We played little league baseball throughout town and, of all the fields, the field at Washington Elementary was the best. A mile or so bike ride from home, we jammed our bats, hats and gloves into our bicycle baskets and rode to the school for our evening games. The field was huge with a large candy factory on one border belching out the sweet scent of fun. “They burnt a batch,” we explained to nods all around. Across the field was a large wooded area perfect for bicycling after the game. The games themselves drew together all the kids from our town’s five elementary schools. We got to know the kids from the other schools, observing first, then either fighting or befriending them.
The games moved quickly as a handful of boys dominated with pitching prowess I could not match. If I was lucky I got one hit or, perhaps, a base on balls. Twice I was forced – after a catcher had laughed at my struggling swings – to step as far back into the batter’s box as I could and swing the bat seeking to connect with the catcher’s extended arm rather than the ball. On both occasions I connected hard with the catcher’s hand or arm, making the catcher cry, and forcing me to deliver a sincere apology prior to walking to first base due to catcher’s interference. Thereafter the catchers gave me a wide birth and I was beaned on more than one occasion.
After the games a few like minded boys, usually me, Tony and Henry, an tough kid from one of the other schools rode through the woods, exploring new paths and trying to out jump each other as we launched our bikes over various portions of a long drainage ditch in celebration of our canyon jumping hero, Evel Knievel.
On this day Henry, sought to out jump us with a leap over the mouth of the drainage ditch. Furiously pedaling towards the wide ditch he pulled up on the handlebars too late and crashed into the other side, pancaking his balls onto his banana seat. We dropped our bikes and ran over to find Henry, not holding his flattened balls as expected but kneeling on hands and knees looking into the four foot drainage pipe feeding the ditch. He turned and caught our eyes. Without a word he proceeded into the underground pipe, crouching down and slipping into darkness. We followed.
The drainage pipe stretched far under the earth, its end point unseen as we moved forward. The pipe itself was simply a huge concrete tube; sloping up four feet and around over our heads in a circle with a trickle of water at our feet. Our cleats made clacking noises as we proceeded into the darkness. The air was moist and the concrete sides were cool to the touch. We all had matches and took turns lighting a match or trying to light random twigs or papers scatted along the sides as we crept forward. Periodically shafts of light entered through a manhole or sewer grate beaming down into our path. The beams of light drew us forward. We cupped the light with our hands or strained our faces upwards towards the source.
After a distance the pipe turned at a series of right angles. Each such turn was marked by an open area with a set of ladder rungs built into the wall leading up from our pipe to a manhole 10 feet above. These corner areas were about four feet round rising from the pipe and narrowing above as the opening met the manhole. At each such juncture, there was enough space to stand up. They were natural stopping points. We stretched. Below our feet and around the circumference of the circular area were huge piles of dried leaves, trash, soda cans and twigs deposited into the sewer from previous storms. Above were the penetrating lights and the sounds of birds, traffic or silence. We kept walking and after reaching each area, we stood silent and tried to guess our location or at least figure out how far we had gone underground.
We continued on for another 10 minutes slowly walking through the dark, screaming every now and then in an effort to scare each other and simply to enjoy our own echoes. We arrived at a manhole area and listened. Silence. We had no idea where we were. “I’m going up,” volunteered Henry. He climbed the rungs on the side of the concrete wall and put his ear to the manhole. Again, silence. Planting his feet together on the top rung and leaning his back against the opposing wall he pushed hard slowly lifting the heavy manhole cover over his head. He was strong.
Immediately a horn blared and tires screeched above us. Henry freaked, trying to duck down. He slipped and dropped the manhole cover. The cover was too big to fall through the opening, however Henry dropped it so quickly it fell and pivoted on its edges, swinging down in a semi-circle, cracking Henry in the front of the head. Everything seems to move to slow motion as he dropped like a rock landing in a lump as the sound of the horn above floated away. We looked up waiting to see if we were caught. We looked down, now wondering what to do with our unconscious friend. A crescent of sunbeam arced across Henry’s chest as he lie there with his legs under him. We straightened him out and, after placing our hands in the muddy trickle of water, gently dabbed Henry’s face, wiping away blood. We scooped up some water and sprinkled it on him, whispering, “It’s OK, Henry. You’re OK, buddy. Wake up, now, come on, come on, Henry.” We began to debate whether one of us should run to get help or if we should both stay with Henry or if we should both go, leaving Henry. We were ill prepared for such a turn.
Henry began to stir then to slowly cry. He tried to stand and then fell, like a wobbly boxer, landing hard on the mat. “You’re OK, Henry. You almost got hit by a car. You got hit by a manhole. You were out cold.”
“Take me home,” he stammered.
We began to retrace our steps, slowly walking Henry along and taking turns supporting his weight. We stopped frequently as he was unbalanced and the sloping sewer pipe made it difficult to walk side by side. We came up to a right turn with a manhole cover over us and Henry asked to rest. We sat Henry down on a large pile of dried leaves and newspapers. He was wheezing from the effort and his forehead had a huge red goose egg, from his encounter with the manhole cover. Henry continued to bleed and began to shiver, “I’m cold.”
We gathered up some papers and lit them for warmth, tucking the burning edges under the leaves. The leaves caught fast and soon the entire pile was burning. The situation accelerated along with the flames as we kicked the fire away from Henry. The flames spread quickly. Too quickly. The entire circular area began to burn and fill with smoke. Henry started to gasp for air. I climbed up the metal rungs, listened for cars and pushed the manhole up and over. The cover was heavy. “How did he pick this thing up?” I asked. I peeked up carefully and, saw we were no longer under a street. We were in a clearing behind the school. Smoke poured out the open manhole as I climbed back down and we helped Henry up, through the chimney of smoke and onto the grass. His head hit the last ladder rung as a man walking his dog came running over, seeing Henry tottering over returning to his hands and knees. “What the fuck are you kids doing down there? I’m going to call the cops on you little shits!”
“Don’t call the cops, Mister, there’s a little girl trapped in there. Help her! She needs help!” I screamed. “She’s that way!” I said, pointing towards the school.
“Jesus H. Christ. Hold my dog!”
The man climbed down into the plume of smoke searching for the imaginary girl. I released his dog and together we ran like members of a three legged race team. We ran with Henry across the field and retrieved our bikes. Henry was very dizzy but now, like us, he was more scared. He said he was able to ride his bike. We tried and, though wobbly, he did not fall. Fueled by fear of getting caught we rode to a safe vantage point and watched the poor guy climb out of the manhole, sooty, gasping for air and looking for us. It dawned on him his dog was nowhere to be seen. By now a couple of other adults had joined him, first peering into the manhole and then looking up and around like the swooping search light from a lighthouse.
At the sight of the soon to be organized adults we scattered, with the simple goal of going our separate ways, looking for a pool, running through a sprinkler or hosing ourselves down while still in our uniforms to mask the smell of smoke. Arriving home smelling of smoke was always a problem. I ended up riding my bike nearly all the way home and stopping at a creek, took my cleats off and laid down in the water, rolling over like an alligator wrestling its prey and drenching myself. I biked home and banged on the back door. “Mom, I fell in the brook after baseball. Can you bring me some shorts so I don’t get the floor wet?”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Beasley, you’ve got to be more careful than that. How was baseball?”
“Good. You know, same as usual. What’s for dinner?”
Tags: baseball, crash, explore, fire, lost dog, not scared, ride bikes, sewer, smoke, unconscious
Damn, awesome website.
STICK WITH IT!
My cousin recommended this blog and she was totally right keep up the fantastic work!
Wonderful journey and experience.
Great post!
Really love all these stories..
Excellent. Thanks.
Good Story!!
This is a good blog.