The street lights bathed the worn sidewalk in a soft yellow glow. Grass grew between the cracks of the rugged concrete. It wasn’t easy for Charlie to push his rusty wheelchair across the uneven path. But this was the route he took to the baseball field each and every evening.
Charlie loved the night. He viewed it as a cold, dark, and loving friend; for it hid him from the ridicule and laughter he endured during the day. The kids at school extended their index fingers like cattle prods in his mind as they snickered amongst themselves. They would call him names like, tard, wheels, rusty-roller, as well as general profanities.
But at night, Charlie was free, free from the glares of his classmates who sat so proudly upon their brand-name wearing high-horses. At night, he was happy.
Humming the lyrics of songs he thought up along the way, he pushed his chair along the old sidewalk, stopping occasionally to view a flower or grasshopper that lie on his path. He pushed his cheap wheel-chair along with persistence, and a smile to boot.
He finally reached his destination, the baseball field. Every night he would go there with glove and ball in hand, his head filled with fantasies of becoming a professional baseball player. He would toss the ball in the air over and over again saying,
“Catch!” though he rarely caught it on its return toward the ground.
Charlie would simply reach over his arm rests and pick the ball up, throw it in the air, yell "Catch!" and have it come back down in the dirt; and he did it all with a smile.
On occasion, Charlie would flip the breaker to turn on the night-game-lights. He would then perch himself upon the pitchers mound, and look toward home-plate with the biggest of smiles, imagining the stands filled with fans, all chanting his name. He would then take a lap or two around the bases, leaving a dust trail behind him as he narrated each dramatic turn towards home in an announcer like fashion.
This night, however, was different from the rest. He parked his chair just inches in front of the batters box. He looked down upon the soft white plate which lied in front of him. No smile graced his boyish face. Flipping the levers to lock his wheels in place caused a loud snap to echo throughout still night. He then placed his hands upon the sides of his chair and scooted forward. Lifting his foot-rests his feet fell to the dirt. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“One, Two, Three,” he counted aloud. He pushed himself up and out of his chair. He opened his eyes and looked down. For a moment, he thought he could walk again. The widest of smiles came across his face. Then suddenly, his legs buckled underneath him and he collapsed upon the ground, a dusty cloud rose around him. He lied upon home plate, sobbing heavily.
“Why am I so different?!” cried Charlie into the night. Tears streamed down his face, leaving a trace upon his dirty cheeks. He eventually mustered the strength to get back in his chair, and return home.
The alarm clock buzzed and Charlie shot up in his bed. It was Monday.
He loved Monday’s. He was eager to get out of bed and get dressed, for he knew his mother had pancakes and eggs waiting in the kitchen.
His school was small, and the buses were not built to accommodate the disabled. So his mother drove him to school every morning.
Charlie swung the van-door open as his chair descended from the rooftop. He slide into his chair and gave his mother a goodbye kiss. Then he was off, ready to start the day.
As he went down the hall, he noticed a girl having some trouble with her books.
“Do you…umm…need some help?” he asked.
“Ugh, no, get away you cripple,” said the girl in a snotty tone.
Charlie reached down and grabbed her books, then placed them in her book bag.
“I hope you have a nice day,” he said, somewhat hurt by the words of the girl.
He continued down the hall towards his first class, when his chair suddenly stopped.
“Ha ha, look at you now tard, hard to move without your wheels on the ground isn’t it,” said a boy as he lifted the back of the chair off the ground. “Look at the wittle wee tard, can’t move without his pwecious wittle wheels,” the bully continued.
“Let me go please,” said Charlie in a soft voice.
“What was that?” asked the boy with a chuckle. “All I heard was ‘I’m a wittle wee tard, look at me, I’m nothing but a stupid fucking cripple.”
“Please, just let me go!” shouted Charlie.
“What is the meaning of this?” A loud voice boomed behind the boys. “Vince, let Charlie go this instant.”
“Yes Mr. Fisher,” replied the boy.
Mr. Fisher escorted Charlie to his first period class.
The day loomed on, Charlie went through the halls catching glares while hearing insults beneath the breath of passerby’s. This was a normal day for him, never going quite how he imagined it would as he woke each morning.
He finished out the day, and school week that followed. Weeks passed, months crawled by ever so slowly, yet Charlie endured the rest of the school year with a smile.
Summer was finally upon him, and what a better way to start it than with a minor-league baseball game. Charlie was of the smallest fans in the crowd, but his cheers could be heard above those around him. He cheered and cheered, rooting for his favorite team as innings ticked by and scores crept upward. It was the final inning. Frank the Tank Houston,Charlie’s idol, was up to bat. Bases loaded, down by 3 with a full count.
The pitcher shook his head back and forth with each sign the catcher gave him, the two exchanged numbers and nods for what seemed like an eternity. Finally the pitcher wound up, a blazing curve-ball flew from his hand, Charlie’s eyes were fixed on the small white dot. The ball neared home plate, CRACK!
The ball flew high and far, right towards Charlie. He raised his glove as the white spec came closer and closer. He extended his arm, reaching as far as he could; he felt the ball land in his glove. He was over come would joy, smiling and bouncing around in his seat. His team had won. He raised his glove, both to in victory and to show off his prize.
Charlie waited outside the locker room exit, hoping to get an autograph from his hero.
The metal door creaked open as mosquitoes buzzed around the light above.
“Frank,” said Charlie nervously. “May…May I have your autograph?” he asked as he extended the game winning ball.
“Sure thing, what’s your name?” replied Frank as he grabbed the ball.
“Charlie! You know, someday, I want to be just like you!”
“Oh really,” mumbled Frank as he scribbled. “Here you go.”
Frank handed Charlie the ball and walked away. He smiled and looked down at the autographed ball. It read:
"That’s never going to happen, Charlie. Cripples don’t play baseball."
He looked at it in disbelief. “How could Frank say such a thing…” he mumbled under his breath. “This, this can’t be happening…Why does everyone hate me?” he asked himself as he started wheeling himself across the parking lot.
Visions of bullies at school flashed in his mind, girls sneering at him as they giggled. Thoughts of his teachers neglecting his questions raced in his head. Franks words, the words of his classmates, teachers, and peers all burning in his temples.
He pushed harder and harder, moving faster and faster across the parking lot toward the road.
”I’ll show them,” he thought. “They’re all wrong. All I ever did was try to help people, and make them smile, and they just laughed, well let’s see how funny I am when I’m not around. Who then will they pick on?” He pushed onward down the street with hatred in his heart, and tears on his cheeks.
Move cripple. Get out of the way retard. Move it you stupid little fuck.
Insults raced in his mind over and over again, and then suddenly…they stopped. His ears perked and he turned his head. He heard a whistle blaring. The midnight train rushed down the tracks in the distance.
Without thinking, he raced to the nearest crossing and stopped just before the tracks. He looked down upon the parallel steel rails, how perfectly straight they were, they were the same, one like the other, and they had a purpose. He loathed them. He looked to his left, three bright lights shone brightly in the distance, so bright against the dark velvety night.
Charlie pushed his chair forward.
With a thump and creak his chair came to a stop. He faced the train head on as it neared him. His eyes narrowed as the headlamps intensified. His knuckles whitened as the train let out a long whistle. The breaks engaged and the wheels scraped upon the tracks, sending sparks flying into the darkness of the night.
He then thought of his mother, her beautiful smile she gave him each morning and night, her long blonde hair and her soft green eyes. He thought of how she pushed him around the neighborhood telling him stories. He thought of the brownies she would make him when he got sick, and of the toys she would buy him for doing his chores.
His eyes welled with tears as he thought of laying in the grass with his mother on a cool summer day, the sun shining brightly as the breeze swept over them.
He broke free of the memories that gripped him, the train moving closer still.
He struggled to free himself, but his wheels were stuck between the tracks. He reached for his safety belt and fumbled it around in his shaking hands, trying to undo the knot which held him in place. He looked up, the train’s lights ever so bright now, the screeching getting louder and louder.
He then let go of the strap and rested his hands upon his legs, closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He felt the cool night upon his skin. His shadowy friend embraced him ever so tightly.
A single tear drop ran down his cheek as he tossed the autographed ball into the air.
“Catch.” He whispered.
