Champ

by Felix Chen

Another chair slammed into the ground sending vibrations through the floor, waking me from my dreamy state. My body jerked to full attentiveness ready for fight or flight, but it was not me that they had come for this time. The recurring images of the enlarged green plastic soldiers blurred my mind. They had knocked forcefully, "boom, boom, boom," then impatiently, "bang, bang, bang," as we hid silently, huddling behind my parents' large brass framed bed. My father's thick arms held the three of us firmly together. My small head rested against his soft forehead, and I could feel a fast warm pulse throbbing from his temple.

"Please son, just stay quiet and they won't harm us," he would whisper with a quiver in his voice. He lied. This time, they took him. The green soldiers, with chunks of excess plastic flaking off at the joints and the tops of their helmets, smashed down the door, yet there was no sound. The first to enter was always the soldier that was loosely referred to as "Captain". The nozzle of his flame-thrower would peek around the corner, and then his large frame, with two large tanks strapped to his back, would appear blocking the entire entrance. His right hand would extend backwards and his fingers would curl at the tips, signaling to the others to come forward. Only a dark fog could be seen behind him, and then out of this mist would materialize other soldiers. Two, four, eight, ten; the soldiers would fill the small room with their wooden, ready-for-action bodies as their weapons clumsily stuck in each others backs. We were surrounded, and I could feel my father trembling violently, but he still continued to hold us. Sometimes, I wondered whether he knew why they were here, or even if I understood.

"Get up," the captain mouthed, yet no voice could be heard. I watched his lips move, and I immediately understood what he was saying. Even when I wasn't watching him, I knew what he was saying because he basically said the same thing at each nightly encounter.

"No, you two sit back down. We came for him," the captain said as he pointed a slender finger toward my father. My mother grabbed my shoulders and pulled me back to the safety of the ground. I felt the weight of her body squeezing my stomach into the soft carpeted floor, and I felt safe. I heard the shackles snap shut, and the chains that bound my father would shake sounding like dull wind chimes. My father's voice would weakly moan like a condemned man, "What have I done to deserve this? I have done nothing wrong. Nothing. Do you hear me?" as they led him away. I could only see the boot tops of the soldiers as they marched out. Sometimes, the captain would stop and turn momentarily before exiting. I imagined that he would wink at me, as if everything were alright, then he would turn and silently disappear into the night mist.

The sharp high pitched shattering of glass rang through my ears as the dishes fell from the cupboards. I heard the desperate pleas from my mother, "Richard, please just talk to me. I feel that you're taking him away from me. I'm losing touch with him. Let's just talk about it, honey. Please don't wake him."
"Shut up, Marianne. Don't you start blaming me for all your bullshit. You just can't talk to him. You don't have anything in common with him and I know you've been trying," my father said.
"Please don't wake Tim. I don't want him to see me like this," she sobbed.
"Like what? Just stop trying so hard and back the fuck off." I could hear the sound of flesh being slapped solidly, and then punched, sounding like potatoes hitting against a brick wall. I cringed at the thought of the bruises and cuts that would cover my mother's beautiful face.

Once, when my mother was soundly napping on the living room sofa, I caressed her face. The heavy make-up concealed her natural features. Her soft pinkish lips were ripe and thick as I ran my finger along them. I wiped the thick powder from her face, like wiping dust off a bookshelf. Beneath the powder, the hidden blue veins and healing wounds were unveiled, and I ran up to my room in disbelief. I convinced myself that underneath all the make-up could not have been my mother.

I threw the brightly colored comforter to the side as the cold air surrounded my warm body. My father's angry insults were followed by mother's soft curses. I sat in bed for a few moments to gather my thoughts, but then my body started moving by itself. I needed to find out what was happening. I threw my striped shirt with the green collar over my shivering body, and walked barefoot across the room. I opened the door just wide enough for me to slip through, and crawled down the stairs on my hands and knees. The darkness of the house was brightened only by a small Mickey-Mouse night light that smiled at me at the bottom of the staircase. I looked between the wooden rods that supported the railing, hoping to see into the kitchen. The swinging door was closed, but the glow of light beamed from beneath the door. Realizing that I would not see anything from the stairs, I tip-toed over to the kitchen door and listened. I rubbed one cold foot over the other to keep them warm as I waited.
"No, I'm sick and tired of your same damned excuses. Now just tell me the truth," my father screamed. I pushed the door forward slightly, inching it open. "Do you have no respect for me? Is that it?"
"No, I believe in you, but why don't you have trust in me-- that I can also bring him up right? Honey, you know that I would never--" my mother stopped. Silence. I waited nervously, knowing that I had been caught.
"Come in," my father's voice boomed. I pushed the door fully open and stood courageously erect at the door's entrance.
"Hey, Champ. What are you doing awake?" my father said innocently. I wanted him to plead pitifully, like the way that he acted in the shackles of the Captain. I surveyed the shattered room. My mother stood in the corner of the room leaning against the wall. Her face was covered by her hands. I could hear her silent sobs as her body convulsed rhythmically. Her shoes slipped slowly on the tile, squeaking softly and lowering her body to the ground where she sat in misery. I squinted my eyes in disbelief, and then stared menacingly at my father. He let out a dry nervous laugh and tussled my hair.
"Why don't you run upstairs, Champ. You got a long day tomorrow and you will need your sleep or you will sleep through school," he said smiling.
"I'm not tired anymore," I grumbled as I started picking up pieces of shattered porcelain dishes.
"Careful where you walk, Champ. There's a lot of broken glass on the floor. I wouldn't want you to cut yourself."
"What happened here?" I asked rhetorically, hoping for a confession.
"Well, there's been a small accident but everything is going to be all right. Just let me take care of things. Now, run up to bed," he said giving me a gentle shove on my bottom to get me moving. I left without my captive.

"Come on Champ, show some pep out there will ya," my father screamed supportively from the bleachers. I was 'in the hole', waiting for my turn to bat. My brown uniform had the letters "P-a-d-r-e-s" in yellow script letters. Our uniforms were referred to as the shit-and-piss uniforms by all the other little leaguers, given our team colors. What the hell was a 'Padre', anyway? The other teams in our division had cool names like the "Dodgers" and the "Giants", which we all salivated over, but we had managed to keep a modest 4 win and 6 loss season. My father had left work early to make it to every game of the season. He even expressed interest to coach the team, but the rules strictly prohibited any father to coach a team that his son or daughter was on. Instead, he would coach me at home. I remember those glorious afternoons when just my dad and I would walk to the park. I would skip happily at the trails of his long strides, carrying a bat over my shoulder and an outfielder's glove on the other hand. My father had broken in the Roger Clemens Special '20K' Edition glove perfectly. He parked the car on the well oiled glove for a week, obtaining the perfect shape and break in point for the glove. During those crisp fall days, my father would stand behind me and adjust my batting stance. I could smell my father's musky cologne, and his warm muscular body enveloping me. I was so proud of my father. I was so impressed by how far he could hit the ball. I would chase after them hopelessly as they sailed over my head into the distance. We would play until it was impossible to see the ball anymore in the darkening sky. I was so proud, and would pray at night to someday be like my father.

"Alright, Champ. Are you ready? This southpaw's tough. Now just relax on his fastball, okay? Sit back on your heels and wait for the pitch to come to you, and then smack; hit it," my father said as he patted the top of my red oversized batting helmet causing it to cover my eyes. I lifted the helmet so that I could see again, and I approached the batter's box.
"My son's gonna hit it downtown," I heard my father proudly bragging to the coach as he made his way back to the bleachers. I dug into the powdery dirt and spit to the side, just as my father had jokingly taught me to. I could hear my father's words when he had told me to spit like a tough guy, "It's a psychological battle, between you and the pitcher." I stared the pitcher down as the catcher gave the signals for the next pitch. The pitcher didn't like what the catcher was calling and he shook them off. How could he not like what the catcher was calling? Everyone knew that in little league, only two pitches existed: the fastball and the not-so-fastball.
"Strike one," the umpire called as the ball went whizzing by.
"Wow, that was definitely fast," I mumbled to myself as I knocked the mud out of my cleats.
"Come on, Champ. You got this one. Take a rip at it. Get the bat off your shoulder," father instructed. I was intent on watching the ball more carefully this time. The pitcher wound up, torsioning his body, and delivered another fastball which I flailed at anxiously, but I was way ahead of the ball. The mighty swing of the heavy aluminum bat threw me off balance, and I found myself sitting in a cloud of dust, with the helmet covering my entire face. The other team laughed hysterically as they jumped up and down on their bench.

"Why don't you try hitting the ball this time instead of hitting the ground," the Dodgers yelled. I lifted the helmet slowly to see the crowds screaming and pointing at me. My father nodded to me in encouragement. He mocked a swing with an invisible bat and put his hand over his eyes as if watching a ball hit into the distance, and then he nodded to me again. He mouthed the words, "you can do it," as I brushed the dirt off my jeans.

The pitcher was ready. I pointed my bat towards the home-run fences confidently as my knees wobbled. The pitcher wound up again and came with the fastball again. I watched it sail towards me as I prepared to swing. I realized too late that the ball was headed straight for my head. The ball ricocheted heavily off the side of my helmet, ringing my ears with burning noise. I lay on the ground in a crumpled heap more from shock than from injury.
"Are you alright kid? Take your base," the umpire said.
"He shouldn't get a base for that. He didn't even try to get out of the way of that ball," the pitcher said. His mocking words infuriated me. The expectations and embarrassments drummed incessantly inside of me. I jumped to my feet and charged toward the pitcher's mound.
"Kick his ass, Tim" my teammates yelled.
"Come on half-pint, show me what you got," the pitcher said as he tossed his glove aside. At the same instant, I realized that the pitcher was at least two years older than me and a foot taller, and that I still had the aluminum bat in my hand. Knowing that I could not back down in front of both my teammates and my father, I swung, aiming for the side of his head. He brought his arm up just in time to catch the brunt of the blow. There was the sound of bone snapping, and then he dropped to his knees. As the bat connected against his sinewy body, a wave of enjoyment flooded through me. It was surprising that it had felt so good to bring this older kid to his knees before me. I was the victor standing in my glorious limelight over my kill. Suddenly, I was surrounded by the restraining arms of my coach and other adults.
"That pip-squeak broke my friggin' arm. I can't believe it," the pitcher said stunned as I got pulled away in a mob of angry hands.
"That's it. The game's canceled," the umpire yelled.
"First, scalpers at Disneyland, and now fights at little league games? What is this world coming too?" an exasperated parent said as my father pushed me into the car. I looked up momentarily, expecting to be scolded, to see a slight smirk on my father's face.

That night the soldiers came back. More bottles shattered, and chairs were knocked over, but this time Captain did not want father. He extended his slender finger and pointed at mother. I jumped up from behind the bed, breaking free from the safety of my father's grasp, and started pounding on the Captain's chest while yelling, "Take me instead. Don't take her away from me ." He explained without speaking that she had asked him to come for her, and I stopped beating Captain. Mother stood up and walked over to me. I could feel her warm delicate lips brush lightly over my cheek as she whispered in my ear, "Tim, I'm so sorry I have to leave you like this, but I have lost touch with you. I wish so much that I could take you with me, but I can't, I just can't. I hope that you can forgive me someday." I was not just reading her lips, I could hear her words as well. I yearned to hold her one last time and feel the tenderness of her kisses, but my arms could not rise from my side. I felt one solitary tear drop fall upon my cheek and my mother's fingers brush it away. And then she was gone.

I awoke to the bright beam of sunlight that warmed a rectangle at the foot of my bed. The night's sleep had been marred with brief nightmares, and a sticky film of sweat clung to my skin. I jumped out of bed, eager to find out whether mother had truly left or not. The door to their bedroom was slightly ajar, and I knocked softly before entering. I lifted the covers off the bed to find emptiness. The closet door was wide open and clothes were partially pulled off their hangers. The house felt empty, like an oyster whose innards had been nibbled away, devoid of people and emotions. As I made my way down the stairs, I noticed pieces of my mother's belongings strewn over the floor, left behind in a wild rush. I pushed the kitchen door open and marveled at the battleground. The curtains had been ripped from the rod which now rested in the sink, cereal and spices fallen from the spice rack sprinkled the ground, the magnet that had held my crayon drawing of our house had been shaken off the refrigerator, the picture frame of our family sat shattered with the picture in shreds next to the broken frame, and a long carving knife sat at my father's feet. He was sitting with his square face deep within his hands, sobbing. His eyes were swollen red, but the relief of moisturizing tears had long since dried up.
"She's gone, Champ. She left me. She left us." He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me closer. I stood without affection, staring down for the first time at the balding spot on my father's scalp.
"What have I done to deserve this, Champ?" father said. I stared at his bald spot which seemed to grow before my eyes, as the man that I had admired for years dissolved into an old vulnerable man.
"Thank God I still have you, Champ."

I imagined myself on the CB radio, "Captain, come in Captain, it's time for you to take me away now..." 

If you liked that one, here is a true story that I wrote about my brothers. Yes it actually happened.
"The Coffin" 

If you liked that one, here is a true story that I wrote about my brothers. Yes it actually happened. "The Coffin"

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