By Rob Jacobs

The other thing that I remember well is Roy. For lack of a more politically correct term, we knew Roy to be slightly retarded. He was slow thinking, slow talking, and slow moving, but he liked to laugh and play like everyone else, and he had a very demeaning nickname, "Snotface," in honor of his large nose. Roy got teased a bit more than the other boys, but he hung in there and we took him with us and guided him by getting him into line for whatever event we were attending, telling him what to do, and generally coaching him. In the juvenile justice defined by youngsters, Roy might have been a semi-retard, but he was OUR retard, and our friend. And I do so hate that term "retard," but it was the only word we knew to describe people like Roy.

One afternoon some of the boys had Roy sing songs. These guys got some malicious pleasure out of watching Roy sing "The Green Berets," which we had learned in chorus class. I didn't like it, but couldn't do anything about it, as one of the instigators was a big kid , named Jerry, who was much bigger than the rest of us. I admit I was fascinated by Roy's singing style, which was to sit on the edge of his bed with his face in his hands and belt out the words of the songs he knew, but I didn't participate in the laughter that accompanied his performance. Considering Roy's mental capacity, I was frankly surprised that he knew all the words, and Roy didn't mind the attention anyway.

Later that very afternoon, a kid named William Little went over to Roy and started yelling at him to sing again, but Roy didn't want to sing any more. I thought William just felt like being a bully, and he was inspired by Jerry's earlier teasing. Actually, William's father had deserted the family when he was 6 years old, but I didn't know about "suppressed anger" and "abandonment issues" back then. When William's voice got a little too loud, and it sounded like he was going to be there for a while, I got angry and jumped up out of my bunk.

I went over to William and said, "You leave Roy alone!" I had my fists doubled up and I was ready to fight. I might not be able to do anything about Jerry, but William was closer to my size. Roy just sat on his bunk with his face in his hands, still as a statue, and he was crying.

William said, "You mind your own business."

"I'm making this my business William." I replied.

"You get away from Roy and quit picking on him. He's had enough." William said, "I'll kick your ass!"

To which I replied, "Well let's go, right now!"

The older, bigger kids were lying on their bunks reading girlie magazines and watching this exchange with interest. Fights are always interesting to kids, and one of the big boys, Bill Tom, said, "You better back off, William. Robby will beat your ass blue." So William stomped off. A few years later, in high school, William would become my best friend. That evening, while standing in the chow line (we called it prison food) Roy came over and said, "Thank you Rob." I didn't know what he was talking about for a minute, and then it dawned on me that he was thanking me for 'saving' him. I said, "Aw, it's okay Roy," and punched him on the shoulder, and he grinned his goofy grin. It would be a long time before I realized that he'd been absolutely terrified of William before I intervened, and, to this day, I remember the look in his eyes when he thanked me.

On the last day of camp, before we would return to Louisa, we had the softball tournament. The bigger kids ran the Louisa squad, and they voted to put Roy on the team because he was a "good sport." I guess they wanted him to be the batboy, or the mascot. Then we heard the rules, and one of the rules was that every kid on every team must play in every game. Oops! Roy was on my Little League team back home (the Pirates, sponsored by the Rotary Club) and in three years he had never gotten a hit. Not even close. We would stick him out in the outfield and hope he didn't get hit in the head with a fly ball. I was on the camp team, too, as I was a pretty good ballplayer and a Little League all-star, and we hoped that Roy didn't have to bat in a crucial situation. Little did we know. Our team slaughtered everyone we played. We were a bunch of country boys from the Eastern mountains, but we sure could play ball. We took down Johnson County, Floyd County, and Hazard County, and we made it to the championship game against the city boys from Boyd County. We couldn't stand those guys anyway, as they were from an adjoining county and our arch-rivals in every sport from Little League to junior high through high school.

Boyd County was winning 7-5 in the bottom of the 7th inning, and we had the last at bats of the game. Do or die time, and we were dying. We could have tolerated a loss to the hicks from Hazard, but we didn't want to lose to those city creeps from Boyd County. We were at the end of the batting order, and Roger Van Meter got a base hit. Then we made a couple of fly ball outs because everyone was swinging for the fences trying to hit a homer, but I got a little single that put Roger on third. Then things got very dicey as the camp counselor/umpire checked our roster and discovered Roy had not batted in the game. Bill Tom, our elected coach, argued with the counselor but it was to no avail; Roy would have to bat and he would have to bat NOW or we would be disqualified.

Mike Moore took the bench as Roy walked to the plate, and Roy was scared because he thought everyone was mad at him. On his first swing, he missed the ball by about a foot, and we all groaned. The Boyd County boys were chattering like monkeys, cheering on their pitcher. Roger shouted down from third, "C'mon Roy, you can hit that ball!" I yelled out, "Yeah Roy, you can do it!" The rest of our team took up the chant, encouraging Roy instead of berating him, and he got that goofy grin on his face. On the second pitch, Roy hit a foul ball. Everyone was standing and yelling for him now, and I was startled, for I had never seen him hit even a foul. I KNEW that something was going to happen, I had goose bumps.

God reached down and swung that bat and Roy hit the third pitch out into the gap between center field and right, a solid liner. Roger scored easily and I ran like greased lightning as Roy lumbered around the bases holding his hat on his head and grinning away with his silly expression. For God's sake his fly was unzipped, too! I scored and Roger and me stood there at home plate jumping up and down and hollering at Roy to stop at second base, but he kept on chugging. Our whole team was screaming as Roy rounded second. We thought he was a dead duck at third when the center fielder threw the ball in plenty of time, but the ball hit Roy right in the side of the head and bounced towards pitcher's mound. Richard Ratliff was coaching third and told Roy to stop there, but Roy blew right past him as he rounded third and headed for home with that goddamn goofy smile on his face. I guess he figured that if he ever hit the ball he would just keep running, and now was the time. The pitcher had been backing up third base, so the shortstop ran over and picked up the ball and fired it home as Roy ran down the line and everyone in the park was yelling their lungs out. It looked like Roy would be out by five feet, and then... and I'll never know what inspired me... I yelled out, "Snake!" as loud as I could and the catcher bobbled the ball.

Roy slammed into the catcher and scored the winning run and Roger and I were on him in a flash, hugging him and pounding him on the back and screaming his name right in his face. The whole team came out of the dugout and we carried Roy around the bases on our shoulders, singing "The Green Berets" as loud as we could. He had a bloody ear from that ball hitting him on the head, but I know he wasn't feeling any pain. The camp counselors looked at us like we were nuts, and that wasn't far off the mark, but we were loving our friend the only way we knew how. We were just a bunch of mountain boys who had won the championship and Roy was our hero.

When we had ice cream that night at the mess hall, Jerry gave Roy his portion, so he got double, and Roy had to have been the happiest camper that summer at Camp Earl Wallace. I remember when we went back to school that fall, someone called Roy "Snotface" within earshot of William Little, and William punched the boy out right there at the bicycle rack. No one ever called Roy that name again.

Roy died when he was only in his early 20's, he had heart problems. But, you know, he got to go to camp one summer, and he became a hero to a whole bunch of young men. Sometimes, I think about his sad eyes and that goofy smile, and I see him running around the bases holding onto his ballcap. But mostly, I think about how he always tagged along with us, never asking for anything, just staring.

Roy just wanted to be one of the gang, and I'm glad we let him play, too.

Rob Jacobs grew up in the Eastern hills of Kentucky, in a town called Louisa, population 2000. He has also lived in Ohio, West Virginia, Oklahoma, North Carolina, and Florida, where stayed for 15 years, working in the boat building business and teaching karate at China Hand of Sarasota.

Rob quit the boat business in 1995 and entered massage therapy school, receiving his state license and national certification in early 1996. In late 1997, he moved to San Diego, California with his room mate Lisa. Rob and Lisa share a little house set back from the main street, surrounded by trees and flowers. It is here that Rob contemplates the neighborhood wildlife (including the many cats that wander through their yard all day, and the skunk that resides beneath their neighbor's house) as he ponders and pens his entertaining stories.