Bull-oney!

“Bull-oney!” I say, without a hint of irony.

“I’ve seen him run before. He’s pretty fast. I think they mean it,” my friend Tony replies, shakin’ his head & lookin’ at me with a worried expression.

“Do you really think so?” Tess chimes in. “He’s awfully far away, almost to the other side of the field.”

“I wouldn’t try it,” Tony responds. “It’s not worth it. It’s just a ball.”

“It’s the only ball we’ve got,” I counter, “& it’s mine. I don’t want to lose it. Besides, if someone doesn’t fetch it back, we’re done for the day.”

We are all lookin’ at the sign the owners of the field had posted on the fence early last spring. We thought it was funny. An old joke we had seen a long time ago on the internet. “If you’re planning on cutting across this field, we hope you can do it in nine seconds or less, because el Diablo can do it in ten.”

We knew it was joke. All of us kids had always cut across the field. It was our shortcut between our homes & this empty lot where we liked to play ball. Even so, ever since it was posted on both sides of the field, we started walkin’ around, just in case. I mean, they did go to all the trouble of havin’ it printed on solid metal. It wasn’t just cardboard or paper. Clearly, they meant to leave it up for a while. And they had added a real live bull. I thought that was a nice touch.

But now our baseball is in there, our only baseball. And none of has the $3.59 cents (plus tax) to go to the store & buy another one.

We never had this problem before ‘cause none of us could hit this far. But Tess just did. What’s she been doin’ this summer anyway, liftin’ weights? I must say, all of us have a new-found respect for her.

But now our one-&-only baseball is a good thirty yards inside the field. (I mean, she really got ahold of that thing!) And if someone doesn’t crawl through the barbwire fence to get it, it’ll be a long while before we get to play again.

Ten seconds. Really? That’s gotta be one fast bull. It always took us at least a couple of minutes, even when we were runnin’. (It takes us a good fifteen now that we have to go around! Doggone that bull with those signs anyway!)

So, who’s the fastest? That’d be me. I used to steal all the bases, even home, before we made it a rule that you couldn’t leave base until the ball was hit. I still had a way of sneakin’ an extra base as the ball was bein’ thrown back to the pitcher. But once the pitcher had it, you had to stay put.

So, who’s the smallest & least likely to be noticed by the ferocious beast? That would be me, again. Even Tony’s a good two inches taller. The fact that he’s the closest to bein' my height is probably why he’s my best friend. Mom tells both of us when we’re sittin’ at the counter eatin’ chocolate chip cookies that we just haven’t gotten our growth spurts yet. I hope so. It’s no fun bein’ the smallest.

And who’s the sneakiest? Do you even have to ask? I mean really. One of my advantages in playin’ games with my friends is that I’m so small they lose track of me. I also tend to hit hard & run fast, as I already said. And then, there’s the fact that I'm usually more focused & intense than the others. They’re just out here relaxin’ & havin’ fun. I’m always studyin’ the field & findin’ my next target or gettin’ my next jump on things. You would think they’d be used to me by now, but they still look surprised when I knock ‘em to the ground.

I love gettin’ that look. Tess calls it a “Napoleonic complex”. She says I’m a textbook example. I don’t know exactly what she means by all that, but I like it.

And now it’s up to me again. It always seems like it’s up to me. I was the one who had to rescue Cindy’s cat from high up in the tree. I was the one who had to go to old man Humphrey’s & apologize for breakin’ his window. (That’s why we play out here. We decided playin’ in a vacant lot surrounded by houses with all kinds of windows maybe wasn’t such a good idea. It took us five weeks of doin’ extra chores to pay for that window.)

They tell me it’s ‘cause I’m the smallest. I won’t break the branches. Old man Humphrey will feel sorry for me instead of yellin’. But I think it’s ‘cause I’m the only one brave enough to do these things.

Is that my “Napoleonic complex” talkin'? Maybe I should just let him. He sometimes makes me feel bigger than I am.

And now it’s gonna be this bull & the baseball. We can see it (the baseball, that is), peekin’ out above the grass. It’s pretty beaten & worn, not much white left to it. There are more grass stains than anythin’. And where there aren’t grass stains it’s ‘cause they’ve been scuffed away by our bats, gravel & dirt, leavin’ a rough patch in the hide. In one spot you can just see the ball of string inside & in another the stitchin’s beginnin’ to come loose.

That ball’s not gonna last much longer anyway. So why do it?

‘Cause I can.

I know they’re just waitin’ for me to do what no one else is willin’. But they don’t want to say it. And just like Tony, they’d try & talk me out of it if they knew I was goin’. But they’d still want me to do it. So, when no one is lookin’ I spread the two pieces of barbwire apart & carefully step in.

Stealth is not gonna help me here. The bull has been watchin’ us for some time. Now he’s watchin’ me. I can see him flarin’ his nostrils as steam billows forth, like a locomotive gettin’ ready to move. His eyes are intense & focused, studyin’ me the way I studied other players on the football field or basketball court (our other favorite pastimes).

His eyes also look a lot closer now than they did just a minute ago. Do they look closer to you?

All my friends go suddenly quiet. They’re holdin’ their collective breath watchin’ the two of us as we face off with each other.

I think I’ll call him Bessie. It makes me feel better than usin' his real name—el Diablo. Yep. I think I’ll call him Bessie. Bessie it is.

Quit stallin’. It’s just thirty yards. Or is it forty now? Did that ball just move another ten yards into the field? It looks further away to me now than it did just a few moments ago. I blink my eyes so as to get a better look at everythin’: Bessie, the baseball, the field between the baseball & me, anythin’ that might trip me up on my way to the baseball (or on the way back). I’d rub my eyes, but I don’t want to do anythin’ to get Bessie riled up before I’m ready.

Slowly, I take one step forward. Not a big one, just a small step. I watch as Bessie paws the earth & takes one step toward me.

Hey, that’s not fair! That was a lot bigger step than I took!

I steel myself to take another. Bessie takes two & stands tall, directly facin’ me! I can see his muscles ripplin’, coiled, ready to strike.

This callin’ him Bessie while still sayin’ he or him is gettin’ really awkward & confusin’. I think I’ll just quit usin’ names.

Maybe if I started usin’ she/her?

It’s not gonna matter.

“I can’t watch anymore!” I hear Cindy cry as she suddenly slaps her face into her hands & turns away.

I’ve been told that what comes next took only a matter of seconds. To me it seemed as though everythin’ happened in slow motion, like movin’ through molasses.

El Diablo suffered a moment of distraction caused by Cindy’s outburst. I knew the race was on & I took full advantage of that split second head start.

I plowed through the tall grass in front of me & leapt over a couple of gopher mounds. El Diablo already had a full head of steam. Man, he’s fast! Are we sure it takes him ten seconds?

I approach the baseball as though I’m roundin’ third, preparin’ to scoop it up in my bare hand, & head for home. My speed is good, the angle of my body is just right, I stretch out my arm & feel my fingers on the ball…

…but it doesn’t come with me! It’s stuck in somethin’! I slam on my brakes only to find myself slidin’ through several feet of mud. I scramble onto my feet—there’s still time, I can make it—& head back for the ball.

This time I slow down & attempt to pick it up more deliberately & firmly. It’s stuck in a cowpie? I reach down & as I wrap my fingers around the ball, I feel them slidin’ through somethin’ warm & thick. That’s not a cowpie! There’s been a dog in this pasture, & not too long ago!

In a single moment I find myself wonderin’ two things & realizin’ a third. First, did the dog manage to cross the field in less than ten seconds? Second, how am I gonna keep myself from retchin’? And third, I don’t have time for either. I can practically feel el Diablo’s breath on the back of my neck.

Now isn’t it funny how the brain works? I have thirty yards to cover before I’m back to the fence & I’ve started callin’ the bull by his real name again. Maybe it’s ‘cause I somehow figure that the fear will get me to the fence faster?

Yep, I had that thought at almost the same moment as the other three.

I’m now runnin’ as fast as I can, yellin’ to my friends to lift the bottom wire so that I can slide through beneath it. (Actually, all I’m yellin’ is, “Pick up the wire! Pick up the wire!” They all look a bit confused. Maybe I should be yellin’, “Lift! Lift! Lift up the wire!” Oh well, Tony eventually gets it figured out. What can I say? He just gets me.)

I’m measurin’ my strides now, mentally markin’ the spot where I’ll begin my slide, when I suddenly feel somethin’ bony & hot hook itself through the bottom of my shorts. I don’t feel the impact of el Diablo’s massive forehead but rather find myself bein’ jerked up & thrown, almost over the top wire of the fence…

Almost, but not quite.

“And honestly, mom, that’s how the back of my shorts & the front of my shirt got ripped. It wasn’t playin’ baseball! It really wasn’t! Please don’t take away my ball & glove!”