Ol' Red

THE SANDLOT WAS HAUNTED. That was the story that had filled Michael's childhood. He had grown up listening to the old folks nod and whisper. "Don't you be goin' down to the river. Ol' Red got that Mason boy an' he'll ketch you, too." Those stories filled his mind as he considered what he should do.

A set of railroad tracks ran behind his house. They marked the boundary of his world. That area along the riverbanks was just a hazy spot on his internal map. Nothing there except for a warning that said "Here Be Monsters!" He stepped up onto one of the tracks and found his balance. The track was heavy with rust except for the very top where the repeated passage of cars from the B&O line had polished the metal till it gleamed in the morning sun. At ten years old, he was free to wander the streets of the small neighborhood known as Fenwick Bottom, he could walk up and down the tracks, but under no circumstances was he to cross those tracks to explore the shoreline of the Cherry River.

He looked into the sandlot. There didn't seem to be anything scary down there. Just a bunch of weeds, but he knew there was more. Beyond that canopy of leaves lay an unexplored world of fun. Exciting new places that would fill him with wonder and delight. Still, part of him wondered if there could be other things waiting down there. Darker things waiting for him in the shadows. No. He was too old to believe in those stories. Occasionally, he would dangle a foot over the edge of the rail as he considered taking that first step.

Summer was coming to an end, and that ending brought more than a change in weather. It also brought an undeniable need for one last hurrah. Michael felt that need. The impending loss of freedom was an insistent voice in his ear encouraging him to do something before school swallowed him and his friends for another year of books, lessons and drudgery. One last spit in the eye before taking up their yokes. That's why it had been so important to play in the sandlot. So, when all of his friends decided to play down by the river, Michael knew that he would join them.

They had decided to spend their last day of freedom playing one more game of war. Their war was different from the ones Walter Cronkite kept talking about on the news. They had no nuclear weapons. No bombs or airplanes. Just some toy guns-- if they were lucky-- and imagination. The thought of entering the lot left Michael weak and queasy, but he still chose to join those would-be soldiers. His hands shook a little as he pushed some branches aside to make an entrance into that hidden world.

Beyond the weeds, the trees and bracken, he could see the slow moving waters of the river. Smooth stones and river rocks littered the shoreline. His sneakers scuffed the packed sand of an old creek bed. The dried up stream formed a series of natural paths that ran throughout the sandlot. The lot belonged to the older kids: the teenagers. They came down here to ride their four-wheelers, kiss girls and sneak a cigarette or two. Stepping onto the sandy bottom felt like an act of trespass. This was an act of transgression. Not only against the teenagers who claimed this lot, but against his mother and all of her warnings. That violation filled him with both a sense of the forbidden and the promise of the unknown.

He flinched every time he heard a twig snap. He half expected Old Red to jump from a bush at any moment. Would the bogeyman drag them away? Would their bodies be found in one of the nearby abandoned buildings? Michael looked down the tracks to where they crossed route thirty-nine. He could see the decaying facade of an abandoned restaurant. That would be a great place for a murder.

He needed to think about something else. He took a deep breath and then another. He blew the air out slowly and tried not to think about Old Red. This empty lot was just a pile of dirt and plants allowed to grow wild. It wasn’t the haunted playground of some make-believe delusional monster. That was a story his mom had made up. Her stories were no reason to be afraid. He kept repeating that to himself. No reason to be afraid. No reason to be afraid. This was different from looking into the lot from the safety of his back porch. He was no longer protected by distance. Now, he stood at the very edge of this uncharted territory.