Corn Dive

Corn Dive

Surrounded by corn well over his head, Hank James was instantly terrified when something dove out of the corn and slammed into his lower torso like a car wreck. Hank just had enough time to gasp once and watch the sun and plants over his head spin as he tumbled to the ground. His right arm hurt from landing on it, and the dry dirt scraped into his bare skin.

Drew Harrold stood up and smiled, offering a hand to Hank James. Hank took it, begrudgingly, and stood up. Drew patted Hank on the shoulder.

“You just got corn-dived, man,” Drew said.

The whole HooseCows team was out on a patch of farmland Taylor Nickles owned for what Taylor was calling a “team building exercise.” He said it had been planned before the incident in Mankato and now, the day before a two-game home stand against the Rochester Radiation, Taylor had decided it was more crucial than ever. He had assigned the team to go out and “rogue” his field. This meant the team had to “dig up” any plants that were taller, leafier, and greener than the rest. No one actually dug them up, preferring instead to chop them down using their shovel in an exaggerated golf swing. This kind of work was normally done by high school kids who didn’t have a car to drive to a better job, immigrant workers, or machines. Many HooseCows players had loudly wished this work had stayed in those people’s capable hands.

“You should cut it out, Drew,” Danny Marks shouted from five rows down. “Someone could get injured really easily out here.”

“Oh, shut up, Danny,” Drew said. Then, he looked to catcher “Bud” Abbott. At that moment, it was easy to see who was getting tackled next. The only person who didn’t seem to get it was Danny Marks, who continued dutifully inspecting each stalk of corn. He was too slow at this job.

“You’re okay, right?” Mickey Danz asked Hank. Hank nodded, and the two kept walking and talking together down a pair of adjacent corn rows. The heavy leaves of the corn plants were slapping into Hank’s chest and occasionally cutting into the skin on his exposed arms. He tried to keep his head up and out of the way of the sturdy plants, but had to look down occasionally to brush off any bugs that were trying to crawl around on his body. His feet were heavy from the caked mud that had accumulated on his feet when they had begun this pointless task and the ground was still wet.

The team came over a gentle hill and saw Taylor Nickle’s truck parked alongside a gravel road. Most of Iowa is a flat patchwork of one mile by one mile squares where farmers tried their luck at working the land. When farming got expensive and pricey in the eighties, Taylor Nickles had taken some of his baseball money and built up a sizable amount of acres for himself. He hired out the actual farming work for the most part, but apparently liked to retain usage of the land for torturing his baseball team.

Finished with their second trip through the field, the HooseCows players walked out of the corn and joked with each other. A group of players tried to decide whose armpits had released the most sweat. Rick Newton and Alphonso Ruiz were busy discussing some new movie that had seen about some guy who gets to do all sorts of magical things even though he’s dumb as a box of rocks. Alphonso had been telling everyone to go see it all week long. Danny Marks was trying to stand close to Hank, as he had finally noticed Drew Harrold and “Bud” Abbot were preparing to pounce on him.

Taylor didn’t even get out of his truck.

“Saw about twenty rogues just driving up here!” Taylor said, as if it were possible to be disappointed and delighted at the same time. He pointed in the direction of the “rogues,” and Hank thought he could only see one or two of the taller corn plants they were supposed to exterminate. Maybe one or two, but Hank did not see twenty from where he was standing. “Pretty bad job you guys did.”

“Why are we doing this?” Drew Harrold shouted.

Hank looked to John Todd. The pitcher, who he had caught hiding a dead man’s tin of chewing tobacco from the police, looked peaceful and serene. Seemed like he must be going to sleep at night without any problems, regardless of what he had done.

“Get back in there,” Taylor said. It was a statement, and he didn’t wait for a response before he drove off, leaving a cloud of gravel dust behind him. The HooseCows players went back into the corn, swearing loudly to no one in particular. On this third time through, each player watched his row and everyone else’s. If someone missed a rogue, everyone shrieked at that man until he chopped it down. They went up and down the rows of corn, watching the land rise and fall in green lines of machine-perfected planting. Drew and “Bud” tackled Danny halfway through this third pass through the corn, and he complained loudly about how ridiculously immature they were for the rest of that pass.

It was 2 in the afternoon and miserably hot when they reached the end of the field for the third time. Taylor Nickles smiled when he saw his players, and he handed them all bottles of water. Then, he shook his head and told him he could see five rogues from just where he was standing. There was swearing and moaning from all of the players, and several asked why they were even doing this. Then, Taylor sent them all back into the corn for the fourth time.

This time, there were no games and no jokes. Drew Harrold had resorted to swearing loudly for no particular reason, and “Bud” Abbot walked in a row beside him and chuckled in shared frustration. The rest of the players were silent, except for left fielder and professional oddball/Canadian Jean Gierau. An avid Doors fan, the man had been singing “L.A. Woman” and “Roadhouse Blues” for most of the day. This meaningless, endless task had not silenced his singing voice, but he HAD switched to singing “When The Music’s Over.”

As Hank James had suspected, Taylor wasn’t done seeing phantom rogue cornstalks after this path through the corn, either. Shoulders slumped across the team. Catcher “Smitty” Caroll and second baseman Roger Bartt walked out of the field together. This was clearly a decision they had made together, whispering conspiratorially between the stalks of corn as their heavy, mud-caked feet made another pass through the rows.

“Don’t bother coming back to the team,” Taylor said, without giving them eye contact. “Smitty” and Roger just kept walking Taylor looked to the other players and waited. When no one else went to leave, Taylor silently went back to his truck. The summer evening was still light, but the day was nearly over. Taylor drove away and the HooseCows went back into the corn.

When they finally came out the other side, no one had spoken. They had not spoken to any other player, and they had not spoken to themselves. They had been trapped in the corn maze, going only one way, thinking about just how far their commitment to this meaningless little independent league baseball team. There were other ways they could be spending their time, and there were many opportunities where a man could step out of the corn, find a gravel road, and walk off of the team and away from Taylor Nickles’ meaningless activities.

Even though this was true, all of the remaining HooseCows stepped out of the rows of corn to face Taylor Nickles. It was growing dark now, but they could see a calm smile on his face. No one smiled. No one moved to leave. The sound of the insects greeting the uncoming darkness ruled the air. No one asked what they were doing, or why. Nothing happened for a very long time.

“Now the field looks good,” Taylor said. He nodded once. “You done it right, boys. Come on in.”

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