Austin James: Playing For His Life (Entry 35)

June 10, 2009

By the time he heard Philip behind him it was too late.

Traxler had his head under the hood of his truck when Philip, no
questions asked, swatted the support rod, sending the hood crashing
down upon Traxler’s head and upper back. He grunted as his breath left
him, before he was grabbed by the shirt and thrown violently to the
ground in his driveway.

“My boy did NOTHING to you,” Philip barked, his face swelled with red rage.

Traxler had yet to get his bearings, looking up at Philip and realizing
his actions of that morning may not have been his most intelligent
move. He rolled onto his knees, pushing himself up, before Philip
kicked him squarely in the ribs, flipping him and sending him into the
fetal position on the blacktop.

“If you were in my shoes,” Philip snapped, practically frothing at the mouth, “you would do the same thing.”

Traxler spit out a stream of blood, rolling into a narrow space between
his car and the edge of his driveway, framed by walls from the
embankment into their garage. Philip stalked around the edge before
noticing Traxler had gotten his hands on a large screwdriver. He
pointed it at Philip, shuffling backwards along the ground.

“I DIDN’T have that chance,” Traxler shouted, his sweatshirt streaked in blood.

“That’s not my fault,” Philip shot back. “And it sure as HELL isn’t my son’s.”

Traxler rose to his feet, awkwardly waving the screwdriver toward Philip.

“Your son is a coward, James, and a disgrace…”

Philip lunged toward him, a stabbing pain across his forearm felt but
not a focus as he knocked Traxler back to the ground. Philip knelt
across Traxler’s broad chest – he was a thick man, as was Philip – and
threw a series of piston-like right hands.

Traxler’s nose crumbled, gushing blood, with Philip in such a state he
didn’t even realize it. Nor had he heard the desperate calls of Austin
and Joseph as they grabbed him from behind, pulling him off Traxler,
whose face was now a crimson mask.

“Jesus Christ, Dad,” Austin exclaimed. “What did you do?”

“Nobody…” Philip gasped, “NOBODY disrespects my family.”

“What the hell?” called a voice from the garage.

Austin, Joseph and Philip looked up to see Michael Traxler, having just
entered the garage from a door that led into the house. His buzzed
blond hair barely noticeable, partly due to lack of light and partly
due to it not being the focus of his viewers.

The left side of Michael’s face was bandaged heavily. The wrap opened
near his eye, darkly discolored with the white not visible, and it was
clear the skin around the eye was not right. There was padding over his
ear, held by the wrap. He stepped toward his father, still on the
ground, and came out of the garage.

Michael’s father got to his feet, his right eye swollen and his nose a
warped mess. Blood that had pooled in his mouth dripped from the side.

“8 ****in’ days he was there….8 DAYS!!!” the battered man cried at the James men.

A land mine had tore into Michael’s troop on a routine, if there was
such an animal, walk along a road that cut a swath through a rice
field. Three were killed and Michael would lose his left ear and, at
this point, about 75% of the vision in his left eye. His face was
deformed, skin dangled in some spots quite awkwardly, and his hope was
that a series of surgeries would at least be able to make him look
somewhat human again.

Warren – his father – never had the chance to keep him home. Nobody
screwed up his paperwork. They just gave him a gun and orders he
understood with a purpose he didn’t.

“Come on, Dad,” Michael said softly, corralling his father in his arm
and guiding him into the house. At the doorway in the garage, Michael
turned toward Austin, Joseph and their father.

“Someday you’ll tell your kids you courageously stood up against the
war,” he said. “And may lightning strike your gutless *** down when you
do.”

With that, Michael entered his house, and the James men walked slowly, silently, toward home.

Written by mlblogsaustinjamesstory Posted in Dailies Tagged with majors baseball draft austin james pitching war vietnam mets fantasy fiction