The Penny Dreadfuls

End of A Hoosier Era

My home state of Indiana is only known for so many things. Corn. Basketball. The Indy 500. Corn. We produced James Dean- pretty cool. We also produced Michael Jackson- not so cool, but in the 60's we traded him to California for some oranges and a player to be named later, so I think that worked out for us. And up until recently we had one other thing that helped define us. Along with our compatriot Arizona, we could stand up and laugh the hearty laugh of those who are chronologically self-righteous, and shout at the other states, "We do not fear the rising of the sun, or the going down of the same! We do not choose to walk out of our offices in October into the pitch black night at 4:45PM! We do not all feel the need to skip church on that one Sunday in April because we 'accidently' forgot to 'spring' our clocks forward! No, we will not change our clocks, and we are proud!" But alas, this past Sunday, for the first time in my life, Indiana chose to join the wandering heard of states who blend into the anonymous bi-annual metamorphosis, leaving Arizona to hold aloft the torch alone. I guess we'll have to make due with corn.

Matt's Confession

Growing up, my backyard was The Backyard. It's where all the kids would come to play football, baseball, and a game I invented, Blooper Ball. The game was a cross between kickball and baseball, and the batter would use a bat to hit an airborne kickball. (One of the younger kids, who went by "Jeffy" at the time, refused to use a heavier bat, because he always used the smaller bats in baseball. However, in Blooper Ball, the lighter the bat you used, the greater the chance you had of hitting the kickball and having the bat ricochet back and hit you in the head. It took Jeffy five bruises in the head from the bat before he'd use a bigger size.) In Blooper Ball, once the ball was hit, a person on defense could throw the ball at a runner to get him out.

During one game, probably when I was 9, a handful of neighborhood kids and I were in yet another heated game of Blooper Ball. I was pitching, because I always pitched, and my 8 year old friend Matt Starks (who's now my 29 year old friend Matt Sparks) was up to bat. He hit a ball to my right, and raced to first base.

Despite my backyard being The Backyard, it was not always an ideal playing field. We had a tree just behind the pitchers mound and to the first base side, which served an obstacle, but usually just for balls hit into it. If you were to draw a triangle using the pitchers mound, first base, and second base, it wouldn't be on any of the lines of sight, but almost directly in the middle of the triangle. As Matt was rounding first and racing to second, I stopped the ball, picked it up, and started to run back to the other side of the field. For some inexplicable reason, Matt thought he could dodge the ball if I threw it at him. This time, he was actually right. I threw the ball across the field at him as hard as I could. Matt was able to contort his body and narrowly dodge the ball. He smiled. But his evasive maneuver caused him to veer away from the path of second base and into the middle of the field. His grin subsided just in time for him to run at full speed head first into the two foot wide trunk. The trunk didn't move. The impact hardly made a sound, and Matt stumbled backward from the tree. We were all stunned. Matt looked at us as if nothing had happened. My fears began to subside. Since it was my backyard and I was always in charge, everything that happened there- from picking teams, to fights, to injuries- was my responsibility. Since Matt seemed unharmed by the collision, I began to let out a sigh of relief.

But just then Matt put his hand to scratch his head where he thought he'd bruised it, and when he pulled his hand back down it was covered in blood. Today, Matt's a decent sized guy, about 6'1, 175 pounds, and has played college soccer among other sports, and sustained many injuries. All in all, I'd say he's a pretty tough guy. Apparently, this toughness developed after puberty, because at the sight of blood that day, he let out a piercing wail that made it hard to imagine him feeling any more pain from his wound than we were feeling listening to him.

One of my younger brothers, Frank, who was about 6 at the time, raced into the house as fast as he could, grabbed a Band-Aid, and raced back outside. He flew right past Matt, and put the Band-Aid smack dab on the tree where Matt hit it.

Matt's wail didn't stop. My instinct was to get Matt back to his house as quickly as possible. His house, which was caddy corner to mine, was separated by two chain link fences and could normally be reached in just over 20 seconds. However, in his bloodied state, Matt would not think of jumping a fence. The Charlie Brown-like yell continued. I tried to console him. "C'mon, Matt, it's just blood."
"AAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!" Matt replied.

My only other option was to walk Matt home the long way, which meant going into my front yard, around the house, up the street, around the corner, past a house, and up to Matt's front door. This was normally a two minute walk, but apparently Matt's injury reduced his walking speed to that of a heavily sedated 83 year old man. "AAAAAAA!!!!" His yelling had surpassed that of the yelling necessary of, say, having your leg mauled off by a pack of wolves. I tried to lessen his pain with loving words like, "Darn it, Matt, now you're crying just to cry. Shut up! Man!" Eventually we made it to Matt's house and into the loving arms of his mother, who told him to be quiet and let her look at his forehead. He immediately became silent. (This is the only time in my 24 years of knowing Matt that I saw him obey his mother willingly.)

A few days later, after Matt had forgiven me for ushering him into the tree, he came over to my house. He'd now reached the point all young boys reach after an injury that leaves some sort of mark- The Badge of Honor Stage, wherein he parades around his burn, bandage, scar or stitches as if he had earned them by withstanding Darth Vader's worst and saving Princess Lea. He strode up to my mom, a nurse, and proclaimed, "I got four stitches!" "Can I see them?" she asked. He leaned his head forward and repeated with joy, "I got four stitches!" "Yes, you did!" she replied in a nice, motherly way. I stood off to the side, disgusted by all the attention and slightly jealous of his stitches.

"So, did you have a concussion?" my mom asked. "No," Matt said confidently, "I had a conFESSion!" "Are you sure? Are you sure it wasn't called a concussion?" she asked again. "NO, it was a confession. It was!" he replied. Matt kept up with the assertion that it was a confession for years, probably into junior high.

A few years ago, I went back home to find that the tree had been cut down, the fence had been taken out, and that home plate and the pitchers mound had been filled in, where grass hadn't grown all the years I'd been growing up. I almost cried. But all those hours playing sports in the backyard were the happiest times I remember growing up. We were really blessed.

Brian Lord is an internationally read cartoonist and writer. His work can be viewed at www.KickComics.com

Seasoning Children