The Mascot
A Story Every Day in 2024 March 21st 81/366
"Morning, Mr. Humphries," Paul shouted as Mr. Humphries headed out. Paul knew a secret about Mr. Humphries but he would never tell anyone. Not because Mr. Humphries had told him not to, because Mr. Humphries didn't know he knew, but because he, Paul, wanted to keep it to himself. He was young, but he sensed that Mr. Humphries would not want others to know. He felt like it would bring trouble to Mr. Humphries so he kept quiet.
His mum didn't like him, Mr. Humphries. She thought there was something weird about him because he was quiet and kept himself to himself but always nodded and smiled at the children in the street. She called him something, "a peedo" but Paul didn't know what that meant. She just always got angry with him, Paul, when he said "Hello" to him. All of the kids liked Mr. Humphries. He never offered them sweets or anything sus.
He was just a bloke that lived on Paul's street.
None of his friends had a bad word to say about him. No-one was scared of him.
Except adults.
Mr. Humphries nodded at him and went into his house. Mr. Humphries had never spoken to him but he always nodded and smiled. He used to live with his mum and "doted" on her, so Paul's mum said. Paul didn't know what that meant but thought it meant that he looked after her, which he did. Mrs. Humphries was nice but she was dead now so Mr. Humphries lived on his own.
He heard his mum talking, saying "How could he afford it when he didn't have a job?" but he did have a job. Paul knew.
Every Saturday, Mr. Humphries would jump in his car and head out. Paul knew where some weeks because his team was at home.
He'd seen the costume when he'd gone to get his football from Mr. Humphries' garden. It was on a chair in the back room. He'd been frightened at first because he thought Mr. Humphries had stolen it.
But he knew. When his dad took him over for a fist bump and the mascot ruffled his hair, he knew.
Mr. Humphries was inside.
***
366 words
Inspired by a football match I went to, I started to speculate on the people who bring the mascots alive. There's a sort of Boo Radley feel to this too, about the assumptions we make about the people who don't conform to the lifestyle that we expect of them. Just because they don't fit the mould, does that make them odd?
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Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (9)
Sweet little story about a sweet little kid who probably should keep this knowledge to himself as his mom might not allow him to attend any more games if she finds out.
It's true, people are so quick to judge. That said, I can't help but wonder myself ot there's more to Mr. Humphries.
Since you mentioned pedo, I know he wasn't one. Then I thought this was the guy from your other story that screwed the girls' mom. Like maybe he was getting money from screwing her, lol. Then I remembered your The Mascot title and connected the dots. As for your question, to me, the people who fit into the mold are the odd ones, especially when they think the people who don't, are. Loved your story so much! People should learn to mind their business and be less judgemental!
This was fab. It’s way too easy to judge people and second guess how they live their lives. This was a much needed reminder to be nice.
Such an authentic child voice in all the narration! I loved how it captured just how much kids observe and retain even if they don’t understand all of it
Yes the judgements and assumptions - and now consciously stop myself from judging. This is a great story, I loved it! Nice Mr Humphries bringing joy but not bragging.
I love this story, how innocently you bring shades of grey to a while host of characters.
THis is another example of your ability to capture an authentic, lived experience. The story's syntax was jarring at first, till I recognized that you had taken the voice of someone young and inexperienced. This increased the authenticity of the boy's voice in the piece. Again, very impressive storytelling. I loved your positive spin on the twist. I loved it all.
You did a fantastic job of building suspense and keeping the reader engaged. I had few assumptions on the secret. The subtle tension in the story kept me engaged till the end. Nice work Racheal.