Mr. Brubaker took the floor again. “I understand, but from our point of view if Hermie begins left handed and is off his game, with this new rule he can’t switch. Mr. Hornby, your son has probably faced knuckleballers. They are usually on or they are off, hot or cold. What if Hermie injures one of those two fingernails during the game and cannot place the ball correctly? Then he’s just left with his fastball as a lefty. What if he starts a game right handed and develops an ache in his pitching shoulder or he is simply way off his game? Must he continue to pitch with that arm when the other one is fine? Maybe the rule should simply apply to a particular inning, not the whole game. Even that is a major sacrifice. Switch hitters don’t have to declare right or left before the game starts and they are not forced to bat left or right the rest of the game — they get to choose each time they are up to bat.”
Hornby interjected, “But they can’t switch during an at-bat. Look, I saw the Pups and Ravens play last Friday. Your son has one style of delivery left-handed and quite another right-handed. His wind-ups are different, he faces in a different direction. It’s like he is two pitchers.”
Coach Livingston tried to interrupt, but Hornby continued. “Imagine the confusion that would abound if a switch hitter comes to the plate to bat and the pitcher prepares himself to pitch with his right hand, so the hitter changes his stance, then the pitcher changes hands, then the hitter changes his stance again, going from one side of the plate to the other, an endless succession of changes and the game sits in limbo while each player is trying to outbid the other one. Some things have to be firm. The pitcher’s choice of which arm to use is one of them.”
“Mr. Brubaker,” said the moderator, whose day-job was running a car dealership, “we have heard your arguments and we do understand where you are coming from, but rules are established for a reason. There aren’t many switch pitchers in baseball. It’s just not done. This rule will have to stand.”
At home, Hermie agreed with his father’s arguments when told what had happened at the meeting, but he thought that the trophy belonged to the Pups, fair and square, even if it was shared, with both the Pups and the Ponies receiving one. Disgusted, he sighed deeply.
“I’m going to give up baseball,” he said both defiantly and sadly. “Even when you win you lose.”
Short Story Section
Author’s Note
The first of five short stories is entitled “The Triffidzoid.” A triffidzoid is a raised-bed keyhole garden. The “zoid” applies to the design of the garden container consisting of circles and triangles and the “triffid” refers to a plant that was the subject of a novel, The Day of the Triffids, published in 1951 by John Wyndham, and a British film based on the novel in 1962.
The author of this short story was a youngster when the 1962 sci-fi horror film starring Howard Keel came out. The youth decided to give the movie a try, loading up on popcorn and soda while settling in at the indoor Texan Theatre in Hamilton, Texas on a Saturday while his mother and younger sister journeyed to San Marcos to visit Aquarena Springs as a Girl Scout trip and his father was tied up as production superintendent at a printing plant that day.
While buying his theatre ticket he was presented with a small packet of “triffid” seeds as a promotion. He never planted them because if they really were triffid seeds, the triffids might come and get him. They looked like sunflower seeds.
The Triffidzoid
Okay. Let me begin. This is a fictional account of what really happened.
I had spent several hours playing with and tending the plants in my keyhole gardens at Keyhole Farm. Like most good farmers, I talk to the plants, telling them how good they are, admiring their beauty, and encouraging them to produce good crops. I try to pull the bad bugs off their leaves, such as snails, and let the plants watch as I toss these slugs onto a concrete sidewalk where often they go “splat.”
A keyhole garden has a raised bed about waist high which eliminates much of the backbreaking work gardeners often deal with. Keyhole gardens are round, six feet in diameter, except for a wedge being cut out, at which point inside the garden is placed a tall internal one-foot diameter wire basket for recycling leftovers. It is similar to a cylinder. These help to feed the garden with water and nutrients. They are called keyholes because if you look at them from a bird’s-eye view they resemble old-timey keyholes. Many consider these gardens as the perfect gardening system, and I agree.
Sunflowers grow well in my keyholes because they know I respect and like them. I do not call them weeds, as some gardenauts do. I consider them friends.
The other day, these mammoth sunflowers started blooming. Since yellow is my favorite color I couldn’t help but look at them and smile. They are called sunflowers, I guess, because their heads resemble mini-suns.
Anyway, after a long day I retired to my recliner in front of the TV and decided to choose a movie to watch. I was still thinking of the sunflowers some, so I chose to watch a movie, Day of the Triffids, about a similar plant, creatures that (according to the movie poster) “…they grow…know…walk…talk…stalk…and KILL!” I couldn’t decide whether to watch the older version starring Howard Keel or the one I had recorded several years later on PBS (Public Broadcasting System). The show was a British mini-series based on the John Wyndham book. So, naturally, I chose to watch them both.
It was getting late and toward the end of my second movie, the later British version, I dozed off, only to be awakened by a noise outside the room, possibly in the yard. It sounded like movement and a strange voice crying “ouch.” I thought it was probably my imagination, but I deemed it might be a burglar or someone needing help so rather than keep thinking about it I grabbed my flashlight and went to investigate.
As I ruled out things in my pathway, I eventually journeyed outside to the Keyhole Farm experiment station. Everything seemed in order, until the beam from my flashlight passed over the top of Alicia, one of my 11 keyhole gardens, most having components of a zoid (circles and triangles) in their construction. The biggest giant sunflower plant, the one I had talked to a few hours earlier and told him that he was taller than the rest and was looking good, was missing.
I shined the light onto the turf area inside the raised bed where the sunflower’s roots had been and found the dirt loose and spread about.
“Someone has stolen my sunflower plant,” I thought.
It was very quiet outside, no breeze at all. As I swung around I heard something near a chain-link fence in the distance on the edge of my property, as though movement had occurred, so I ventured in that direction, hoping to perhaps alarm a stray cat. I took giant steps over the gourd and pumpkin vines that had spewed out of adjoining keyhole gardens and were trailing on the ground.
As I pointed the light beam toward the sound I noticed slight movement again. I raised the flashlight and on its ascent soon caught the miniature sun…the face of the big sunflower… staring at me as he leaned against the fence. I went closer.
“What are you doing over here?” I asked, not expecting an answer.
The sunflower moved a few of its branches, as if lifting both shoulders and releasing them, an “I don’t know” or “Who? Me?” movement. Then the plant replied in a deep gravely whisper, “I guess I went for a walk.”
“Plants don’t talk,” I said.
“Well, not in the daytime,” said my friend,” but sometimes we whisper among ourselves at night.”
“So you walked over here?” I asked, disbelievingly, “with your roots as feet?”
“Usually we are content to stay put,” the plant said. “I am so much taller than the other plants that I wanted to see my friends’ faces. From up there I can only see the tops of their heads.”
“You are very tall,” said I. “In fact, I wanted to measure your height, but they don’t make a measuring tape long enough.”
“Let me make a suggestion,” said the plant. “When we are very small, loosely tie a very long string around our necks and as we grow, the strin
g will follow us up. Put distance markings on the string in advance, then simply read them off as we grow. Just be careful to not get the string tangled up with other plants.”
“Hmm,” I said. “I never thought of that.”
“It will soon be difficult for me to walk,” said the plant, “for my head is about to get heavy – lots of brains, you know – and the upper stalk will arch, making balance nearly impossible.”
“That’s probably just a few days away,” I said.
“The arch is already starting,” he replied.
“I just got through watching a movie, Day of the Triffids, about plants that cause ‘spine chilling terror’ according to promotional material. Do plants really stalk and kill?”
“Not sunflowers, although we do resemble Triffids somewhat. I say that, but the other day I did spit a sunflower seed at a squash bug and knocked him off a leaf. He was all right, though, just dazed a little.”
I had another question. “Did I hear you yell ‘ouch’?”
The sunflower smiled. “I nearly stumbled over the keyhole garden named ‘Belle.’ It’s dark out and I forgot she was right there. I lost a lower branch and a leaf in the process. Didn't hurt too badly.”
“Do you want me to help you get replanted in ‘Alicia’? I asked.
“Actually,” said the sunflower, “I prefer to do it myself. I jumped down out of the keyhole’s raised bed earlier and think I can catapult myself back into it without doing a cartwheel. It’s something I need to figure out in the event I decide to try to take a walk again. One thing, though. There are several sunflowers in ‘Alicia’ and not as many in the garden named ‘Key-Rex.’ Maybe I should relocate. It might make better use of the feeding that is done through the interior basket. ‘Alicia’ is pretty maxed out.”
“It’s okay with me,” I said. “Just don’t disturb the lower plants. That pumpkin takes up a lot of room and the zucchini is hogging the middle area. I’m not sure there’s a slot big enough for you.”
“I will look around and see,” said the sunflower. Then the sunflower let out a huge yawn, which I took as a signal that he wanted to be alone.
“I’m going back inside,” I said. “Take care of yourself.”
The next thing I realized is that it was morning. I did my usual getting-up chores, knowing that I had several dreams the night before but couldn’t remember any of them. I eventually ventured into the back yard. My big sunflower plant was missing. I couldn’t believe it. Then I asked myself, “What’s it doing over there?” It had been moved to the Key-Rex garden, if that was the same plant, which I felt sure it was.
To this day, I do not know how it got there.
UFO Encounter
A True Story
The question of what we saw that afternoon has perplexed me for over 35 years. It was a slice of circumstance that defied easy explanation and one that drew disbelief among those I attempted to inform.
It was 1972 and I was a student at Hill Junior College in Hillsboro, Texas, which was about a 45-minute drive from my place of residence, my parents’ home, in Clifton, Texas. My major was journalism although I already had a media job at the Clifton newspaper and did some work on special assignment at the Hillsboro newspaper. I was co-editor of the college newspaper, was a paid photographer for the yearbook, and did considerable photography for renowned historical author Harold B. Simpson who traced Hood’s Texas Brigade in his books about the civil war. The college was home to the Confederate Research Center and contained a special section dedicated to the most decorated soldier in World War II, Audie Murphy, who later became a highly rated actor, especially in westerns and military movies.
My means of transportation to and from school was a 1967 Pontiac GTO, brown in color, that would go very fast. The 410 dual exhaust four-barrel burned a lot of gasoline, as it was considered a “muscle” car. Therefore, carpooling made a lot of sense.
I made the trip back and forth five times a week and usually had a friend with me who helped defray some of the fuel costs. On the way there, we passed through Womack, Laguna Park, and Whitney prior to entering Hillsboro, the county seat of Hill County. The college was located on the far side to the north, so we had to go through the main part of Hillsboro before arriving there, which took a little while.
On this particular day my friend and I were returning to Clifton during the early afternoon, as usual, listening to the latest music on my eight-track player, the sounds booming from the newly installed speakers in the back. We had passed the very small town of Peoria located about halfway between Hillsboro and Whitney that looked out on many open fields. Some were planted but most were the grazing ground of cattle. The plots were lined with barbed-wire fences and cedar posts, with an occasional house, pond, or windmill in the distance.
I had just executed a curve toward the left from an elevated position when far ahead, somewhat below us appeared something we had not seen before. At first I thought it was some new type of farm equipment or storage facility, but as we got closer we noticed that it was very large and was hovering off the ground.
We got closer and closer and realized that it was near a flat, glistening pond but it was slightly up in the air, a gray mass something like a dirigible that was elongated in shape similar to a cigar that curved down on its ends. It was much bigger than my car and to our left, across the highway. I was traveling very fast, which was normal for me, and decided to slow down, make a U-turn, and go back to look at it.
Back in those days, I used a 4x5 Crown Graphic press camera for my photography. I wanted to buy a 35mm camera but my budget didn’t allow it. Unfortunately, with a passenger in the front seat, the camera had been placed on the floor of the back seat behind me, unreachable from the interior.
As we U-turned to the other side of the highway, we noticed that the object of our attention had moved far toward the north and was climbing in altitude, extremely fast, not making a sound. I got out of the car and opened the back door to retrieve my camera. However, by the time it was in hand, the object had just become a speck in the sky. My camera took great shots, what with a 4”x5” negative, but it did not have a zoom lens, so I struck out on obtaining a usable image.
My friend and I discussed the object as we returned home, throwing out ideas as to what it might have been. The thoughts ranged from a UFO (unidentified flying object) as in flying saucer to a mirage. I had seen photographs of mirages and remembered that with this UFO a body of water had been nearby, perhaps an enabling factor for the mirage theory.
My friend and I went our separate ways at Womack, a few miles from Clifton, which is where we always joined up to carpool. I, of course, had to tell everyone I met about the experience, which resulted in rolled-up eyes and a “Yeah, right,” attitude. People thought I was crazy.
The next day at college the same attitude was 100 percent dominant. I would suggest that disbelievers ask my friend about it, but they all came back with the answer that he flatly denied ever seeing anything. My friend and I would occasionally discuss it. He explained that when he did venture to tell someone about it, he got the same response as I did, so he was taking the high road -- that it was nothing.
Time went on and I became less mindful of the encounter with the object. It became merely a tiny footnote to a personal history that nobody took seriously, so why even bring it up?
About 37 years later a musician who had been in the high school band with my friend and I was conducting a fund-raising concert for a worthy cause in Clifton and we bumped into each other. He mentioned that our mutual friend had commented to him about the UFO experience. I tried to recall some of the details and decided to e-mail my friend to see what he remembered, specifics like dates and so forth. We were still pretty much on the same page, but recollection through the maze of time had taken a toll, at least for me.
I knew a deputy sheriff in another county who had successfully hypnotized witnesses on numerous occasions. In January 2009, he agreed to put me under to see if I remembered anything
about the UFO encounter. Quite often hypnotists can take a person back to an incident or a witness to a scene to, for instance, garner a license plate number that the witness saw but could not presently remember.
He told me that thirty-something years is a very long time and he could not guarantee results, but we could try. He said that there would likely be many layers of onionskin to get through but the pure memories should still be in my brain. As a positive, he said that it being so long ago, the element of discovery should be clean with nothing altered. He said that oftentimes surface memories get changed as time passes. One element might be altered a little, then another, so memories etched deeply in pure memory might be quite different, but the originals are much more accurate.
The session was slated for my office on a given date, early evening, after my staff at the newspaper business which I now owned had departed for the day. We had three telephone lines in service which I disabled by putting each of them on hold. We were ready. The session, which by mutual agreement was tape recorded, was about to begin.
Then suddenly, there was a beep-beep. Every few minutes the phone lines that had been put on hold would beep for attention. I offered to work on the problem, but the officer said not to worry about it.
So we began, with me being asked to relax, step by step. This took awhile. Then at the 8:20 mark in minutes, he began a very slow countdown from 10, still coaxing the “deeper, deeper” relax format. At the 10:06 mark I was told to pass through a large doorway and soon to find a comfortable chair. At the 11:45 mark I was told to go back to the time of Hill Junior College, pull memories from a vault, and remember driving to and from school. It was at the 13:21 mark that I was told to relive the incident with the UFO object in my mind, quietly, while he silently waited. I was to raise my left index finger when I had played the segment fully, stopping the motion, rewinding, studying it. My finger went up at the 25:37 mark.
The Switch Pitcher Page 5