Stardust Four Zero, Chapter 13, Page 3 of 3 Pages

An interesting situation developed after I finished Bronco. In the evenings I began to do a one-man show for my silent audience, during which I would recite one of my poems or tell one of my stories. I became so thoroughly involved that my audience began to live. I found my pulse quickening. It wasn't exactly stage fright, but more like exhilaration. I guess I was becoming a real ham.

Later when we were exposed to numerous press conferences, I believe these “performances” served me well. At these times, I was not at all nervous, feelings quite composed. I'm certain that to face a battery of reporters now would be a very unsettling event.

There was another real advantage to my confinement. I had a lot of time to become accustomed to my physical condition. While in the hospital, I was uncertain about what my hands would be like, once the wrappings were removed. I imagined having to learn to shave with mechanical attachments fixed to my wrists. I even began some crude inventing. This thinking faded, as I saw that I would have fingers, short though they may be. I just began using them in whatever way was necessary to accomplish any particular task.

Living for so long among the hospital staff who faced handicapped people routinely, worked well for me. In fact, I really don't recall having gone through any period of self-conscious adjustment. Of course, I did have other, very real problems with which to deal. My uncertain future, the nature of my confinement, interrogations, all tended to overshadow thoughts of my physical condition.

I easily adjusted to my hands, and quickly considered the unfinished business of my leg. I looked forward to having the amputation and being fitted with a prosthesis. I “walked” on that artificial leg in my cell so many times, that when I finally got it, I was way ahead of the program.

I can readily empathize with the person who is happily strolling along one day, then because of some unforseen accident, is without a limb within a matter of hours or even minutes. This can be a traumatic experience of major proportions and such an individual can hardly be criticized for becoming an emotional case.

However, the role must be played, it can't be rewritten.



		The Extended Mission of Stardust Four Zero
	Chapter 13 Page 3 of 3 Pages
During my mental meanderings, I came across “Casey At The Bat,” the timeless poem about baseball. I knew the story, but since I'd never memorized it, I couldn't recite it to my silent audience. However, I thought there ought to be a companion piece about football, so I decided to compose one. Bronco Carried The Ball The crowd was roaring in his ears, As down the field he sped, The pigskin tucked beneath his arm, Safe from those he fled. This lad's name was Broncoweicz, A name the whole nation knew, For Bronco was the fullback For dear old Ptomaine U. The sun was bright, the fall air crisp, A be-au-ti-ful day for the game. The bleachers were packed from bottom to top. Every Saturday was the same. But today's match was the crucial test, For if Ptomaine could work it, They would hold the championship Of the Upper Muddy Run Circuit. Now Ptomaine U. had drawn first blood The first half saw them score. But six points were all they got. They could not score any more. Early in the second half Coondale pleased the throng, As they fought their way to paydirt, Though the fight was hard and long. But Coondale Tech had payed a price, And that price was mighty dear, For they carried off the Coondale star, Bells chiming in his ear. The score was now tied, the quarter the fourth, And time had swiftly waned, 'Til the clock on the scoreboard showed Ten seconds yet remained. 'Twas on fourth down with three to go, When Ptomaine hit a stone wall. But out of that pile burst Broncoweicz, And Bronco carried the ball! The yards ticked off five at a time, As over the stripes he flew. This was his chance to save the day, And he'd do it or die, he knew. Thirty, thirty-five, forty! How many more to go? Those markers seemed to stretch ahead In a maddening, endless row! His lungs were raw, his legs were sore. But on and on he must drive. For now each fan was on his feet. The stadium became alive! His eyes grew red and bleary. He could scarcely manage to see. And each stride raised the question, To be or not to be? And then he began to stagger, His knees began to sag. At this point he couldn't have made his way through A water-soaked paper bag. He faltered, then reeled and stumbled. The next few seconds would tell. Then, just as the final gun sounded, Over the goal he fell. He lay there, gasping for his breath, His face buried in the ground. Then finally got up, brushed himself off, And smilingly turned around. But that smile quickly faded away, And bewilderment stamped itself there, For all he got from Ptomaine Was a cold and stony stare. An awful chill ran down his spine, As he saw who cheered that play, 'Twas the Coondale side that made the noise, Bronco had run the wrong way! An interesting situation developed after I finished Bronco. In the evenings I began to do a one-man show for my silent audience, during which I would recite one of my poems or tell one of my stories. I became so thoroughly involved that my audience began to live. I found my pulse quickening. It wasn't exactly stage fright, but more like exhilaration. I guess I was becoming a real ham. Later when we were exposed to numerous press conferences, I believe these “performances” served me well. At these times, I was not at all nervous, feelings quite composed. I'm certain that to face a battery of reporters now would be a very unsettling event. There was another real advantage to my confinement. I had a lot of time to become accustomed to my physical condition. While in the hospital, I was uncertain about what my hands would be like, once the wrappings were removed. I imagined having to learn to shave with mechanical attachments fixed to my wrists. I even began some crude inventing. This thinking faded, as I saw that I would have fingers, short though they may be. I just began using them in whatever way was necessary to accomplish any particular task. Living for so long among the hospital staff who faced handicapped people routinely, worked well for me. In fact, I really don't recall having gone through any period of self-conscious adjustment. Of course, I did have other, very real problems with which to deal. My uncertain future, the nature of my confinement, interrogations, all tended to overshadow thoughts of my physical condition. I easily adjusted to my hands, and quickly considered the unfinished business of my leg. I looked forward to having the amputation and being fitted with a prosthesis. I “walked” on that artificial leg in my cell so many times, that when I finally got it, I was way ahead of the program. I can readily empathize with the person who is happily strolling along one day, then because of some unforseen accident, is without a limb within a matter of hours or even minutes. This can be a traumatic experience of major proportions and such an individual can hardly be criticized for becoming an emotional case. However, the role must be played, it can't be rewritten. 1. J. Stalin, “Problems of Leninism”, Foreign Language Publishing House, Moscow 1947, p 575 2. Ibid 3. Ibid 592 4. Ibid 594 End of Page 3, Chapter 13 — Go to Chapter 14 You may go to Page — 1 — 2 — 3, this Chapter Cover Page — Editor's Introduction — Dedication/Prologue Table of Contents — Mission Maps Chapters — 01 — 02 — 03 — 04 — 05 — 06 — 07 08 — 09 — 10 — 11 — 12 — 13 — 14 — 15 — 16 — 17 Epilogue — Milton Evening Standard News Story Go to Home Page