Catching Pop Flies
My brother Dan and I still argue over which one of us got shot in the butt with a bb and which one did the shooting. I think I pulled the trigger and got in trouble afterwards. He says it was me who got shot. I was maybe ten, so Dan was either seven or eight. I remember a large woodpile next to the propane gas tank in our backyard, the firewood thrown in a disheveled heap like there might be a bonfire later. I want to say that the wood was stacked one log on top of the other like an unsafe stairway, lower at the ends and capping out in the middle. But that's not how I remember it. I think it took up a considerable chunk of our backyard.
I didn't take a direct shot at my brother. I was aiming for the woodpile. My mom had warned me not to shoot at the wood, saying the bb could ricochet and hit me, hurt my dog Knuckles, or crack a window on the back side of the house. I don't think I believed her. Plus, maybe I saw a snake or a rat and that's why I took the shot. The bb ricocheted, beaming my brother on his right cheek. At least according to me. I wasn't allowed to play with the gun after that when Dad was away. Dan says what happened is that he shot me on purpose, that we both lost shooting privileges. He says it was to get me back for pinning him down in a wrestling move when our cousins Chris and Mike were over.
My dad warned me all the time that Dan would get bigger than me one day, that I would pay for bullying him. Dad wouldn't let me forget my genetic weakness. He fought hard against it, arming me with bb guns, pellet guns, baseball bats, bows and arrows. And fishhooks. I remember baiting hooks with earthworms I had dug up by hand from the damp soil in the pasture next to the creek, the way those slimy brown bodies writhed as I hooked them in sections, making each one into an 's.' Dad said earthworms might still live even if you break them in half or in sections. He said they have seven hearts and don't need them all to survive. And I think I do remember watching halved earthworms wiggle along different paths after being split apart. Minnows were baited differently, the point of the hook entering through the eye and coming out the other side of their thin heads.
My dad and I played catch, too, and not just for fun either. Dad insisted I not flinch when he beamed the ball at my worn leather glove, suspended between my chin and sternum. "Don't close your eyes. Watch the ball and you won't get hit."
When I dodged the ball, shifting to the left or right, he yelled at me, "Don't be afraid of the ball!" So I learned precision, snagging balls on a path with my face, my shin, or the propane tank behind me. I thought he was training me for something. I thought I might get to play on a team. So I sucked it up when he made me pitch til dark, refusing to go inside until I landed a fast pitch straight into his stationary glove. If he had to, he'd make me angry on purpose. He said it made me throw faster. If I was mad enough, I'd go in for dinner certain that the dull thud of cork against leather had stung his palm. Happy it might have hurt a little.
I stopped playing catch with my dad when he forbade me to try out for the baseball team. It was an all boy's team, he said. Still, when I was older, I volunteered to catch pop-flies for my brother when he practiced at home between game days.
*couldn't verify whether pop flys, pop fly's or pop flies is correct -- none of them seem right. :)
Good job “getting off subject,” Pam. I thought the transition was nice and smooth.
ReplyDeleteI worry that this piece dwells a little too long in exposition, however. While I enjoy reading about you shooting your brother in the butt with a BB gun, I also would like to read the reactions to that. Of course, you got in trouble, but how did your mother react? Was she angry, or did she land in more of the “disappointment” camp? Did your brother fall on the ground screaming and holding his butt? That’s (retrospective) comedy gold.
Also – is the true subject of this piece catching pop flies? Or might that serve better as the “on-ramp” to the tale, and then get into the whole BB gun story? I wonder, too, why the two of you argue over which one of you did the shooting. You’d think getting your butt shot with a bb gun would be a pretty memorable experience, one in which you wouldn’t get all mixed up over who was holding the gun and who was receiving the BB in unpleasant areas. In my opinion, I think you should switch around the progression of this story because what I really want to hear about is the shooting incident, in great detail, with dialogue.
Although Davidson said not to get too adjective happy, I think the interaction about the BB shooting itself needs just a little more detail. If not more adjectives, then dialogue definitely and more thought process. MacKenzie already pointed out the reaction of the mother, but do you remember your own reactions by chance? I feel the need for a little more emotion from the narrator. Secondly, I think you might have two different stories here - the BB incident and the building up of masculine personality by your father. I think you already developed a lot of the key characteristics and events that the second story would require, and I would begin with the line about your dad warned you about the bullying Dan would do to you. You may not have meant to word the events in such a manner, but I find it extremely interesting how your father encouraged you to be tough and be a good ball-player and then decided you didn't need to play baseball because it was an all-male team. I would LOVE to see more of these memories come together for an essay.
ReplyDeleteHowever, I too would like to hear more about the BB incident between you and your brother in great depth with lots more dialogue, as Mackenzie as already mentioned.