The week inched along. The sun rose on the third morning after two days of no deer. We came in from the morning session and my brother and I stared at flies buzzing around the ceiling. My father stood up and did a check out the windows. It’s the same move I performed 30 times in the past 10 minutes. He peered out the first two, my brother and I surveyed eagerly. He got to the last one and shouted “crap.” Then he bolted out the door. Hope followed him.

We got out the door to see that my father picked up the shotgun. He tiptoed away, closer to the four deer walking down the hill. Then I realized he grabbed the wrong weapon. I grasped his rifle and snuck up behind him whispering “Dad…Dad…Dad!” But before I could get the rifle to him, BANG! BANG! The four deer were now running away. He missed.

But something overcame me and I began running. Running like forest Gump ran from those bullies, running like Dylan Lukachinsky on the last play of the final game of JV football, running like the Broadway Company does before each day of camp, I sprinted. I sped in boots that were size 11s on my size 8.5 feet. I hustled in camouflage overalls, jeans, two pairs of wool socks, four shirts, an orange jacket, and a rifle in hand. I raced in a way that would have made Coach Herriot proud. I shredded ground, and hope was trying to keep up.
The dry leaves of the late season corn rattled as I ran by the field. Birds flew off in all directions. I ran 400 meters to the edge of the woods, and then I ran into them. At this point I was falling more than running down the ravine within the woods, and when I was half way down I stopped. Everything was quiet, I by some divine act was not even panting. I waited, but hope turned around and started walking back.

Suddenly the four deer trotted down the ravine opposite me. When the smoke cleared and my ears stopped ringing, I looked for a blood sign. When I came over the crest of the hill, my father and brother hopped on the four-wheeler and sped to me. I had the gun in one hand and my jacket unzipped—they had questions and excitement.
I said, “no, but I’ll have a great story to tell.”