Play Ball

This story is based on memories I had of growing up in a family full of WWII veterans, and how differently I was treated after serving in the Army.

Play Ball – by Mark Andersen

The family reunion, a once a year event in the small Midwestern town where Jim’s grandparents had settled, an event where distant relatives came together to celebrate nothing more than being members of the same clan. Every year glasses were raised to toast those who had passed away, and glasses were again raised to welcome the newest additions to the tribe.

The gathering was at the same park every year; one would find the park hidden away in small forest just on the edge of town. A narrow one-lane gravel road led up to main shelter house. The building was in reality an old barn from the failed farm that was on this site. There was a plaque on the outside wall of the old cowshed thanking the Dickenson clan for nobly donating the land to the city for a park; the reality was that Jim’s grandfather gave up the land to pay back taxes on the farm some fifty years ago. Jim guessed the city fathers felt guilty forty years later when they turned the family homestead into a park.

In the shelter house, there were several picnic tables setup in rows. In the center four tables were lined up end-to-end that were to be filled with food, at the end of this row of tables was a stack of plastic cups, next to the plastic cups in a large blue bucket of ice was half-barrel of beer. As the families arrived, the tables filled with food. Brothers, sisters, and cousins hugged and exchanged pleasantries. The younger children ran over to the nearby baseball diamond to play a pickup game.

As the day wore on and after the meal was eaten, the women gravitated to one side of the outbuilding, while the men gravitated to another side, oddly enough, the half-barrel of beer gravitated to the side of the shelter house where the men were. There was an unwritten rule that children were not allowed on the men’s side of the building. Jim would often sneak as close as he could to listen to his uncles talk; they had amazing stories of war and its glories.

Many of Jim’s uncles were WWII veterans men that to Jim were bigger than life. Men whom Jim wanted to emulate. The regaled themselves with stories of a war that had ended some 40 years before. They all knew everything there was to know about each other’s exploits. Yet, each year they asked the same questions of each other and told the same stories. Two uncles stayed silent, year after year, the wartime trauma still fresh in their minds so many years later.

“Where were you stationed John” he heard his Uncle Kevin ask of his Dad. “I was on the USS Enterprise.”

“Oh Yeah, that’s right, I don’t know how you could go to sea…no place to dig a goddamned foxhole.”

“Like you have room to talk, you were in a bomber over Germany”

“I flew fighters, don’t you dare compare me to one of those goddamned bomber jocks.”

“Pete, tell that story again about how you caught those two krauts taken a shit and you captured ‘em”

“Y’all have heard that one a thousand times, and I don’t know if I can bullshit my way through it the same way anymore”

“Carl, where were you stationed again” his dad asked turning his attention to his brother-in-law.

“John, you damn well know I didn’t go.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right, what was it again, flat feet?” Jim’s dad said as Carl got up and walked away, while all of the veterans at the table laughed amongst themselves.

Jim’s father and Uncles held those that had not served on low regard. As the beer flowed, they were not afraid to hold the non-veterans in contempt, even if they were family. Through it all, two of Jim’s Uncles sat drinking their beer in silence. No one asked questions of them, no one bothered them about serving or not serving. Jim knew that his Uncle Robin had been in the Army during the war, but that was about it; Uncle Robin never discussed the war. He was not sure about his Uncle Harry. He thought his cousin Will had said something about him being a paratrooper, but that was about all he had been able to find out.

As the years went by, Jim grew from a child into a man, when he graduated from High School, he wanted nothing more than to join the Army and be like his father and uncles. Serve his country, go to war, become a hero and tell glorious tales. The day before his induction into the army, his Uncles who had served came to town to wish him luck. Absent were Uncle Robin and Uncle Harry.

When Jim arrived at Fort Benning, Georgia for basic training he was no longer Jim Dickenson, he was now Dickenson. He had learned to answer to maggot or any one of a thousand names the drill instructors could come up with to demean him. It was late March; the days were long and physically and mentally punishing. After what seemed like years and tens of thousands of push-ups, sit-ups and miles run, basic training was over. It was time for his advanced training.

Advanced training was really just an extension of basic, he had the same malevolent drill sergeants, the same barracks, the only difference, it was now late May, and the coolness of late spring had given way to the brutal heat of a Georgia summer. In his advanced training, he learned how to kill his fellow man in a much more efficient manner. He played war, honing his skills; he had become adept at his chosen profession. His next step was airborne school; he was going to become a paratrooper.

For Airborne school he moved across post, over by the two hundred foot towers. Just looking at them gave him an adrenaline rush. First ground week, then tower week and finally jump week. Each week was more mentally and physically punishing than the last. The blackhats made the immorality of his drill sergeants a pleasant memory; they were relentless, pushing him right up to the point of breakdown each day. The three weeks of Airborne school seemed to last forever, just as it seemed it would never end Jim completed his fifth jump. His Dad came down to witness his final jump and to pin Jim’s wings on his chest, he was not sure who was more proud, him or his Dad.

It was August; it was finally time to home on leave. He could not go home with his father, as Jim had to wait for his orders. A week after his graduation Jim received his personnel folder; he could not believe his eyes, the 101st Airborne Division, 1/502 Infantry. The famed 101st Airborne…he never imagined in his wildest dreams that he would be assigned to the most famous division in the army.
As he was reading his orders, CNN blared in the background, “Today, Saddam Hussein sent the Iraqi Army into Kuwait…”

His flight from Atlanta finally landed in his hometown; his parents greeted him at the airport. As they drove up to his childhood home there was a banner across the front of the house welcoming him home. Aunts, uncles and cousins came to see him. His uncles Robin and Harry were there…both with a distressed look on their faces. As the celebration wore on Jim had a rare moment alone, when his Uncle Harry walked up to him. His uncle looked at him, in his dress greens, his eyes fell on the patch on his left shoulder.

“101st, that is a good unit.” His uncle paused

“I was with ‘em from ’43 to ’45.”

“You were? I have never heard you talk about it before”

“Some things, cannot be put into words that people who were not there or were not a part of it would understand. And some things, you never want to relive, even though the things you saw and did torment you every single day of your life.”

Jim nodded, not wanting to say anything that would stop his uncle from opening up.

“You, you are now a part of the brotherhood, however, you do not yet have the scars to know the words. I hope this thing in the Middle East is over before you are traumatized the way your Uncle Robin and I have been. We have enough mental wounds to last this family for several lifetimes.”

Those words kept going through his head, what had his Uncle Harry meant. Jim had no idea. It was midnight when Jim arrived at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. He reported to the 20th replacement depot where he went through his in processing, after a week he finally got to his unit and immediately started to prepare for deployment; they were going to Saudi Arabia.

Once in the Saudi Arabian desert, the hours turned to days, days to weeks, weeks to months, where the only war fought was against boredom…then the air war started…he could feel an anxious fear welling up inside him. Then, the ground war opened up. Jim saw and did things, he did not understand, nor could he comprehend. He saw his friends die. He killed the enemy. The enemy almost killed him. His world centered on him, his rifle, and the guys to the left and right of him. Then, as fast as it had started, it was over. It was all a blur to him, images that he could not get out of his head, sights, sounds and smells that came to him in his sleep, tormenting him. He thought to himself,

“My god, what have I done, please forgive me.”

When Jim came home from the war, it was time for the annual family reunion. The number of uncles who had gone to war in the 40’s was dwindling; however, the core group was still alive and as the day wore on they gravitated to the one side of the shelter house, still telling the same stories from a lifetime ago. This time, there was new member in their midst. Jim sat quietly, drinking his beer, sitting next to Uncle Robin and Uncle Harry. Jim said nothing, but he now understood his Uncle Harry’s words. He now bore the same mental wounds as he did. He wondered to himself,

“If only my Dad and uncles knew the true cost of human conflict…if only they knew the absolute madness of man killing his fellow man…they would not be glorifying war.”

He now realized why his Uncle Robin and Uncle Harry never spoke of their time in combat. They knew the boys were listening, and they did not want to glorify warfare. They knew the only way to stop the madness, was to stop glorifying man’s foolish crusades. If young men did not have an idealized, sanitized, John Wayne, Hollywood picture of battle, maybe then the madness could end. Jim stood up and walked out to where he knew his younger cousins were hiding and listening.

“Hey, get your gloves and that bat I saw y’all playing with earlier. Let’s play some ball.”

Missy's Story

There is a little bit of truth to this story...A woman who I re-connected with on facebook recently is the basis for the little girl. We were in grade school and high school together, and she always had Twinkies and would not share them. One day on facebook she had posted a status update that said "Someone tell me a story." So I wrote this for her in about ten minutes. It is short, and I see potential for it to be a longer story.

Missy’s Story - By Mark Andersen

A long, long time ago, a little girl always had Twinkies in her lunch box. A little boy who never got Twinkies coveted those golden spongy cakes. He tried everything to get them from her. He tried trading her his Bologna and ketchup sandwich, at which she turned up her nose. He offered to push her on the swings at recess, she accepted, he pushed, and still never got even a whiff of one of those cream filled delights. He carried her books home for her, and yet never got anything more than a kiss on the cheek, being nine, he would have rather had that wondrous delight from Hostess.

The school year ended, and he never did get a snack cake from the little girl. The next year school started and the little girl was not there. He was heartbroken he had no chance of getting a one now. Just then, his teacher called his name and asked him to come up to the front of the room. His teacher handed him a box of Twinkies, with a note from the little girls mother. Thanking him for being her friend in the last days of her life, and how she made her Mom promise to give a box of Twinkies to the little boy because she felt so bad for not giving him one. The little boy opened the box, and with a tear in his eye gave one to each his classmates, he would never eat a Twinkie again.

Bottom of a glass

This started out as a couple paragraphs a year or so ago. I modified the story several times and ended up with two endings, I am not sure which one I like best. Please let me know your thoughts.

Bottom of a glass - By Mark Andersen

My day of searching for work, any work was finally over; I could finally stop for a desperately needed drink. I had been lucky enough to make a few bucks cleaning an old woman’s gutters today, so I could afford to stop and quell the tremors that were going through my body. I walked into the parking lot of a non-descript building. The only way you knew the place was a tavern was the neon signs in the dirty windows.

I opened the door and the bar patrons squinted in the light of the open door; I walked up to the bar and sat on a stool. As I waited for the bartender, I looked around the darkened room. Salesmen were plying their clients with drink to get them to buy more. The lonely woman, whose flower had faded, was clutching the drunken younger man for her shot at feeling fresh and young once again. The younger man she was holding was looking through drunken eyes at a youthful beauty, not a faded flower. Then there was the barfly, who has nowhere else to go, striking up a conversation with anyone about anything, just to tamp down the feelings of loneliness he felt.

It seemed like no matter where I went to escape the rigors of everyday life, these same people were always there. The faces were different; however, they were the same clientele. It did not matter if I went to an upscale bistro, or the lowest dive bar. They were always the same. In some ways, I felt indifferent to the defeated inebriates in the taproom, feeling neither joy nor sorrow for their plights. On occasion I may feel as if I should stand up and shout to the regulars that there is more to life than sitting in a tavern...but then again, who was I to talk...I was also sitting on a stool in a saloon. The bartender, a gruff looking middle-aged man who looked like he had been a boxer in a former life walked up to me and said, “What’ll it be Mac?”

My body shuddered in anticipation of the elixir I would soon be drinking; it was all I could do not to shout out, “Give me a Fucking beer NOW!” instead, in a low calm voice I asked,

“What do you have on tap?” I asked

“Bud, Miller and Schlitz.”

None of those sounded appealing to me, I was hoping for a local craft beer…but in my desperation, I would settle for the leavings at the bottom of the keg.

“Give me a Schlitz.” I said with an edge to my voice.

The bartender brought me a pilsner glass, a tall, slender, tapered 12-ounce trumpet shaped schooner, inside that vessel, a golden colored brew. Like a Pavlovian dog, my mouth watered at the sight of it, perfectly poured with a white foam head. I took a sip, it hit the spot, the shakes would soon stop.

I was not always a drunk spending my last dime on beer; I used to rush home from a high paying job every night to my wife and children. That all changed about six months ago when I came home from work and found an empty house. Nothing but a note lying in the middle of the living room floor, a note that left more questions than answers, the note simply said, “I am leaving you.” I have not heard from her or my children since that day. I called the police; they said they could not force her to talk to me. My lawyer said that it will take time but he will eventually get me some kind of custody agreement. Not sure why I want custody anymore…I do not want my kids to see me as a broken man who can only find joy at the bottom of a glass. I did track down her mother one day to see if she would talk to me. She just looked at me as if I was some kind of monster. I wish I knew what I had done, what I had said to lose everything that was important to me in my life.

I counted the money in my pocket; I had earned fifty dollars today, at four bucks a beer that bought me twelve beers and left me enough to leave a tip. It would be cheaper for me to buy a case at the grocery store, but going to that crappy apartment to drink it alone was even more depressing than drinking it here. The only thing she left me was my clothes. She even took the nails out of the walls that once held the family photos, it only took me a couple months to lose that cold empty house, not that I cared anymore, the bank could have it back, it was nothing more than an empty shell, much like me. At least, in my mind, I could justify my drinking; it was the only thing that would put me to sleep on the filthy carpet in my apartment; alcohol was the only way I could find peace in my life.

My glass was empty, the bartender who was still there asked, “Want another?”

“Yea, I will have another.”

“You drank that first one kinda fast, everything alright?” The bartender asked.

“Yea, everything is alright, just thirsty.” I replied.

“Alright Mac, slow it down though.”

“Alright.” I said, my mouth already watering for another beer.

The bartender set the glass in front of me; I counted out eight singles and paid for the beer. I drank slower this time, savoring the flavor as the amber liquid slid down my throat. My shakes had stopped; I was beginning to feel normal again. Funny, the closer I got to being in an altered state, the closer I felt to being normal.

I was about to order another when she came in and sat beside me…I smelled her perfume first, it was an aroma that did not belong here, a sweet lilac smell that was out of place in a locale that smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. Not only was her scent out of place, she was out of place in this hole in the wall dive bar. She was a petite thing, barely coming up to my shoulder. Blonde hair and blue eyes as well as a style that said she did not belong here.

She asked the bartender, “Can I use your phone.”

“Phone is for payin’ customers.” He replied.

She looked close to tears…

“She is with me, let her use the phone.” I said.

“Thank you sir.” She said.

The bartender handed her the phone, she made a call and then hung up without a word.

“No one answered.” She said.

“You look outta place here, is there something I can help you with.” I said.

“I have a flat…I tried calling my Dad to change it, but he never turns on his cell phone.” She said.

“Why, don’t I go out and take a look at it.” I said.

“No, I couldn’t impose. I will just keep trying; he is bound to turn on his phone.”

“Look, I am just having a beer; it won’t take me but a minute to look at it.”

“Ok, I really would appreciate it.”

“Not a problem.”

I followed her out of the bar, watching he glide across the floor with confidence. For the first time in months, I was actually interested in something, someone other than me. She looked back at me, flicked her hair and smiled at me.

We walked across the parking lot when she said,
“It’s the red one over there.”

We walked over to her car, a newer model Toyota. I could see right away her tire need to changed, she must have driven it flat, the tire was in shreds around the rim, there was no way that tire was being patched.

“Can you pop the trunk so I can get the jack and spare.” I asked.

“Sure.” She said.

I pulled the spare and jack out of the trunk, then walked around the front of the car and loosened the lug nuts, then put the jack under the car. The wheel came up off the ground; I took the lug nuts off the wheel and pulled what was left of the tire off the car. I put the spare on and tightened the lug nuts then lowered the car.

She smiled and twirled her hair around her finger and asked,
“Can I buy you a beer for helping a damsel in distress.”

“No, but I would love to have a cup of coffee with you.” I said.

“I would love that.” She said.


Ending One

I got in the car with her, wondering just what in the hell I was doing. The tremors started a block away from the bar. While she was filling the car with small talk, it was all I could do to nod and say “Uh-Huh.” By the time we got to Starbucks I was visibly shaking from the lack of alcohol.

“Are you Ok.” She asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just a reaction to a medicine I have to take.” I said.
Once in the coffee shop the palpitations become stronger, it was as if my body was screaming for demon alcohol. I could barely comprehend what she was saying, let alone respond to her flirtations. It felt as if water was streaming out of my pores as I was sweating so much.

“Are you married or do you have a girlfriend?” she asked.

“I…I am going through a divorce.” I rasped.

“L…L…Look, I have to go, I don’t belong here with you, I…I…Have to go.” I continued.

“Why? I would like to get to know you.” She said.

“L…L…Look, I am no good for you, I am no good for anyone.” I said as I staggered up into a standing position.

“Wait.” She said as I turned around and walked out of Starbucks.

I walked back to the characterless building I had come from; I sidled back in, sitting in the same bar stool. I caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a Schlitz, as I drank, the tremors slowed and stopped. I felt at ease. I crawled into the bottom of my glass and a sense of peace came over me. Even though I knew the torment would be back tomorrow morning, at least for now, I was oblivious to the world.

Alternate Ending

I don’t know what came over me at that point…I don’t know if it was her come hither smile, or the way she was flicking her hair. Something in me just snapped. She had become the embodiment of everything that had gone wrong in my life. I swung the tire tool at her head; I made contact, like a batter hitting a home run. Blood sprayed everywhere. I kept hitting her, until her lifeless body lie crumpled on the ground.
I walked back into the bar, covered in blood, tire tool still in my hand. The bartender yelled out,

“God in heaven what have you done?”

“Just get me a fuckin’ beer.” I said in a low growl

“I don’t want any trouble, here ya go.” The bartender said as set a beer down in front of me.

“Call the cops; tell ‘em there was a murder out front.”

The police arrived a few minutes later, the bartender pointed me out…like the cops couldn’t tell it was me who did it…I just sat at the bar drinking my beer.

“Sir, turn around and put your hands up.” The cop said with authority.

“Nah, I am going to finish my beer, then, I will go quietly.” I replied.

“Sir, if you do not comply we will use force.” The cop said.

I stood up, grabbed the tire tool.

“I just want to finish my fucking beer.” I said in low animal like growl

I took a step towards the cop, raising the tire tool above my head to strike him….

That was the last thing I remember. Now, looking down on the white sheet that covers my body, I realize the horror of what I have done, I not only destroyed my life. I destroyed the life of a young woman, her family and my children. The choices I have made will leave them with no tranquility in their lives, and I will have no peace where I am going.

Hello and welcome to my Blog

I have been writing short stories on and off for most of my life. As I became more confident in my writing skills I began to post my short stories on facebook for my friends to read. Now, I am looking for a wider audience. I look forward to sharing my stories with you.