Fastballs After DarkSometimes They Can Throw You A Curve
by Wendel Potter
No matter how old I get, I will always revel in the dawn-breaking song of the waking birds. Nature will never fail to astound me with its yearly show of flowers in glorious bloom. And there'll be nothing more lazily satisfying than standing guard (sitting, actually) by the grill in the late-afternoon heat, sucking on a cold beverage while cheeseburgers spit and sizzle over a charcoal fire.
And sitting on the porch in the quiet of a summer evening, I like to dwell on those things that can only be relived in memory. The wonderful juvenile things that will never be an active part of my adulthood but stand out as highlights of my youth.
I'm talking about the boyhood things of simpler times, before the sophistication of the electronic age. Kids today can sit for hours in front of a television, if you let them, and play their high-tech video games, unaware of the joyful outdoor summer activities that we cooked up just using our own imaginations.
Which brings me to something I'd like to get off my chest after 35 years: I'd like to apologize to the poor guy in the late '50s Chevy who, with his driver's window cranked open on a stifling night, took a line drive to the head with a hard, green apple.
Wow! That must have hurt. At least I figured it did, judging from the nasty howl the fellow let out.
At first, I was proud. After all, I was never the pitcher whom Little League coaches would call to the mound in a game-saving effort. But that night, I launched a whizzing missile that traveled every bit of 60 feet. Granted, it might have been with the wind. It might have even been against the wind; I don't know. What I do know is that this is Nebraska. There was definitely wind.
As I recall, my cohorts in crime at the time were my brother, Donnie, and my friend, whom I shall call Ted (mainly because his name was Ted). When that guy's yelp of pain put a chill on the hot summer night air, Donnie and Ted congratulated me. (The high five had not yet been invented.)
When the victim slammed on his brakes and bolted from the car, holding his head and stumbling around in the dark, swearing that he'd find his would-be assassin, my faithful cohorts turned tail and ran. Believe me, I was right behind them. Within a block, I was ahead of them.
I suddenly felt like Dr. Kimble on "The Fugitive." Except I was guilty. There was no one-armed apple thrower to pin this one on.
Swiping apples from the tree of our neighbor lady (whom I shall call Neighbor Lady) and hurling them at cars as they drove by our hideaway in the bushes along a vacant lot just off Main Street was a standard form of entertainment for young boys in a small town. There was a thrill of victory in the thud of an apple against a car's door or fender. We felt like field marshals.
Of course, we never even considered the possible consequences of our hoodlum antics. We didn't stop to think about the damage an apple could do to a car, especially if it hit a windshield. On that particular night, it had never occurred to me that the fellow's window might be down or that, if it was, I could even manage to smack him in the head.
That's why I'd like to apologize, for that and every other rotten thing we kids did 35 years ago. Although we meant no harm, we could have done some serious damage. An apple a day might keep the doctor away, but it could have brought the police down on us in a hurry.
After reminiscing about the stunts we pulled back in those days, I can wander back into the house and ask GW, "What are the boys doing?"
If she answers, "They're playing video games," then I can rest easy knowing they're not sitting in a vacant lot with an armful of apples, practicing their fastball.
Copyright 2000 Wendel Potter
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