Write a story or a poem in the form of one of your memories. The catch: you must write this memory from another person’s point of view.
A LITTTLE GAME OF SCHOOLYARD PUNCHBALL
© 2014 by David Wainland
The Bronx, New York, P.S. 28, 1950
His team picked him last, obviously an easy out. Not to mention his team had him batting ninth below the pitcher. With two on base I couldn’t take any chances so I put some English on the Spaldeen and made sure the pink ball bounced close to him. He wouldn’t know which way the ball would jump.
His fist flew past the arcing ball and I knew I had this skinny kid.
“Strike one,” the boy behind me yelled, “One more and we win.”
They would not get the chance to get up again this close to recess. I pinched the ball hard and tossed it at his head hoping in one bounce it would drop dead in front of him.
No such luck, the Spaldeen took and ugly hop to the right and bounced uselessly into the schoolyard fence.
OK, one more time, this time David would run home crying to his mother.
The ball looked like an egg when it hit the sweet-spot on the soft tar. “Your mine,” I screamed with joy.
My jaw must have dropped as I watched him crouch low, bring his right arm around and catch the ball on the flats of his closed fisted fingers. I watched as it sailed over my head and prayed someone would grab it before it hit the wall above the blue line. No such luck. It slammed high and bounced wide. The two runners scored and Dave, slow as he was pulled out a double.
Next time I get to pick, that Wainland kid will be in my top three.