trailed each other down her admirable chest while her face beamed with a finger-painted montage of determination, focus, concentration.
Her left hand worked up and down the shaft with increasing intensity, staring into the smoothly lined and rounded face before her, worn from overwork.
Her hand moved behind the head, with ample pressure to be effective, then returned working the rigid shaft increasing her strokes with one last burst of frenzied rapidity as she recognized "Ready" in his expression.
He moved to her, eyes twinkling, riveted on hers as he extended his hand and smiled, using a husky low whisper to say, “Don’t rub all my luck from that 9-iron, because we’re two shots up and 107 yards from our first tour win.”
She moved the towel from the club, placing the grip confidently into his open hand, and pondered the job security she’d enjoy from her guy’s first win on the PGA tour.
Every pore was open as if alternating extrusion of sweat beads between breaths, salinated beads that trailed each other down her admirable chest while her face beamed with a finger-painted montage of determination, focus, concentration.
Her left hand worked up and down the shaft with increasing intensity, staring into the smoothly lined and rounded face before her, worn from overwork.
Her hand moved behind the head, with ample pressure to be effective, then returned working the rigid shaft increasing her strokes with one last burst of frenzied rapidity as she recognized "Ready" in his expression.
He moved to her, eyes twinkling, riveted on hers as he extended his hand and smiled, using a husky low whisper to say, “Don’t rub all my luck from that 9-iron, because we’re two shots up and 107 yards from our first tour win.”
She moved the towel from the club, placing the grip confidently into his open hand, and pondered the job security she’d enjoy from her guy’s first win on the PGA tour.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Sudden Valley Storm
It came on so quickly, my eyes refused to leave a sky that was changing like a painting done in time-lapse photography. A sheet of black and grey was being pulled over the bed of the valley, filtering lightning into flickers. Stillness stood erectly, replaced a finger snap later by gusts of sapling-bending wind exceeding 60 miles per hour carrying the desert’s dust, as saguaros arms flexed with impenetrability. Another stillness struck, until the clouds answered rending rain with strength of a handful of BBs flung angrily onto a tile floor.
When the saturating downpour overhead let up, I saw columns of inundating showers pelting other parts of our valley, as lightning now shed its cloud cover, undisguised bolts shooting laterally and downward like tracers of electrified arrows flying wildly in a battle of unseen sky gods.
It was over in an hour, leaving 'that' smell of dust and moisture and that of a desert which has gotten its quenching swallow, whilst another battle ensued, one of air fighting to hold its humidity as the twilight's heat strangled and squeezed to wring out its damp existence ever so imperceptibly.
When the saturating downpour overhead let up, I saw columns of inundating showers pelting other parts of our valley, as lightning now shed its cloud cover, undisguised bolts shooting laterally and downward like tracers of electrified arrows flying wildly in a battle of unseen sky gods.
It was over in an hour, leaving 'that' smell of dust and moisture and that of a desert which has gotten its quenching swallow, whilst another battle ensued, one of air fighting to hold its humidity as the twilight's heat strangled and squeezed to wring out its damp existence ever so imperceptibly.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Battery
See, that’s what they call the combination of a pitcher and catcher in baseball. And that’s what we were, a battery, going back to when we were little kids.
Tommy and I were 5 when our parents moved into brand new houses across the street from each other. I spotted him in his front yard one day, throwing a baseball into the air as high as he could and catching it. I walked over there and said, “Hi, I’m David and we moved into that house,” turning to point at what had been a model home. He said “Hi” back, and I asked him if he I could get my mitt, if he wanted to play catch.
I bet we played catch or whiffle ball in his yard more than 350 days a year, ‘cuz it didn‘t rain much in the desert. All through elementary school and into freshman year, we were out in front with our gloves, throwing it back and forth, even doing grounders and stuff.
He’s right-handed and I’m a leftie. He used to say that the arc in my natural curve could go through his front door, turn right, and sail down his hallway. I guess it could, because I actually had to concentrate to throw a straight fastball. Tommy said I was crazy if I didn’t want to be a pitcher, and that, if that’s what I wanted, too, then he should be my catcher because who else could handle that curve, had more experience with it?
When we were about 13, my practice goals were to build-up my speed, and to learn how and when to throw a killer change-up. Tommy’s older brother, Bob, told Tommy, early-on, “Catching isn’t enough. You need a big swing!” And, boy, did he ever learn how to hit. Bob was already in college, and started taking Tommy to the batting range 3 or 4 times a week. It was Bob’s idea for us to go to the high school field some weekends, and Bob would catch me while Tommy hit.
At first, Bob and I would laugh when I’d throw a real bender to the plate, and the frustrated look on Tommy’s face when he swung and missed it by a mile doubled us over. Sure, it made Tommy madder, but it made him concentrate, more determined. I’d put my mitt over my face to keep from Tommy’s seeing me laugh, his temper boiling over to the point of quitting. But he wasn’t a quitter. Ever.
By sophomore year, Tommy and I made varsity and were starters. Junior and even senior girls began to acknowledge our existence, but we knew it was only because we had letter sweaters. Not only were we starters, I got 5 wins in 6 starts that year. And I wouldn’t have lost that one if we hadn’t had errors by the shortstop, second baseman, and a couple missed and dropped balls in the outfield.
I know nobody’s perfect, but that kinda hurts, you know? You throw your best stuff and, for all time, have to see your name next to “Losing Pitcher” in the record books and articles.
That was the first year our high school ever made the division playoffs, and we made it to the final round. The team that beat us made it to the state championship got some dumb luck. Our starter got blasted for a couple homers in the tie-breaker, and we had, again, suffered the ‘Curse of Oops” with our gloves, as Coach Brown called it. “Oops” meant, “Out Of Practice, Son!,” and when so cursed at practice, Brown called us “Hone-Yocks,” “Yoders.” We never did figure out what that meant, but at least he didn’t cuss us out like other teams’ coaches did.
We won the state championship our junior year. I had a perfect season. Tommy hit .413, led our division in batting, set a record for doubles, and we both made All-State. It was cool seeing our names in the newspaper sometimes, and we clipped-out the pictures from the 3 times they featured us on the high schools’ page.
The sportswriter guy mentioned I might start getting attention from pro scouts as long as I didn’t burn-out my arm or get hurt, and merely continued to developing as 16-year olds do. Jim Hawkins, the sportswriter, even wrote about Tommy, saying “Johansson may even have a better shot at the pros than Petrie, because catchers just don’t wield the big stick like this kid can hit. This kid’s a superstar with a bright future!”
The morning after we won state, we made the front of the sports page: “Electric Battery Clinches Title for Washington High.” My fastball had been on fire, my curve was baffling the Brophy squad, and the change-up I had perfected, according to the article, “Embarrassed Brophy’s batters all the way back to the dugout in David Petrie’s dazzling 12-strikeouts, 4-hit, shut-out performance.” It went on, “Tommy Johansson, the other half of the ‘Electric Battery,’ scored 4 RBIs on two doubles and a home run that sailed over the fence in dead center, and is probably still rolling, smashed with power this writer has never witnessed in a high schooler.”
In the season opener our senior year, I got the start because St. Mary’s Catholic High stole lots of great players from all over town, giving them scholarships, and seemed to field an all-star team every year. They, like the all-boys Catholic high school (Brophy College Prep) recruited city-wide, always earn a slot in the playoffs, and were serious inter-division rivals.
Four innings in, electric-like pings started in my elbow. It didn’t hurt, but sure didn’t feel good. I found that if I adjusted my motion, it wasn’t so bad. But, after about 10 pitches with the change in my mechanics, all of a sudden it felt like someone hit the inside of my shoulder with a rubber sledge hammer. I shook my mitt off my right hand, and grabbed my shoulder. Tommy flung his mask and charged the mound. Coach Brown raced to the mound, screaming, “TIME! TIME OUT!” at the ump. I told ’em I was okay, but I was done.
We had a 2-run lead and Preston--who had chronic control problems--was called to warm-up on the mound as I went to ‘ride the pines,“ as Coach Brown called sitting on the bench. Mr. Sheets, the assistant coach, had a towel full of ice from the cooler ready to wrap my shoulder, numbing the pain. .
Preston threw a few warm-ups, and Tommy kept looking over at me on the bench. I knew he was all weirded-out, wondering how bad it was.
The first batter flied out. Then, this guy Danielson stepped-up. Tommy kept glancing over so many times I had to wave him off. Preston’s first pitch to the right-handed batter was way outside, and Tommy had to lunge to snag it. Tommy’s look to me seemed to say, “Oh crap, Preston’s hog-wild!” the same foreboding thought I had.
The world went into slo-mo. Tommy was shooting me a look as Preston’s fastball left his hand, heading inside. This guy Danielson stepped back to connect with the barrel of the bat--not the handle--unleashing a vicious swing. Tommy, for whatever reason, ducked inside and a little forward, and the bat clipped the edge of his mask. More than a game was lost. Profoundly more.
Two neck surgeries and three months later, Tommy was still hospitalized, in traction, paralyzed from the neck down. He’d be in a motorized wheelchair, forever. After school and practices and games…I visited every day. Lots of those days, all we said was “Hi,” because he didn’t feel like talking.
We won the College World series. I accepted a pro contract after my junior year at Arizona State. Clipping after clipping compared me to the all-time great lefties, “The Next Juan Marichal” or Whitey Ford or Sandy Koufax. Tommy never missed a Sun Devils home game whether I was pitching or not. I had asked him, once, why he came when I wasn’t slated for the mound.
“You’ve never seen it in the bigs…when the starter and relievers totally blow it and the manager calls-in a starter, even on short rest?”
“This is college, Tommy! College.You’re nuts, Johansson.”
“Nope, just a fan, mah-man!”
I signed with the San Francisco Giants. I wouldn’t sign with a team that had Spring Training outside Arizona. I, not Danielson, put Tommy in that chair and I owed him a life. Tommy never agreed.
Since age 12, I had never thrown a wild pitch in a game. Yeah, there were passed balls, errors charged to catchers. They were common with knuckle-ballers and pitchers whose command exerted pronounced inflight movement on baseballs… and when low, tricky to catch, at best.
Tommy maintained that Danielson was a victim, too. With any conscience, he might be haunted reliving the scene at home plate. Tommy said he prayed for Danielson, because while Tommy would never physically heal, Danielson could recover, stave off ghosts that may haunt and even awaken him in cold-beaded sweats in hours the rest of the world slept.
Award of the sole claim for Tommy’s accident and consequences wouldn’t make a difference in anyone’s life. We were details in the history, involved in different ways with different ramifications--some of our doing, and maybe scripting a future undoing.
That awful day, Tommy’s mind was on me-- all the glances over to the bench-- and the game. We both knew Preston’s control issues, and that inconsistency along with the pressure in this game could make the baseball’s flight path completely unpredictable.
I got hurt. Tommy got crippled in the 'non-contact' sport of baseball. Non-contact ignored outfielders who routinely crashed into walls chasing lined drives or trying to convert a home run into an out with a perfectly timed leap and gloved acuity bringing cheers from thousand and millions. And what career catcher, guarding the plate from an oncoming runner trying to score from third base, hadn’t been spiked when the runner’s slide was cletes-first?
Tommy went to every Spring Training game. I flew him to San Francisco, and arranged for him to be in the dugout for my first start as a major leaguer. He wore our Giants game jersey I had customized, with his name embroidered on the back, and "53," the number he wore in high school.
We won, 1-0. Tommy was ecstatic when I ran off the field from teammate hugs and high-5s to hug Tommy in his chair. There were tears in his eyes and I used my sleeve to wipe them away. “You shut ‘em out! You totally shut ‘em out in your first game!,” Tommy said, with more glee in his voice than I had heard since before the accident. Well, except for getting the Giants’ phone call, one I shared with Tommy at my folks’ house during Major League Baseball’s draft.
Tommy co-owned this wn, more than just a baseball victory. With Tommy there, wearing his old number in his jersey matching mine, it was his face I imagined behind the mask, and his glove to which I threw.
“It was easy. When it got tough on the mound, I looked over at you in the dugout, looked at the catcher’s mitt behind the plate, and imagined you and me being 12 again. So…here.”
He cried when I handed him the game ball of my first win. I felt tears, too.
“We’ll always be the ‘Electric Battery,’ buddy, even if yours has to roll you into the cheap seats at my games!”
“Stuff it, Petrie! Have you ever seen the areas reserved for the handicapped in ballparks? This chair gets me the best view in the house, like free parking in the loge level!,”
“You’re such a weirdo,” I teased.
“Just a fan, mah-man. Just a fan,” he said.
And we laughed as only lifelong friends can.
Tommy and I were 5 when our parents moved into brand new houses across the street from each other. I spotted him in his front yard one day, throwing a baseball into the air as high as he could and catching it. I walked over there and said, “Hi, I’m David and we moved into that house,” turning to point at what had been a model home. He said “Hi” back, and I asked him if he I could get my mitt, if he wanted to play catch.
I bet we played catch or whiffle ball in his yard more than 350 days a year, ‘cuz it didn‘t rain much in the desert. All through elementary school and into freshman year, we were out in front with our gloves, throwing it back and forth, even doing grounders and stuff.
He’s right-handed and I’m a leftie. He used to say that the arc in my natural curve could go through his front door, turn right, and sail down his hallway. I guess it could, because I actually had to concentrate to throw a straight fastball. Tommy said I was crazy if I didn’t want to be a pitcher, and that, if that’s what I wanted, too, then he should be my catcher because who else could handle that curve, had more experience with it?
When we were about 13, my practice goals were to build-up my speed, and to learn how and when to throw a killer change-up. Tommy’s older brother, Bob, told Tommy, early-on, “Catching isn’t enough. You need a big swing!” And, boy, did he ever learn how to hit. Bob was already in college, and started taking Tommy to the batting range 3 or 4 times a week. It was Bob’s idea for us to go to the high school field some weekends, and Bob would catch me while Tommy hit.
At first, Bob and I would laugh when I’d throw a real bender to the plate, and the frustrated look on Tommy’s face when he swung and missed it by a mile doubled us over. Sure, it made Tommy madder, but it made him concentrate, more determined. I’d put my mitt over my face to keep from Tommy’s seeing me laugh, his temper boiling over to the point of quitting. But he wasn’t a quitter. Ever.
By sophomore year, Tommy and I made varsity and were starters. Junior and even senior girls began to acknowledge our existence, but we knew it was only because we had letter sweaters. Not only were we starters, I got 5 wins in 6 starts that year. And I wouldn’t have lost that one if we hadn’t had errors by the shortstop, second baseman, and a couple missed and dropped balls in the outfield.
I know nobody’s perfect, but that kinda hurts, you know? You throw your best stuff and, for all time, have to see your name next to “Losing Pitcher” in the record books and articles.
That was the first year our high school ever made the division playoffs, and we made it to the final round. The team that beat us made it to the state championship got some dumb luck. Our starter got blasted for a couple homers in the tie-breaker, and we had, again, suffered the ‘Curse of Oops” with our gloves, as Coach Brown called it. “Oops” meant, “Out Of Practice, Son!,” and when so cursed at practice, Brown called us “Hone-Yocks,” “Yoders.” We never did figure out what that meant, but at least he didn’t cuss us out like other teams’ coaches did.
We won the state championship our junior year. I had a perfect season. Tommy hit .413, led our division in batting, set a record for doubles, and we both made All-State. It was cool seeing our names in the newspaper sometimes, and we clipped-out the pictures from the 3 times they featured us on the high schools’ page.
The sportswriter guy mentioned I might start getting attention from pro scouts as long as I didn’t burn-out my arm or get hurt, and merely continued to developing as 16-year olds do. Jim Hawkins, the sportswriter, even wrote about Tommy, saying “Johansson may even have a better shot at the pros than Petrie, because catchers just don’t wield the big stick like this kid can hit. This kid’s a superstar with a bright future!”
The morning after we won state, we made the front of the sports page: “Electric Battery Clinches Title for Washington High.” My fastball had been on fire, my curve was baffling the Brophy squad, and the change-up I had perfected, according to the article, “Embarrassed Brophy’s batters all the way back to the dugout in David Petrie’s dazzling 12-strikeouts, 4-hit, shut-out performance.” It went on, “Tommy Johansson, the other half of the ‘Electric Battery,’ scored 4 RBIs on two doubles and a home run that sailed over the fence in dead center, and is probably still rolling, smashed with power this writer has never witnessed in a high schooler.”
In the season opener our senior year, I got the start because St. Mary’s Catholic High stole lots of great players from all over town, giving them scholarships, and seemed to field an all-star team every year. They, like the all-boys Catholic high school (Brophy College Prep) recruited city-wide, always earn a slot in the playoffs, and were serious inter-division rivals.
Four innings in, electric-like pings started in my elbow. It didn’t hurt, but sure didn’t feel good. I found that if I adjusted my motion, it wasn’t so bad. But, after about 10 pitches with the change in my mechanics, all of a sudden it felt like someone hit the inside of my shoulder with a rubber sledge hammer. I shook my mitt off my right hand, and grabbed my shoulder. Tommy flung his mask and charged the mound. Coach Brown raced to the mound, screaming, “TIME! TIME OUT!” at the ump. I told ’em I was okay, but I was done.
We had a 2-run lead and Preston--who had chronic control problems--was called to warm-up on the mound as I went to ‘ride the pines,“ as Coach Brown called sitting on the bench. Mr. Sheets, the assistant coach, had a towel full of ice from the cooler ready to wrap my shoulder, numbing the pain. .
Preston threw a few warm-ups, and Tommy kept looking over at me on the bench. I knew he was all weirded-out, wondering how bad it was.
The first batter flied out. Then, this guy Danielson stepped-up. Tommy kept glancing over so many times I had to wave him off. Preston’s first pitch to the right-handed batter was way outside, and Tommy had to lunge to snag it. Tommy’s look to me seemed to say, “Oh crap, Preston’s hog-wild!” the same foreboding thought I had.
The world went into slo-mo. Tommy was shooting me a look as Preston’s fastball left his hand, heading inside. This guy Danielson stepped back to connect with the barrel of the bat--not the handle--unleashing a vicious swing. Tommy, for whatever reason, ducked inside and a little forward, and the bat clipped the edge of his mask. More than a game was lost. Profoundly more.
Two neck surgeries and three months later, Tommy was still hospitalized, in traction, paralyzed from the neck down. He’d be in a motorized wheelchair, forever. After school and practices and games…I visited every day. Lots of those days, all we said was “Hi,” because he didn’t feel like talking.
We won the College World series. I accepted a pro contract after my junior year at Arizona State. Clipping after clipping compared me to the all-time great lefties, “The Next Juan Marichal” or Whitey Ford or Sandy Koufax. Tommy never missed a Sun Devils home game whether I was pitching or not. I had asked him, once, why he came when I wasn’t slated for the mound.
“You’ve never seen it in the bigs…when the starter and relievers totally blow it and the manager calls-in a starter, even on short rest?”
“This is college, Tommy! College.You’re nuts, Johansson.”
“Nope, just a fan, mah-man!”
I signed with the San Francisco Giants. I wouldn’t sign with a team that had Spring Training outside Arizona. I, not Danielson, put Tommy in that chair and I owed him a life. Tommy never agreed.
Since age 12, I had never thrown a wild pitch in a game. Yeah, there were passed balls, errors charged to catchers. They were common with knuckle-ballers and pitchers whose command exerted pronounced inflight movement on baseballs… and when low, tricky to catch, at best.
Tommy maintained that Danielson was a victim, too. With any conscience, he might be haunted reliving the scene at home plate. Tommy said he prayed for Danielson, because while Tommy would never physically heal, Danielson could recover, stave off ghosts that may haunt and even awaken him in cold-beaded sweats in hours the rest of the world slept.
Award of the sole claim for Tommy’s accident and consequences wouldn’t make a difference in anyone’s life. We were details in the history, involved in different ways with different ramifications--some of our doing, and maybe scripting a future undoing.
That awful day, Tommy’s mind was on me-- all the glances over to the bench-- and the game. We both knew Preston’s control issues, and that inconsistency along with the pressure in this game could make the baseball’s flight path completely unpredictable.
I got hurt. Tommy got crippled in the 'non-contact' sport of baseball. Non-contact ignored outfielders who routinely crashed into walls chasing lined drives or trying to convert a home run into an out with a perfectly timed leap and gloved acuity bringing cheers from thousand and millions. And what career catcher, guarding the plate from an oncoming runner trying to score from third base, hadn’t been spiked when the runner’s slide was cletes-first?
Tommy went to every Spring Training game. I flew him to San Francisco, and arranged for him to be in the dugout for my first start as a major leaguer. He wore our Giants game jersey I had customized, with his name embroidered on the back, and "53," the number he wore in high school.
We won, 1-0. Tommy was ecstatic when I ran off the field from teammate hugs and high-5s to hug Tommy in his chair. There were tears in his eyes and I used my sleeve to wipe them away. “You shut ‘em out! You totally shut ‘em out in your first game!,” Tommy said, with more glee in his voice than I had heard since before the accident. Well, except for getting the Giants’ phone call, one I shared with Tommy at my folks’ house during Major League Baseball’s draft.
Tommy co-owned this wn, more than just a baseball victory. With Tommy there, wearing his old number in his jersey matching mine, it was his face I imagined behind the mask, and his glove to which I threw.
“It was easy. When it got tough on the mound, I looked over at you in the dugout, looked at the catcher’s mitt behind the plate, and imagined you and me being 12 again. So…here.”
He cried when I handed him the game ball of my first win. I felt tears, too.
“We’ll always be the ‘Electric Battery,’ buddy, even if yours has to roll you into the cheap seats at my games!”
“Stuff it, Petrie! Have you ever seen the areas reserved for the handicapped in ballparks? This chair gets me the best view in the house, like free parking in the loge level!,”
“You’re such a weirdo,” I teased.
“Just a fan, mah-man. Just a fan,” he said.
And we laughed as only lifelong friends can.
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