Ordinary Heroes: Based on a True Story

by Ron McCraw

Overview

Ordinary Heroes recreates the sights, sounds and textures of a world gone by – a world of freedom, innocence and mystery – where boys leave home at 6:00 in the morning and return home for dinner – a world of sleep outs and midnight escapades. 14 year old Randy’s life begins as a near-death experience. But – cerebral palsy aside – by 1959, he loves Sandra Dee, Sandy Koufax, the Dodgers, Wolfman Jack – and a girl named Daisy Clover – in that order. Things begin to pop when the boys poke around the crumbling Jefferson place and discover perplexing evidence – pointing to something very different than the official version of their neighborhood hero’s death – confusing clues, threatening notes, phone calls – and violence. If 19 year old Scotty Jefferson’s death is an “open and shut, police slam dunk” – why all the fuss? Ordinary Heroes salutes the goodness of boys everywhere!

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781468596007
Publisher:	AuthorHouse
Publication date:	07/10/2012
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	386
File size:	459 KB

About the Author

A survivor of cerebral palsy, Ron McCraw is a retired educator and counselor. He holds a bachelor’s degree in English and education and a master’s degree in clinical psychology and theology. He is a nationally certified trainer for Self Esteem Seminars and The International Network for Families and Children. Father of Andy, Julie and Kelsey, he currently lives in Bakersfield, CA with his wife, Marti, and his red golden retriever service dog, Cody.

Read an Excerpt

Ordinary Heroes

Based on a True Story

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By Ron McCraw

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Ron McCraw
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-9601-4

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Chapter One

Cody, Frenchy, and the Field of Dreams

A bright July – late-afternoon breezes slipping through the trees – splotches of light flickering in the shade – I sat uncomfortably behind the wheel of my Corvette-red, Mazda Miata convertible – the muscled-up 2011 model – a monument to my still-fading youth.

What's the line from the old Beatles' song – 'Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four?' I'm right there – next October. But, psychologically – youth is always fading. We are always every age we ever were. The 14 year old me is alive and well – right now. The question before the house is simply – who's running the show?

* * *

I pulled into the lot, settled in a space protected by a massive Sequoia Redwood, opened the passenger door and yelled, "Release."

Cody, my beautiful, two year old dark-red golden retriever, exploded into the park at full speed – barely touching the ground and getting no attention from the squirrel some thirty yards away. The distance closed to ten yards – and the squirrel waited – squirting up the tree trunk at the last second. Cody, a blink too late – skidded – sprawling and spinning to a stop. He smiled his dog smile – and looked at me.

I yelled, "Don't look at me – you're supposed to be a bird and water dog – not a tree and squirrel dog."

We stared at each other for a moment.

I said, "Come."

He loped toward me – thumping the green grass – ignoring the boys playing baseball a hundred yards to his left – the birds, squirrels and small children to his right – as well as a billion good smells.

I yelled again, "Good job – good boy."

As he neared the car, I patted the seat and gave the command, "Jump." Once on the seat, I gave two commands – "Front" and "Dress." Sunlight blinking off his red and gold coat – Cody faced me and waited. I put on his collar, leash and vest. The red vest – trimmed in black and sporting a yellow patch with black lettering – "Service Dog Don't Touch."

I labored getting out of the car. A sixty-four-year-old man with cerebral palsy who walks with two canes and is forever tangled in hand controls – must labor.

What do those dopey youngsters say – it is what it is? Profound, eh?

I struggled for fifteen minutes. It's not that the car is too small – it's not. It's that I'm too stiff. It's a bit like Chinese handcuffs – it's counterintuitive. When you want to pull, you've got to push. For me to hurry, I've got to slow down – make my legs think I've forgotten all about them.

It's always been a fragile negotiation.

'Negotiation' – now, there's a good old Freudian word. Nearly forty years of teaching English and fifteen years of practicing clinical psychology – and I still think about that crap. So, here's a news bulletin – negotiate, horse trade, run a cost/benefit analysis – and cut the best deal you can ... Bottom line ...

Sometimes you eat the bear – sometimes the bear eats you ...

* * *

Out of the car – sea legs under me – I closed my door, walked around, gave the command, 'jump' followed by 'down/stay.' Cody hit the ground and I closed his door. As it clunked shut, I smacked my hand – the cane flew about five feet and landed in the gutter. So, there I was – able to stand with one cane – but otherwise, utterly stuck.

I said, "Cody."

We made eye contact.

"Release. Come."

Immediately, the big, red, 'chick magnet' – came to my side.

Where was this guy when I was twenty?

I pointed to the cane in the gutter and whispered, "Get it."

In a flash, he picked the cane up by its crooked end, brought it – and held it. I put out my hand – "Give". He gently dropped the cane in my palm. I gave immediate, effusive praise – many pats – here, there and everywhere – and a well-placed kiss or two – right between the eyes.

"Good boy – you saved my backside."

I will never be able to thank the trainers at Doggie Do Good enough. Thank you, Sandy and Heather.

I got doggie acknowledgement – a couple of quick, soft kisses on the hand and a wag or two from that feathery flag of his. I wiped the "retriever mouth" off the handle, picked up the leash and headed for the bleachers behind home plate.

Cody – as always – earned his money. He kept in step with my halting, erratic gait, maintaining the correct distance without pulling and making me fall. It's quite a sight – the two of us paying close attention to the other's four legs.

We reached the bleachers behind home plate – solid aluminum – guaranteed to scorch any clothing on the planet.

No wonder the first row is empty.

I put Cody on a 'Down/Stay' in the shade underneath and decided to stand for an inning or two. Through the netting on the backstop, I studied the scoreboard in left field – two outs, bases loaded, bottom of the ninth – 1-1 tie. The kid coming to the plate – fifteen year old Frenchy Cohen – his once-white uniform covered in dirt – grimy adhesive tape on his right forearm. He was not big, like his older brothers – but sleek and strong – like a race car. He looked good in the uniform – like Shoeless Joe Jackson in Field of Dreams.

Field of Dreams triggered childhood memories ...

No grass or dirt or uniforms – no wooden bats or hardballs – just an ugly, asphalt cul de sac and plastic stuff – but we did play baseball in my neighborhood – and I did play ... canes and all ... Nobody would believe it today ... Politically incorrect – crippled kid gets hurt ... law suit. Worse yet, save him from himself – don't want him getting his feelings hurt if other kids reject or ridicule him. What junk ...

There was a meeting at the mound – entire infield.

A guy near-by gave me the game-wide context. Frenchy was 2 for 2 with a walk and a stolen base. His second hit, just last inning – a home run to tie the score. The home run – a line drive down the left field line – fair by less than a foot – came after the pitcher knocked Frenchy down twice.

In a wider context, I knew the Cohen family well. Frenchy's older twin brothers – Roman and Berlin – were in my English class some years back – good kids. Frenchy's real name – Paris, what else?

As the mound conference broke up, I felt a strong arm around my shoulder. Coming down from the top bleachers, Moshe Cohen stood next to me – a big man, round face, bushy eyebrows and broad smile.

* * *

He and I became good friends eight years ago. As the older Cohen twins finished their freshman year in my class, Moshe requested that they continue with me for grades 10, 11 and 12. At the end of the twins' sophomore year, I told their father I was not scheduled for English 11, but I would look forward to seeing them in English 12.

He smiled, shook my hand warmly, thanked me – gave me a dozen assorted doughnuts – "Courtesy of the Cohen Bakery" – and left.

The following fall, I was surprised to find English 11 on my schedule – and the Cohen boys on my first period roll. Later, I learned that Moshe met with my principal and asked that I be assigned English 11 for one year – so that his boys "might have a perfect record."

When asked why this was so important, he said it was a "scheduling coincidence" for the teacher – and "the Will of God" for his boys. The principal laughed – suggested that the will of a motivated father was in there somewhere as well – and asked why I was so important. Moshe laughed too – and said, "What you say – about God's will and a father's will – it is a very Jewish thing to say."

He added that he knew Merchant of Venice was 11th grade reading – "a play with a Jew in it" – and that I would be "fair about it." Moshe enjoyed theological discussions, appreciated my seminary training and liked me – "because I like anybody who likes my boys."

* * *

When I looked up into the sun, Moshe's voice welcomed me. He grinned and sounded quintessentially Jewish – whatever that means.

"Ah, my Christian friend, good to see you. You look good – for an older man."

He laughed, winked and reached for my hand. "You are late – you know this? It is the ninth inning."

I switched both canes to my left hand – extended my right. We shook hands – hard. I could not see his face. The sun was too bright. Players call this a "high sky" – no clouds – tough to get perspective on a fly ball.

He grinned, bigger than life – and gently nudged my shoulder. "This is where we end this game, today, eh?"

He paused, "Shall we ask for divine intervention?"

I smiled, cleared my throat and grinned. "Couldn't hurt."

Suddenly, the big man looked around. "So, where is this beautiful dog of yours? Is it a 'Christian' dog?"

I pointed. "Right behind you – down low – and he is whatever I am – plus whatever I say he is."

Moshe laughed. Cody's nose was peeking out. "Smart dog – outta the heat. Smarter than us, eh?"

"Uh huh," I agreed, "he is – about a lot of things."

Things were heating up on the field – infield and outfield in – cut off the run at the plate. Crowd yelling, infield chattering – both benches hanging on dugout railings – coaches clapping encouragement.

Another time out – pitcher and catcher whispering into gloves.

"So," I asked, "where are Frenchy's big brothers?"

Moshe frowned. "Are you kidding? They are where they should be – at the bakery – working. Frenchy's mother – she is up top. Nobody tells that woman what to do."

He threw up a right thumb like he was calling a third strike. I turned, found the petite Mrs. Cohen, and waved. She smiled and waved back.

I turned back to Moshe and we looked at the field. "You know – I played baseball when I was a kid – thirteen or fourteen – pitcher. I was pretty good, too – at least once in a while."

Moshe's eyebrows jumped, he stepped back and smiled – his voice high-pitched and awkward. "What? You play this?"

I put my index finger to my lips, "Shh" – and pointed to the field.

* * *

Frenchy stepped to the plate – all business – open stance, bent slightly at the knees and waist – fingers curled around the end of the bat, hands high – about even with his right ear.

The pitcher – long and lanky, all arms and legs – went into an exaggerated wind up – unfolding in sections – and finished in a whiplash. Even with all those moving parts, the ball came out smoothly – blazing right under Frenchy's chin.

He leaned back an inch – ball one. The crowd screamed. The umpire called time and dusted home plate.

"Jesus," I said to Moshe, "how fast is he?"

He spat and coughed – eyes riveted on the field. "Fast enough – ninety – maybe. Easy enough to hit – it's straight. Problem is, he's got a slider – breaks down and away – looks just like the fastball, until the last second."

"Curve?"

"No," he scratched his head. "Big, flat – telegraphs it."

"What did Frenchy hit last time?"

"Curve – he'll stay away from it now."

Full wind up again – fastball at his belt buckle – Frenchy jack-knifed and staggered across home plate, but kept his feet – ball two. More screaming – and fidgeting on the field.

The next fastball was right at Frenchy's head – I thought he was going to be decapitated. Moshe yelled and stomped – Frenchy collapsed like an accordion – ball three. Slowly – stands in mayhem – the kid scraped himself together, walked to the on-deck circle, wiped his hands and returned.

That's when I heard it – two guttural voices, same twisted mind. "Hey, kike."

"Hey, Jew-boy – let's see you hit it now."

I snapped a quick glance at father and son – neither reacted.

The pitcher's eyes were wild – like something trapped. He took the stretch position.

Moshe whispered, "Curve."

Out came a slow, sloppy, big old hanging rainbow – flat – right over the middle of the plate – batting practice pitch. Frenchy's eyes grew as big as silver dollars – he swung so hard his helmet came off and he fell to one knee. He fouled it straight back – the crowd's gasp rolling in like an ocean wave – strike one.

I looked around – searching for those ugly voices. I wondered if anybody else was searching. Moshe's eyes never left his boy.

The next pitch looked like a major league fastball – knee high, right over the outside corner – a perfect pitch. Frenchy was ready and he was right on it – good, compact swing – but he fouled it straight back also. Three balls, two strikes.

Another wave of noise – now subsiding. Frenchy collected himself and refocused.

Suddenly, I heard it again. "That's two, Jew-boy – go home now – don't need yer kind."

"Take that big honker with you."

Frenchy called time, stepped out of the batter's box, used the rosin bag on his hands and bat – searched the stands for a moment – and looked directly at his father.

Moshe mouthed one word – "Slider."

The frenzied crowd settled – seemed to hold its breath. Frenchy reentered the box. There was no breeze. The umpire called time and dusted home plate again. The crowd grumbled and shifted – bleachers groaning.

Moshe mumbled, "Shit."

I looked behind me. Cody was asleep.

The skinny, baby-faced pitcher released a torrid fastball toward the inside corner – at the last second, it broke to the outside. With a flick of his wrists, Frenchy crushed it – a high fly ball to deep right centerfield. Mayhem exploded.

Everybody knew it immediately. If you've seen enough baseball, you actually hear it before you see it – a sweet, full, solid, deep sound – not a crack or a thump – but the sound of a monster home run – at least 350 feet – and nobody there to catch it. If you ask Frenchy Cohen, he will say – 'so smooth, never even feel it.'

The crowd was schizophrenic – joy and grief screaming at one another – bleachers rumbling and shaking.

I looked at Moshe – he grinned, winked, whistled – and yelled, "That slider – good pitch."

Frenchy was rounding third – victory mob waiting at home plate.

I yelled, "Doughnuts for everyone."

Moshe frowned. "No, just team – and you and your Christian dog. You come to my bakery tomorrow morning, I give you coffee as well."

I could not get the smile off my face.

Suddenly, it was quieter – the earthquake stopped – and I turned down the offer. "Cody and I can't do doughnuts – he's too young and I'm too old."

Moshe threw his unlit, half-chewed cigarette on the ground, crushed it and bear-hugged his boy – who greeted me with a smile.

"Where's Cody," he puffed, "did he see my home run?"

I pointed to the now-empty bleachers. Cody was still out.

Suddenly, Mrs. Cohen was there – hugging her boy – and rushing back to the bakery. She smiled – beaming – whispered, "Nice to see you" and squeezed my wrist as she left.

I said, "Cody – come."

Immediately, Cody was up and out. He stretched, yawned, shook – and stood beside me. I said, "Release" and he went straight to Frenchy.

I stuck out my hand. We shook – hard. "Great game, kid."

He was glowing – the team did not want to leave.

He was catching his breath. "Thanks – I was just lucky enough to get that one."

Moshe winked again. "My baby son is very lucky – and also very good."

Cody was gently mouthing Frenchy's wrist – in a soft retriever way. I corrected him. "He wants to play – must have forgotten he's working."

"No," Moshe shook his head, "you are the one who said, "Release."

I put up my hand in surrender and looked at Frenchy. "Son, gotta question – when you crush a ball like that – does it sting like crazy?"

"No sir," he smiled. "It's real sweet and smooth – don't feel a thing."

* * *

I smiled, sat on the bench, petted Cody – and took a deep breath – Nobody around. "Maybe you guys don't want to talk about this – but I heard those voices today – same as you."

They looked at the ground – Moshe's shoulders slumped – and his voice was tired. "Best to leave it alone or it gets worse."

Suddenly, Frenchy looked like a loser. He did not speak.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Ordinary Heroes by Ron McCraw Copyright © 2012 by Ron McCraw. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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