An Occurrence at Wrigley Field
Ott
Posts: 403
We read Ambrose Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" in my English III classes this week. It's a story about a Southern man being hanged from a bridge by Union soldiers during the Great War. As he is dropped to hang, he journeys into a brief fantastical escape from the ordeal. Just as he greets his wife at the door of their house, he goes black and the narrator tells us he indeed was killed in the noose. I am asking them to write one of their own and penned one to show them as an example. Anyway, I liked the results and thought I'd post them here. Enjoy. Hey-at least it's not a poem.
Thanks, peace,
Ott
"An Occurrence at Wrigley Field"
It was the fourth inning on a gloriously sunny in mid July, and the Cubs had a two-run lead. My roommate scored the tickets for free, so I couldn't complain that they were in the upper deck. At least they were in the front row of the nosebleeds. Carlos Zambrano was on the mound and Albert Pujols was standing in the batters box. From our tickets on the first base line, I had a choice view of Pujols and his perfect swing.
The rowdy kids sitting behind D.J. and I were hammered. They had practically forgotten that there was a baseball game being played hundreds of feet below them by this point. From their conversation, they had been pounding beers across the street at Sluggers since the bar opened. Granted, it was an afternoon game, but apparently these guys wasted no time. Or beer. Four lettered words were flying from their goateed mouths like my sixth period class.
Zambrano ran the count on Pujols to two balls and two strikes. Pitch after pitch was being fouled off, peppering the grandstands with little, white missiles. Being a grown man, I quit taking my mitt to the ball park years ago. Besides, hundreds of baseball games over my lifetime, both minor and major leagues, and I had never had a foul ball or homerun ball land within striking distance of me.
So, when Zambrano delivered that pitch and it careened of the bat of Albert Pujols in our general direction, I stood up, but half believed it would veer off towards the seats behind us. Unfortunately, I was dead wrong. The ball, pearl and pristine, only having lived a short, one pitch life in the big league spotlight, made a beeline to our seats. The whole section stood in unison and inhaled, gasping audibly. I felt the knuckleheads seated in the row behind us place their hands on our shoulders. D.J. and I are no small men, so we were not going to be denied our chance at foul ball grabbing glory. Hell, this game was being broadcast on ESPN. How proud my boy would be of his old man when I showed him the replay I had recorded on the D.V.R.
Eyes locked in on the white prize, I held up my empty right hand. My left was protecting the sudsy Budweiser Wrigley Field is famous for. D.J. and I both reached up simultaneously, seeming to grab pieces of the blue sky. SMACK! The baseball landed flush against my outstretched palm, sending slivers of pain shooting up my arm and into my chest. As I firmed up my grip on the prize, I felt another set of hands on my back. The drunken louts behind us were pressing against our backs. They must have lost their balance and were falling into the seats we occupied.
With one push, my head was over my heels and I was falling. It was a short fall. When I landed, I fell into a bleacher seat in the middle of a cloudy afternoon. I glanced down and my khaki cargo shorts were now grey slacks. My throat felt a tad more constricted, and as I felt up to discover why, I noticed my favorite tie. It was the red and grey striped one Jacob had gotten me the Christmas prior.
Scouring the field below, I saw rows of foldable seats, filled to the last with cardboard hat clad teenagers, brimming with excitement. Unable to remain still in their seats, they rippled like the waves on Lake Medina in the summer of my youth. Just when I realized I was at a commencement, I heard the announcer say, "Jacob Edward Oettinger, Valedictorian." The crowd erupted, and the teenage girls below screamed like the Fall Out Boy had just taken the stage.
My vision zoomed in fifty yards before I knew what had happened. I could see my son, his face still boyish, but with the stubble of a beard tried too hard to grow. Peachy on the outskirts, but solid on his chin. I could see a sparkle gleam from his toothy grin as he mouthed, "I love you Dad," and glanced towards the heavens.
Just then, I felt a strange falling sensation again. There was no wind or light, just the feeling you get in your stomach on a good carnival ride, or from that unsuspected dip in the highway. I heard shrieks of terror and shouts of, "NO!"
The sensation slowed and my position was righted to place me on a velvet cushion. I was in a pew at the most gorgeous church I'd ever been in. I looked towards the altar and saw that same boyish, toothy grin. Jacob was clad in a perfectly tailored tuxedo and hand his hands clasped with a woman whose beauty rivaled only his mother's. The priest bellowed, "I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride." Just as their lips touched, the feeling came back again. Only this time, it only lasted a few seconds.
I felt the seat back tear into my spine and my head thrust backwards and slammed against the bottom. I could feel the stitching of the new baseball in my right and as it went limp and the ball dropped to the cement floor below. I opened my eyes to catch one last glimpse of the enormous, green, hand-operated scoreboard in centerfield. White filled my field of vision and I felt no more.
Thanks, peace,
Ott
"An Occurrence at Wrigley Field"
It was the fourth inning on a gloriously sunny in mid July, and the Cubs had a two-run lead. My roommate scored the tickets for free, so I couldn't complain that they were in the upper deck. At least they were in the front row of the nosebleeds. Carlos Zambrano was on the mound and Albert Pujols was standing in the batters box. From our tickets on the first base line, I had a choice view of Pujols and his perfect swing.
The rowdy kids sitting behind D.J. and I were hammered. They had practically forgotten that there was a baseball game being played hundreds of feet below them by this point. From their conversation, they had been pounding beers across the street at Sluggers since the bar opened. Granted, it was an afternoon game, but apparently these guys wasted no time. Or beer. Four lettered words were flying from their goateed mouths like my sixth period class.
Zambrano ran the count on Pujols to two balls and two strikes. Pitch after pitch was being fouled off, peppering the grandstands with little, white missiles. Being a grown man, I quit taking my mitt to the ball park years ago. Besides, hundreds of baseball games over my lifetime, both minor and major leagues, and I had never had a foul ball or homerun ball land within striking distance of me.
So, when Zambrano delivered that pitch and it careened of the bat of Albert Pujols in our general direction, I stood up, but half believed it would veer off towards the seats behind us. Unfortunately, I was dead wrong. The ball, pearl and pristine, only having lived a short, one pitch life in the big league spotlight, made a beeline to our seats. The whole section stood in unison and inhaled, gasping audibly. I felt the knuckleheads seated in the row behind us place their hands on our shoulders. D.J. and I are no small men, so we were not going to be denied our chance at foul ball grabbing glory. Hell, this game was being broadcast on ESPN. How proud my boy would be of his old man when I showed him the replay I had recorded on the D.V.R.
Eyes locked in on the white prize, I held up my empty right hand. My left was protecting the sudsy Budweiser Wrigley Field is famous for. D.J. and I both reached up simultaneously, seeming to grab pieces of the blue sky. SMACK! The baseball landed flush against my outstretched palm, sending slivers of pain shooting up my arm and into my chest. As I firmed up my grip on the prize, I felt another set of hands on my back. The drunken louts behind us were pressing against our backs. They must have lost their balance and were falling into the seats we occupied.
With one push, my head was over my heels and I was falling. It was a short fall. When I landed, I fell into a bleacher seat in the middle of a cloudy afternoon. I glanced down and my khaki cargo shorts were now grey slacks. My throat felt a tad more constricted, and as I felt up to discover why, I noticed my favorite tie. It was the red and grey striped one Jacob had gotten me the Christmas prior.
Scouring the field below, I saw rows of foldable seats, filled to the last with cardboard hat clad teenagers, brimming with excitement. Unable to remain still in their seats, they rippled like the waves on Lake Medina in the summer of my youth. Just when I realized I was at a commencement, I heard the announcer say, "Jacob Edward Oettinger, Valedictorian." The crowd erupted, and the teenage girls below screamed like the Fall Out Boy had just taken the stage.
My vision zoomed in fifty yards before I knew what had happened. I could see my son, his face still boyish, but with the stubble of a beard tried too hard to grow. Peachy on the outskirts, but solid on his chin. I could see a sparkle gleam from his toothy grin as he mouthed, "I love you Dad," and glanced towards the heavens.
Just then, I felt a strange falling sensation again. There was no wind or light, just the feeling you get in your stomach on a good carnival ride, or from that unsuspected dip in the highway. I heard shrieks of terror and shouts of, "NO!"
The sensation slowed and my position was righted to place me on a velvet cushion. I was in a pew at the most gorgeous church I'd ever been in. I looked towards the altar and saw that same boyish, toothy grin. Jacob was clad in a perfectly tailored tuxedo and hand his hands clasped with a woman whose beauty rivaled only his mother's. The priest bellowed, "I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride." Just as their lips touched, the feeling came back again. Only this time, it only lasted a few seconds.
I felt the seat back tear into my spine and my head thrust backwards and slammed against the bottom. I could feel the stitching of the new baseball in my right and as it went limp and the ball dropped to the cement floor below. I opened my eyes to catch one last glimpse of the enormous, green, hand-operated scoreboard in centerfield. White filled my field of vision and I felt no more.
'Give me some music; music, moody food/ of us that trade in love'
-Shakespeare
-Shakespeare
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-Shakespeare