It was the third day in a row that Vashon Island played hide and seek in the early morning fog. It came and it went leaving me nothing but puffs of gray to see. I was getting restless. I could have done yard work . . . could have, but chose not to. My lovely wife Rose was still in bed.
I went downstairs and looked around. My golf clubs looked my way. I looked elsewhere. My left arm was bothering me. I reached up over the furnace and pulled down my foil and waved it around. I hadn’t fenced for some time, and had no one to cross swords with anyway so let it go and then my eye saw my quiver. I hadn’t let an arrow fly in some time . . . it was a gray Saturday, and with my luck, no one would see me shooting projectiles at Wilson Senior High School, now Silas High School.
The high school wasn’t that far away, and if the fog went away I could drive over to the Dollar Tree and get a root beer for just a buck and a quarter. My morning was looking good.
I parked on the campus edge, pulled my bow and my quiver out of the backseat and then retrieved an empty banker box from the trunk. I walked through the fog and decided on a nice empty sports field to shoot in. I drew a vicious possum on both sides of the banker box and retreated about fifty yards.
I let four arrows fly and just knew I had a dead possum on the field. As I got closer I could see no holes, so just chuckled to myself and then stopped immediately as a dead center hole appeared with a whoosh of an arrow continued into the grass to my right. I squinted my eyes looking through the fog until I saw someone who must have scored with the dead banker box possum. My smile was met by a young man’s smile. We shook hands and just kinda chuckled with each other. We did a quick look around for arrows, they must have gone underground.
“My kill,” the other sportsman bragged. “I hate to lose arrows. How about breakfast at Ben Dews.” I nodded my head yes and said, “My treat.” I picked up my dead possum and waved in the fog.
Two and a half hours later I was back home telling Rose about my morning or was starting to tell Rose when, in with a mechanical wrenching of our door chime, came our benefactor Jack, with our favorite donuts and a smile. Vashon was visible and the day was turning out nicely.
For a change, Jack was on top of the world. Did he have a special need from us; yes, of course he did. Would Rose and I have the ability to work a Dr Weirdo miracle? You never know, but the odds would be in Jack’s favor when Rose and I put our heads together. “I need a favor . . .” We knew, but waited for the other shoe to drop. “My cousin’s slow pitch team is getting ready for a fantastic spring, but his big rival is looking for an early victory over Jackie and his boys.” “Ahem,” I said, “Doesn’t this guy use pro people . . . or at least semi-pro people? . . . and isn’t that illegal?” Jack shook his head “no” and then said “Perhaps. By the way, how different is fast pitch?”
Jack left some dates for a possible game and with a smile and not a care in the world, he was gone in a jiffy.
Rose said nothing but kept looking at me and then finally asked, “You have something to share and you don’t seem worried . . . now that worries me. What’s up?”
“Remember me going to Tacoma Little Theatre and sitting next to an actor in a bomber Jacket?” Rose nodded yes. We did some archery this morning and then went for coffee. Apparently he loves both acting and sports and is good at both AND he has a friend. They both went to the University of Puget Sound for sports and acting . . . a nice combination. Rose paused a second or two and then asked, “Should we bet the farm? I thought for a second and then said, “Not the farm, perhaps, but I think I would bet the silo.” Rose glowed and nodded her head in agreement.
Two weeks later I had two actors who claimed to be excellent ball players. I lent them some video footage of the opposition to find weaknesses in their game. The dye was set for Sunday afternoon at 3:30.
We all arrived early on Sunday. Jerry limped over to the opposition team and asked if anyone wanted to “catch a few” to warm up and be paid twenty bucks for catching from Marryanne the pitcher. Three people smiled and nodded their heads and took the twenty dollar bills. Jerry thanked every one and said “Don’t show fear.” Marryanne stretched up a little on the mound and let loose an underhand pitch that looked like it was thrown at 200 miles an hour. Jerry caught the pitch and fell over backwards in a summersault before struggling up and asking “Who’s next to catch? The three players came over and gave back their twenties. Jerry said, “Don’t worry, she’ll pitch overhand in the game. I’ve asked her to slow down a little bit. For some reason the opposition players didn’t hug the plate . . . actually never even came close to the plate. Jerry said, “Don’t worry . . . the bruises go away.” The opposition team just stood around and took the loss.
Jack and his cousin were absolutely thrilled with the win. Jerry and Marryanne both got a bonus as did Rose and I. Both Jerry and Maryanne actually deserved Academy Awards.
