by John Momberg
The words that struck terror into 11-year-old Joe Benson’s heart:
“All right, now, Joseph… Time for you to come up to the board and recite your Latin translation.”
As he moved to the front of the classroom, he felt the usual flush of redness creeping up from his collar to his cheeks. He looked out at his smirking classmates, took a deep breath, and started his ordeal:
“All G-G-G-Gaul is d-d-d-d-divided into three p-p-p-p-parts” he began. A wave of laughter spread as usual, through the schoolroom. Joe put his head down and plowed onward until at long last the teacher had pity on him, saying, “That’s enough Joe… That was very nice.”
“Yeah, very nice, J-J-J-J-Joe”, yelled one of the other boys, eliciting howls of laughter.
Joe shrunk down in his chair as much as he could. Why am I like this, he thought. I know the lesson; why can’t I get it out? What’s wrong with my mouth- what’s wrong with my brain? I’m just “Stuttering Joe”, and that’s all I ever will be.
He walked home after school and took out his frustration the only way he knew- by throwing a ball against the wall of his family’s old smokehouse… Harder and harder, letting his rage at life come out through his right arm.
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A quarter of a century has passed since Joe’s school day ordeals. In a twist of fate, the act of throwing a ball against a wall turned out to be not only an outlet for his pent-up anger, but his ticket to a new life. He’s now Joseph Benson, a key member of the Chicago Doves pitching staff and an elder statesman of the club. His stutter has lessened over the years; it’s still there, but not so bad that any of his teammates see fit to remark on it.
But sometimes, when he’s in a tough spot on the mound, he’ll squint his eyes at the batter and imagine that he’s one of those boys from the schoolhouse so long ago. And somehow that seems to give his fast one the little extra that does the trick.
Good story.