Hometown Heroes

by Joe Gribble

kid, like many he’d seen before in the ‘Stan. He doesn’t have a beard, but he wears a pakul and kamees, the Afghani hat and long shirt. Instead of the traditional Salwar, the kid wore blue jeans.

  Seeing the young man takes Bob back to the ‘Stan, back to the makeshift ballfield at FOB Victory. He is pitching, throwing to the young Afghan teen he let hit. Bob heaves the ball forward, but at low power. The young Afghan swings.

  Bob drifts from the ballfield to the Humvee, pulling rear guard for the convoy. Johnny is riding shotgun, but things aren’t right. Johnny is yelling at him, but Bob can't hear what he’s saying. The crack that was the bat hitting the ball is now an explosion. Flames and smoke fill the inside of the Humvee. Bob reaches for Johnny, but Johnny is falling away and Bob can’t reach him. Johnny falls farther and farther away….

  “Coach! Coach? You all right?” Q asks.

  Q's voice snaps Bob back to the present. “Uh... yeah. Yeah, I'm good.”

  Q introduces the young Afghani. “This is Aja, Coach. He’s from Afghanistan.”

  Aja extends his hand to shake. He introduces himself with a very slight accent. “Glad to meet you.”

  Bob just stares down at Aja's hand. He doesn't extend his left like he normally does, just lets Aja stand there with his hand out. “You know how to play baseball?”

  “Not much,” Aja says. “Q says I should pitch.”

  Bob glares at Q.

  Q shrugs. “Why not? We got no pitcher.” He turns to JJ. “No offense, man.”

  “None taken,” JJ says. “I should be at first, anyway.”

  Bob checks the faces of his team. Might as well get this over with so they can get back to practice. “Ramiro, let's catch a few. The rest of you hit the field.”

  The Bandits scatter to their positions, including JJ, who heads for first. Shinji goes to left field.

  Bob looks Aja over with a wary eye.

  Aja waits, not sure what to do.

  Ramiro pulls his mask on and squats down behind home plate. He smacks his glove with his fist.

  Bob starts to toss the ball to Aja, but notices he’s bare-handed. “You have a glove?”

  “No.”

  Bob shakes his head. He tosses the ball to Aja. “Wait a second.” Bob walks over to the fence near first base and dumps the equipment bag. Several balls tumble out. And one glove.

  Bob's glove.

  Bob picks it up. He wipes the glove on his pants, stares at its seams, and rubs the worn spot on the inside of the index finger. He grew up with this glove. He checks the bag again, but there are no others.

  Bob sighs, then walks back to the pitcher’s mound. He slowly hands out the glove.

  Aja reaches out to take it.

  “It's a loaner,” Bob says, before relinquishing his treasured ball glove.

  Aja struggles to pull the glove on, finally figuring out how to wear it.

  Bob taps his boot on the rubber. “You have to be touching this with your foot when you let go of the ball.”

  Bob points at Ramiro, crouching behind home plate. “It's pretty easy. Just throw it at Ramiro's glove.”

  Aja steps on the rubber and lobs the ball to Ramiro. An arcing, slow toss that lands in the center of Ramiro's glove.

  Bob shakes his head. “Good accuracy, but you gotta throw it fast. A halfway-decent batter would have creamed that one.”

  “I should throw it hard?”

  “Yeah,” Bob says. “That’s the idea.”

  Ramiro throws the ball back to Aja.

  Aja holds his glove out as he’s seen the others do, but the ball hits the edge of his glove and falls to the ground.

  “You have to be able to catch, too,“ Bob says.

  Aja picks the ball up off the ground, then steps back to the mound. He puts his foot on the rubber, then turns his attention to Ramiro. Aja waves his glove to tell Ramiro to get ready.

  Aja cocks his arm back and gyrates through a bizarre windup, but when the ball leaves his hand it flies like a rocket.

  Ramiro doesn't even have to move his glove. The ball slams into the center of it with a loud smack that even the outfield can hear.

  “Hot damn, Aja,” JJ shouts from first. “Way to throw the heat!”

  Bob looks at Ramiro, then to Aja, then back to Ramiro.

  Ramiro stands and throws the ball back to Aja, then massages his palm through his glove.

  Aja catches the ball this time.

  “That was pretty good,” Bob says. “But you have to be able to throw a bunch of them that way. Enough for a whole game.”

  “I throw this way all day,” Aja replies. He reloads and launches another speedball.

  Another loud smack as the ball hits Ramiro's glove again, once more dead center.

  This time the entire infield whoops.

  Bob stares at Aja. “That is one ugly windup, but somehow you throw the heat. Let's see how you do against a batter.”

  Bob hollers to JJ. “Grab a bat. Let's see if you can hit against someone who can actually throw.”

  JJ trots in from first. He grabs a bat and steps into the box.

  “Helmet!” Bob says.

  “I don't need a helmet, Coach,” JJ says.

  “Maybe not before,” Bob says. “But you do now.”

  JJ quickly grabs a helmet and moves back into the box. He digs his toe into the dirt, tapping the bat on the plate. “Bring it, Aja.”

  Bob explains to Aja, “It's no different. Just throw at Ramiro’s glove.”

  Aja goes into his gawky windup and fires.

  JJ swings hard, but gets nothing but air as the ball smacks into Ramiro’s glove.

  The infield whoops. Pauli makes fun of JJ’s miss by going through the motion of a batter missing and almost falling down.

  Ramiro throws the ball back to Aja.

  “Again,” Bob says.

  Aja fires, and JJ swings again. Harder. Still nothing.

  “Once more,” Bob says.

  Aja throws a fastball again. This time when JJ swings he gets a tiny piece of it, and the ball rattles off the backstop behind Ramiro.

  JJ backs out of the batter’s box. “Damn.”

  Ramiro chases down the ball and throws it back to Aja.

  “Before you throw it this time,” Bob says, “lift your left leg, like this.”

  Bob goes through the motions of a pitching windup, as best he can without his arm. Aja watches closely, then steps back onto the rubber. He waves his glove at JJ.

  JJ steps back into the box, twists his toe into the dirt, and raises his bat.

  Aja mimics the windup and launches again. His throw is even faster, but his accuracy is off and the ball goes hard inside.

  JJ hurls himself out of the way, falling over backward. The infield laughs as JJ climbs back to his feet and dusts off. “Coach, let Aja throw it his way. I don't wanna get killed.”

  Ramiro throws the ball back to Aja.

  “I guess it takes a little practice,” Bob says to Aja. “Try it one more time.”

  Aja nods. He winds up, mimicking the way Bob showed him, and fires again. He launches a fastball that looks like smoke passing over home plate.

  JJ swings so hard he almost falls over, but his bat touches nothing but air.

  Even more laughs from the infield players as JJ puts his hand on the ground to keep from falling.

  Bob pats Aja on the shoulder. ”I think you’re getting the hang of it.”

  ---

  Small Arms Range Complex

  Bob walks up to the counter in the shooting range.

  Airman White puts down his Guns and Ammo magazine and stands up. “Hey, Sergeant. You ready to try it again?”

  Bob nods at the lockers behind the Airman. “Yeah. I need an M-9 and a couple boxes of ammo.”

  “Right away, Sergeant.” White gathers the equipment while Bob signs the form.

  The door behind Bob opens and Julie comes in, wearing shorts and a form-fitting top. She spots Bob at the counter and walks over.

  Airman White st
ops in his tracks. He stares at her, lost in his own little world.

  Bob glances back at Julie, then turns to Airman White. “Reel your tongue back in, Airman. She's with me.”

  White snaps out of it, smiling. “Understood, Sergeant.” He puts the ammo boxes on the counter, then pulls a pistol out of the cabinet and puts it down beside the ammo.

  Bob looks back at Julie. “Hi. Thanks for coming. You’re right on time.”

  “Glad to,” Julie says. “Ready to send a few rounds downrange?”

  Airman White frowns. “I'm sorry, Sergeant. She can't go into the range. It’s against regs.”

  “Airman, she's my personal trainer and she's going back there with me. I don’t want any argument.”

  “If it were up to me, Sergeant, no problem,” White says. “But I can't. The old man’ll have my ass.”

  Bob picks up the handset from the phone sitting on Airman White’s desk. He gets a dial tone, then starts punching in numbers. “The old man? I suppose you mean Major Kepler. Do you want to speak to the major or do you want me to explain the situation to him?”

  White pauses, then reaches down and kills the connection on the phone. He looks up at Bob. “This is just between us, okay?”

  “That's good, son,” Bob says. “I got your back if anything comes up.”

  Bob grabs the M-9, and Julie takes the ammo. They go through the door to the range.

  Fortunately, no one else is on the range today. Bob sits on the bench, puts the clip between his knees and starts to load it. He watches as Julie quickly loads the other clip. She obviously isn’t a stranger to a semiautomatic pistol.

  They put on their safety glasses and ear protection, and Bob steps up to the firing line, holding the M-9. Julie stands behind him on his left side, observing.

  Julie speaks loudly so Bob can hear her through his ear protection. “Fire a few rounds; let me see what you're doing.”

  Bob settles into his stance, levels the pistol, and aims. Bang...bang...bang.

  Nothing