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GForce · 02-08-2005, 09:41 PM

The walls were a pale blue, but you'd never know it. Austin's room was filled nail to nail with posters...Bob Gibson, Steve Carlton, Juan Marichal...and his favorites on his beloved Mets (fresh off their Miracle), Jerry Koosman and "The Franchise" Tom Seaver.

Baseball Digest, newspaper clippings, books, magazines...anything baseball he had ever encountered was kept -- surprisingly organized -- in his room.

He lay in his bed that night, baseball in hand as it usually was, his fingers stretching, contoured sometimes in ways that would make Austin laugh, knowing he could never actually throw a ball with that grip. But he loved to experiment while throwing, and even while just holding the ball. Anything that could trigger something he could use.

His mother had calmed down, but she and his dad both sat quietly in the living room. His dad was in denial, his mom convinced the sky would fall on him completely...Austin came across as being in denial, too, but he wasn't firing missiles that night with no motivation. He was angry, too. He knew it was possible.

He was bright, always a good student, but he couldn't ever wrap his head around why we were in Vietnam in the first place. It always seemed to him we went with the best of intentions, but when it became clear we didn't belong there, our leaders couldn't bring themselves to withdraw and admit we lost lives to accomplish nothing. So instead they cost more.

But he also knew he didn't know the whole story. He loathed protests that targeted soldiers...young men assigned to a job nobody wanted. He knew what he felt, and that was enough.

Now, what he felt was fear.

He put his glove and sneakers in his closet. On the top shelf, protruding slightly, was an old plastic machine gun toy he had gotten years ago. He took it down and held it in his hands, staring at it...through it.

So much raced through his mind, at the same time a blank, or at least muddled, slate. Reflexively he put both hands near the bottom and made a slow, striding, swinging motion as with a bat.

He sighed a deep sigh, rested the toy against the wall, slumped into bed and without a sound cried himself to sleep.

GH

02-08-2005, 09:41 PM	#5
GForce Banned Join Date: May 2004 Posts: 3,458 Infractions: 0/2 (2)	The walls were a pale blue, but you'd never know it. Austin's room was filled nail to nail with posters...Bob Gibson, Steve Carlton, Juan Marichal...and his favorites on his beloved Mets (fresh off their Miracle), Jerry Koosman and "The Franchise" Tom Seaver. Baseball Digest, newspaper clippings, books, magazines...anything baseball he had ever encountered was kept -- surprisingly organized -- in his room. He lay in his bed that night, baseball in hand as it usually was, his fingers stretching, contoured sometimes in ways that would make Austin laugh, knowing he could never actually throw a ball with that grip. But he loved to experiment while throwing, and even while just holding the ball. Anything that could trigger something he could use. His mother had calmed down, but she and his dad both sat quietly in the living room. His dad was in denial, his mom convinced the sky would fall on him completely...Austin came across as being in denial, too, but he wasn't firing missiles that night with no motivation. He was angry, too. He knew it was possible. He was bright, always a good student, but he couldn't ever wrap his head around why we were in Vietnam in the first place. It always seemed to him we went with the best of intentions, but when it became clear we didn't belong there, our leaders couldn't bring themselves to withdraw and admit we lost lives to accomplish nothing. So instead they cost more. But he also knew he didn't know the whole story. He loathed protests that targeted soldiers...young men assigned to a job nobody wanted. He knew what he felt, and that was enough. Now, what he felt was fear. He put his glove and sneakers in his closet. On the top shelf, protruding slightly, was an old plastic machine gun toy he had gotten years ago. He took it down and held it in his hands, staring at it...through it. So much raced through his mind, at the same time a blank, or at least muddled, slate. Reflexively he put both hands near the bottom and made a slow, striding, swinging motion as with a bat. He sighed a deep sigh, rested the toy against the wall, slumped into bed and without a sound cried himself to sleep. GH Last edited by GForce; 02-08-2005 at 09:49 PM.