Two things happened on that blistering July day that, at first, seemed one to have nothing to do with the other. In hindsight, finishing my dad’s DVD collection of the old Lone Ranger TV show with episode number 221 and what seemed like the 221st time I watched Joey Martin knock down a neighborhood kid may have been fate.
I had unfortunately just spent my sixth grade year in the same homeroom as Joey. He lived four houses down from me on the block and loved to shove around anyone who was smaller than him around. This was every kid, seeing as how he was already six feet tall.
Due to the record breaking summer heat wave, my little sister, Tonya, and I found ourselves stuck indoors often during the oppressive heat of the midday sun. We had fumbled through my dad’s DVD collection of old TV shows and came across his complete five season collection of the Lone Ranger.
I was drawn into the world of the Lone Ranger and his kemosabe Tonto episode by episode. From the pulse pounding opening to justice winning at the end, my life’s mission became clear. I would follow the principles laid forth in the Lone Ranger’s creed, “I believe in being prepared physically, mentally, and morally to fight when necessary for that which is right.” I knew of only one injustice to be righted.
Joey would be my Butch Cavendish. I knew I was morally and mentally ready to fight for that which is right, it was just the physical part that concerned me. I knew the answer would be found in approaching the problem Ranger’s way. I would work against Joey’s weakness.
Joey liked to target kids when they were walking the neighborhood alone in the area behind the park. It maximized his intimidation factor catching them alone and minimized being caught by an adult. That was his vulnerable spot and that is what I would turn against him.
A brilliant plan began to form in my mind. To pull it off I would need a sidekick. I filled in Tonya on what I was going to do and she readily agreed to be my Tonto. I didn’t realize how into the idea she was until she showed up at breakfast the next morning dressed in her Pocahontas Halloween costume.
We headed out after breakfast but before we started out I tied the mask I had cut out of an old black t-shirt around my eyes. If I was going to follow the part, I needed to look the part. Step one was to gather up a posse of kids to pull off the plan. Tonya and I circled through the neighborhood trying to rally up support.
After leaving the first few kids confused with my Lone Ranger speech using part of the creed, “God put the firewood there but every man must gather it and light it himself,” Tonya suggested I be a little more to the point. Let them know if they want to stop being picked on by Joey Martin then they must help do something about it.
Knowing that Joey typically hits the park area just after dinner time looking for victims we got everyone hidden in positions around the area. The plan was simple; we take away Joey’s private crime time. Much like when the Lone Ranger had the town rally together in the episode The Town Outlaw, we would use numbers against Joey.
I served as the bait and began my head down trudge around the area behind the park. As if scripted, Joey shows up on cue and yells for me to come to him. With my head still down I walked slowly toward him. When I get ten feet from him I look up at him with confidence and justice blazing in my eyes behind the mask.
I click my fingers and suddenly Joey finds himself surrounded by an Indian girl and twenty other kids. I tell him his bullying days are over as he turns and runs.
As Tonya and I walk off I hear one of the other kids say, “Who was that masked kid?”
About the Creator
Don Money
Don Money was raised in Arkansas on a farm. After ten years in the Air Force, he returned to his roots in Arkansas. He is married with five kids. His journey to become a writer began in the sixth grade when he wrote his first short story.
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 Wiggins5 days ago in Fiction
Lazy crow and frog
Once upon a time, in a serene timber nestled between towering trees and prattling becks , lived a lazy crow named Carl and a hastily hopping frog named Freddy. Carl was famed among the creatures of the timber for his laid- back station and disinclination to do any work. On the other hand, Freddy was known for his energetic nature and his partiality for completing tasks with lightning speed. One sunny morning, as Carl lolled lazily on a sturdy branch of an oak tree, Freddy hopped by, his legs a blur of exertion." Good morning, Carl!" he chirruped mirthfully.
By vinoth kumar4 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.