Football team manages to win even without the encouraging prescience of its biggest football fan.
I don’t know what happenend; I mean I still haven’t figured it out.
Somewhere along the line connecting this Sunday (today) to last Sunday, something went askew. I lost a day in the shuffle there, somewhere. I’ve tried replaying the past week’s events chronologically. It was an unusual week — a few doctor appointments for various and sundry things (I felt like the phrase “62 is the new 80” might apply in this conversation) and we had visitors on Thursday and Friday …. but somewhere in there, I ended up yesterday (Saturday) thinking it really was only Friday. I mean, I went the entire day thinking it was Friday.
I should have picked up on it with our garbage. See, our garbage pick up is (usually) Friday mornings. That means Thursday night is “garbage night” — I go throughout the house and gather the garbage to be hauled out to the end of the driveway. That’s a mark that is associated with a particular point in the week. Every week has a garbage night. Then on Friday mornings, after the garbage is picked up, we return the garbage bins to their normal location underneath the tree (a Viteck tree or something, more like a really big bush). Garbage pickup was late on Friday, so we didn’t retrieve the garbage bin from the street until Saturday morning.
Okay, so we have all that going on, and then throw in the factor that Nebraska had a bye weekend last week, and somewhere in there my timing got all off.
So it was last night during dinner, when my wife corrected me and pointed out it was really Saturday … I realized I had just missed a Saturday. I had been thinking all day that we were on Friday.
I ran upstairs and turned on the laptop. Sure enough, we had played Northwestern (and we actually won).
I was happy we won, and I found the stats interesting, and I realized that I enjoyed not having to go through the stress of the game … being ahead by only a touchdown (or less) during the game is always scary for NU fans these days … we’ve lost too many “less than a TD away” games in the past three years. I mean, it’s some unbelievable number like 20 games in 3 years were one-score-away losses.
This was our fourth win of the year (that’s how many we won all of last year). We’re 4-3, so it’s possible we’ll end up with a winning record and even bowl eligibility. But we’ll see.
We’ll take it one game at a time. We’ll take it one day at a time. And I’ll you that this week I won’t miss the game.
See ya (and Go Big Red!)
There is no place like Nebraska. My oldest son, then age four,
had just witnessed the second of three national championships that the Nebraska Cornhusker football would win over the course of four seasons (1994, 1995, and 1997). In my son’s first five years of life, the Huskers went 60-3. That is, sixty wins against three losses. (In case you’re wondering, that’s one of my favorite stats to quote). A couple of other interesting things to note. From 1961 through 2001 (a forty year stretch) Nebraska had more wins than any other team in college football. And on game days, the stadium becomes the third largest city in the state (approx 90,000 seats).
Now, I won’t say that Memorial Stadium’s seats were built for comfort. You’re basically sitting on a wooden bench with a number that is located very near to the numbers on either side of it. And the rows are close enough together that your knees are gently nestled into the back of the person directly in front of you, as is your back massaged (more or less) by the knees of the person behind you). I mean, these seats were built for comfort (wink).
I had the good fortune of being able to go to two games this fall. The alum association was trying to sell tickets so that we (the unversity) could continue its streak of consecutive sellouts. We’ve had sold out games every game since 1961. Pretty amazing. (That’s also the year I was born, and I tell ya, I’m old). The ticket office put together three game packages at greatly reduced prices … and my youngest son and I will be going to the third game later this fall. Looking forward to it!
The city of Lincoln is still lovely as ever. Downtown is downtown, complete with Val’s pizza. There are some new buildings, some upgraded buildings, and some old buildings that just aren’t there any more. Most of the hotels really jack up their rates on game weekends, but I found one (won’t tell you which) out on N. 27th that kept its regular pricing on game weekends. It was a new hotel, though, and I suspect that the owners hadn’t learned yet that they can triple their room rates on game weekends and still have no vacancies.
My wifei and I (we have four tickets per game (of the three games we picked)) found a new and tiny Ethiopian restaurant that serves amazing food. I can’t remember the name, but it’s nowhere near campus. It’s out near 26th and Orchard. Or Orchid. Or something. Anyway, give it a try.
Huskers are at 3-3. Last year at this time of the season we were also 3-3. Then we lost all but the last game, finishing 4-and-something. This year I think we’ll finish higher than that. Gosh, I hope so anyway. I’d like to get back into the winning mode. I think the new coach, Matt Rhule, has done a great job of getting some playing time, some game experience, for the younger players, and that will serve us well in the long run.
Oh, so back to my original story. I had been given a Husker key chain from a friend at work, and it played “There is No Place Like Nebraska” when you pushed a button on the key fob. Once, during church, my four-year-old son was getting restless, and he climbed up onto my lap. As he did so, he accidentally pushed the button on the key fob (which was in my pocket), and the congregation was treated to a vigorous rendition of “No Place.”
My son was mortified. He sat on my lap, frozen, hoping that nobody would notice what he had done. It happened to be during prayer time, so yeaH, people did notice. Two full verses of the song played in its entirety. There was a lot of quiet (and polite) snickering. And on the way home from church, he asked me, “Daddy, is it really true that there’s not a place like Nebraska?”
This is a poem that my great-grandfather, John Stevens Jr., wrote in 1957. He left it untitled, but I gave it a name.
The Desert of Memory
The truant fancy of the aged
Loves to penetrate the vast and barren waste
Which we call memory,
Although its vain and profitless expanse
Is thickly strewn with rough, forbidding rocks
And angry thorns.
A host of weird, fantastic shadows
Seems to drift across the scene.
But, as our dim eyes strive to catch their form,
They fade into the distant mists, and disappear
Beyond the far horizon of the past.
They are the ghosts of things forgotten,
And, as we strive to call them back,
Another host appears:
The host of things we WOULD forget.
There are heaps of ashes here and there along our way,
Ashes of promises unkept;
Ashes of rude and hasty words;
Ashes of tender words unspoken;
Ashes of things we loved and learned to cherish
All too late, when stricken by the anguish of their loss.
Yet we press onward, for we know
That in the secret crevices between the rocks
The desert flowers bloom -- Flowers whose sacred beauty,
Unprofaned by public gaze,
Excels the storied splendor of the tropics.
We know that in the heart of that apparent desolation
There are hidden gems
More precious than the mines of earth can yield,
And so, though stones may bruise the feet
And thorns may pierce the heart to tears,
It still is sweet to wander in the desert of memory.
-- John Stevens, 1957
I received this in the mail the other day, good words from a friend. There are some good thoughts in here.
Balance Sheet of Life
The most destructive habit — Worry.
The greatest joy — Giving.
The most satisfying work — Helping Others.
The ugliest personality trait — Selfishness.
The greatest shot in the arm — Encouragement.
The greatest problem to overcome — Fear.
The most effective sleeping pill — Peace of Mind.
The most crippling failure disease — Excuses.
The most powerful force in life — Love.
The most dangerous act — Gossip.
The world’s most incredible computer — The Brain.
The worst thing to be without — Hope.
The deadliest weapon — The Tongue.
The two most power-filled words — I Can.
The greatest Asset — Faith.
The most worthless emotion — Self-pity.
The most beautiful attire — A Smile.
The most prized possession — Integrity.
The most powerful channel of communication — Prayer.
The most contagious spirit — Enthusiasm.
LIFE ends when you stop DREAMING.
HOPE ends when you stop BELIEVING.
LOVE ends when you stop CARING.
So, please share this BALANCE SHEET OF LIFE.
FRIENDSHIP ends when you stop SHARING.
A Friend loves at all times.
—A. Davies
In a way, this book was my mentor for five years. I learned more as the author than I could have imagined I would. Pouring through family history: very old postcards (with very old stamps), family histories, family trees … In one branch, I found (from the “other side”) a not-too-distant cousin who was starting QB at University of Nebraska’s football team back in 1910-1911. Pretty cool. I found that we (my ancestors) have claim to 100 acres at the top of a mountain in Pennsylvania. Also pretty cool, though there is dispute because my ancestors temporarily left the area and someone else claimed it, kind of a modern variation on “squatters” who take over rental properties. Then there’s the family whose three daughters married the three sons of another family. Sounds like it would be kind of a wild story, but it wasn’t that uncommon back then. Rural populations tended to be small, and hey, if a man and woman are interested in each other, it’s quite probable that their siblings would also find interest.
We can follow the Stevens family (my mom’s mom’s family) back to the mid-1700s, but we can take one of the in-law families (Nef) back to 14th century (around 1386) in Switzerland. Now that’s pretty cool. Geoffrey Chaucer (of Canterbury Tales fame) would have been alive then. Who knows? My great-great-great grand-something may have been the source for Chaucer’s The Wife of Bath story (heh heh).
The Husker – Wolverines game wasn’t even a contest, but at least it wasn’t ugly.
I knew going into the game that the score likely would not be close. I figured if we could hold Michigan to 14 or 17 points, and if our offense could manage to squeak out a couple of scores, then we might have a chance. That’s not how it was to be, Benvolio. The Husker defense was second in the country in stopping the run, going into the game. I’m not sure where we’re ranked defensively, now, after the game, but it ain’t second.
If you look at the stats, you’ll notice that Michigan outpaced the Huskers in three key areas: Total number of plays; time of possession (38 mins to 22 mins); and rushing yards (249 to 106). Note that 74 of those 106 Husker yards came on one play near the end of the game. Well, four key areas, the fourth being “first downs” (26-10).
Nebraska had only one turnover (an interception early in the game). Michigan had none. Nebraska had only 30 yards of penalties. Michigan had none. At least one of the 5-yard penalties resulted in nullifying an otherwise first down for the Huskers.
All that being said, I was not at the game, but the game appeared to be cleanly played. There didn’t seem to be much (or any) trash talk. Michigan came in, very business-like, and showed who’s boss. Both sides played hard … and the Huskers did have some nice plays. We are improving week by week. More on that in a future post …
The Huskers didn’t give the game away. Michigan earned it. They earned every point. And there were a lot of them. Congrats, Wolverines, on a game well played.
The summer of the shark surprise was also the summer that Aaron and I went to Alaska to fish with my dad on the Russian River in Kenai National Park. IT wAS the time of year for “combat fishing”—that is, standing side by side, perhaps four or five feet apart, from the person next to you, all of us casting at about the same time, yelling “fish on,” when you hooked something and otherwise pulling your lure back in and out of the way—if you weren’t the one with the fish on. Combat fishing usually involves standing in the river a few feet out from shore.
The rocks in the river are slippery with moss, they’re irregular-shaped and irregular-sized, so you had to walk slowly and take it a step at a time. As you get farther out, you can’t see what you’re stepping on, nor can y ou see where to step next, which makes it more difficult.
I’m emphasizing the toughness of walking in the river because it’s especially difficult when you have PD. Talk about something creating roadblocks for the mind trying to focus on walking … Surprisingly, it’s quite rare to see someone fall into the river. I don’t know if people have boots with special properties that I’ve never seen … but I think I win the prize for most in-the-river falls while fishing. And when I catch a fish and start backing up toward shore … well, walking backward on the slippery rocks is even tougher than walking forward. So, I would turn and face the shore, pulling the fish behind me. It’s harder to play the fish that way, though. So it’s a mixed bag.
One time, Aaron had a fish on, so I took a net and walked out to try to bring the fish in. (You do that to help catch the fish, but it also lets the other fishermen get back to doing what they came to do sooner). Anyway, the person behind Aaron got a fish on just after Aaron’s, and while I was trying to net Aaron’s fish, this other fish swam in circles around me, trying to get away. I ended up wrapped in line, trying to move my legs and that just made me fall into the water. I submerged and then found myself floating down the Russian river, right into some heavy rapids. I was blessed to have some brave soul run out, grab my shoulders, and pull me back into shore. I was cold and soaked, but I was safe.
So, after that experience, I began fishing in the Handicap zone, a spot where I could get my lure out into the deep water without having to wade very far off shore.
One morning, Aaron and I were out on the river by 6:00a.m. I had a spot in the Handicap zone, and Aaron
was about fifty feet to my left, just out of the zone. Quickly we each caught a salmon and had them on a stringer, in the water. I had brought a lunch bag with peanut butter sandwiches for Aaron and me. I also had the previous day’s empty sandwich bags in my camera case. I had tucked them in my camera case just out of convenience that previous day. Those baggies had sandwich crumbs and a bit of peanut butter smeared on the inside.
Awhile later, Aaron called over, “Dad!”
“Yes?”
“Look behind you.”
I turned. There were two grizzlies—looked like a big mama and her big cub—standing close enough to me that I could have reached out and touched them with my fishing pole. This was too close. They had probably come out of the woods to gather salmon scraps that accumulate from people cleaning their fish at the fish cleaning station on the other end of the Handicap zone.
The first thing I did was reach for the two salmon on the stringer. That was probably a stupid and dangerous move, looking back on it. It was my automatic response, however. Then I began walking backwards, facing the bears and moving away from them slowly.
The bears went for my camera bag first. They smelled the bits of peanut butter on the wrappers! They ripped the camera bag open. My camera, a nice Nikon, went flying across the rocks. My zoom lens went flying across the rocks as well. Finding the wrappers empty, the bears seemed angry. They ripped open the lunch bag and found the sandwiches for which they were hoping. They ate the sandwiches in entirety, zip-locked bag and all.
There were also bags of chips and a package of m&ms. The food was all gone. and the canvas bag was in shreds.
My takeaways? Bears are cute only in movies. Bears are larger in real life. The bears seemed to briefly consider the whole salmons I was holding, but a lot of salmon scraps were floating in the water along the shore, and they decided to content themselves with that. The rest of us had to wait and watch them eat, because the bears were between us and the ferry to take us back.
The End (True Story)
that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it!
I think that God gives each of us the innate ability to know if something is right or not … now, sometimes that ability may run askew. You may choose to blind yourself to the moral reality, but deep down you know it’s not right.
This could lead to many topics … and today I’m choosing college football.
I have loved college football for years. When I was nine years old, we won our first football national championship (“we” being the University of Nebraska). When I was ten years old, we won our second national championship. Then, when I was thirty-three, thirty-four, and thirty-six, we won our third, fourth, and fifth championships. (The 1990’s were great.)
One of the things I really enjoyed about it was that we were playing with a lot of home-grown boys, plus a few very talented “out of towners” who brought in their expertise … I’m thinking Tommie Frazier, for one … what a sensational QB! And he lives in Nebraska now, I believe … anyway, he’s always been a Husker through and through. And Turner Gill. And Irving Fryar. And Mike Rozier. And Ndamukang Suh.
But this football portal thing is destroying the state-built school structure. When Coach Sanders goes into Colorado and portals in an entire (almost) team with new folks who didn’t grow up with each other and who hadn’t played together and whose names didn’t have nearly unpronounceable strings that end in WCYJIVXY (just kidding about that one), it’s hard to believe that the team will feel united, where they go all out for each other because they’re playing as one team.
I admit that I could be totally wrong about them. Maybe Sanders has a GREAT idea and maybe it’s the way to go. I’ve got to complain, though, because it’s possible they”ll kill us tomorrow (Saturday. CU *does* have amazingly talented players, including the coach’s son as QB.)
Anyway, good luck to you tomorrows, CU. I hope it’s a close game, like in the old days. We had some great games for the fans to watch. Personally, I’m hoping the Huskers can come in and catch you off guard. We haven’t seen much of you — just that first game last week. Then again, you haven’t seen much of us. Will the “old rivalry” factor play a part? Perhaps. I (think) I hope so.
Best to all. Let’s have a great game!
Go Huskers!
Some of you are transferring to get more playing time … some of you are transferring to get more money with your valuable image and notoriety. Those aren’t necessarily bad things on an individual basis, but it seems to be changing the game to be all about money.
Maybe it’s been all about money (for you guys) for a long time. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, I was naive to all that. I believed in the game for the game’s sake. It was an honest (it seemed) system, the games were hard-fought, smash-mouth, may-the-best-team-win kinds of affairs. Did you see the Nebraska – Minnesota game last weekend? What a game! Minnesota won the hard-fought contest in the waning moments of the game with a field goal. There are a few transfer portal players on each team, but not a whole heck of a lot. And it’s okay if we get more. But I certainly wouldn’t advocate dropping an entire team (which is almost what Colorado has done) and repopulating it with transfers. That’s like saying you can skip Aunt Ruth’s corned beef hash and go directly to the tira misu. Not healthy, not smart.
Who wants to play on a team where you haven’t grown up together, where you haven’t melded together as a team. You haven’t lived through the lean times.
Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s the new culture. I don’t have to like it though. I was thirty-three once. Then I blinked, and suddenly I’m sixty-two. I don’t know how that happened. Maybe I stumbled on Life’s Great Portal. Perhaps Parkinson’s Disease is that Great Transfer Portal in the Sky. After all, it did grant me early access to walkers and wheel chairs. Yee ha! Okay, now I’m just being silly.
I tell you, adversity does indeed give you an edge. You learn to handle things. You learn to overcome. You learn to deal with it.
I hope I get to play.
The Adventures of John Stevens, Jr., My Great-Grandfather
Note: This is mostly fiction, but it has close ties with an actual event. This wil someday be rewritten so that it aligns with the facts. Until then …
An Untold Story
I was blessed to have a great-grandfather who recorded countless notes, wrote numerous letters, and told fascinating stories. He also compiled myriad fictional tales (humorous and/or romantic), poems, and other writings. One of his most notable works was a history of early Arapahoe (named, coincidentally enough, “Early Arapahoe”), through which he described and defined, or redefined, the ambient culture and mini-biographies of the founders of the town and surrounding county in that era.
My great-grandfather, John Stevens Jr. (or Johnny, as he is referred to in my books), was a bit of a renaissance man. He was a farmer and he, with his brother George, managed a farm that yielded about forty acres of corn each summer. He and George also owned a small corral of horses, and Johnny became an expert horseman, even able to stand on two horses walking abreast, one of his legs on one horse and his other leg on the second horse.
Indeed, he was a showman who was confident and who enjoyed sharing his skills and “horse abilities” with the local community. A couple of times, he even performed at the annual state fair in Lincoln.
A remarkable marksman, Johnny almost single-handedly put Arapahoe at the top of the state’s marksmanship rankings. He could fire two pistols at once with the accuracy of the best one-pistol shooters.
Johnny became the assistant editor of a weekly newspaper, the Edison Echo (Edison was a community that extended out from the northeast corner of Arapahoe and eventually became its own township). Johnny would write the obituaries and op/ed articles on various issues, mostly political and often in a humorous vein. He opposed the policies coming out of Washington, and his writing was influential enough to make Furnas County the only county in the 1936 election to not support FDR.
Enjoying the legal aspects of government, Johnny began studying law, and he interned with a popular attorney in nearby Beaver City, a man by the name of Frank Morrisey. This internship was a valuable academic experience for Johnny, and it provided cheap labor for Morrisey. Morrisey developed a fondness for Johnny, and he handed Johnny all the legal exposure necessary to give him a solid foundation in law. After a couple of years, Mr. Morrisey told Johnny, “I think you’re ready for the bar”—that is, the Bar exam that one was required to pass to become a legal state attorney.
Johnny took a couple of courses in Nebraska’s Law School in Lincoln to polish his rough edges, and then he passed the Bar in his first attempt. He had become an attorney!
Almost coincidentally, Johnny’s next older brother Ott (nickname for Oscar) had become the sheriff—the
man wearing the star—of Arapahoe. The 1880s were nearly as wild as the 1870s had been, and law enforcement (sheriffs like the Masterson brothers (Bat and Ed) and deputy Wyatt Earp, in Dodge City,) and villains like Jesse James, Belle Starr, and Cole Younger, kept each other busy.
Even though the concept of trial by jury had been in use for hundreds of years and was laid out in the U.S.
Constitution, this structure of righteous judgment was sometimes avoided for expediency’s sake and was replaced with “Frontier justice,” which could include lynch-mob hangings, burnings at the stake, and other forms of execution based solely on mob rule and (perhaps) the evidence at hand. Johnny and his brother Ott were both intent on restoring the order and provision of trial by jury in western Nebraska.
Concerned about the long-term safety of his brother in such a risky profession, Johnny built a three-story
house in Arapahoe, living on the top floor and renting out the floors below. This allowed him to temporarily move back to Arapahoe from Beaver City for as long as he deemed necessary. The house was four houses down the street from the sheriff ’s office and jail on the opposite corner.
Now, what am I doing? I’ve been tellin’ the story, but I ain’t been SHOWIN’ the story. What’s the mantra—something like, “Show, don’t tell.” Here we go.
“Stevens,” snarled Fitz Cook, bursting through the saloon doors, “you ain’t got a bone in your body that
ain’t a’feared of me. You’re scared of me jumpin’ out from behind that big cottonwood over by your place; you’re scared ‘cause you know ‘twas wrong to steal my girl; and very, very soon you’ll be scared of my gun, ‘cause you know it’s aimin’ right at you.”
Ott Stevens, Johnny’s brother, remained silent, sitting at the bar with his back to the doors that were still
swingin’. He didn’t respond, nor did he turn around. He didn’t have to answer to swine like Fitz Cook.
“Sheriff Stevens!” shouted Cook. “Ya didn’t hear what I said? Listen to me. You’re a spineless piece of trash. When vultures pluck out the eyes of your dead body, it’ll be better than you deserve.”
“Cook!” shouted Marvin Wyrick, owner and proprietor of Wyrick’s Saloon as he stepped out from behind
the bar. “Get out of here. We ain’t got no room for fightin’ in my ’stablishment.”
“Wyrick,” argued Cook, “this sheriff ain’t worth the dirt on his boots. I’m gonna get you, Stevens, and I’m
tellin’ you, it’s gonna happen sooner rather’n later. Watch your six.”
As he turned toward the door to leave, two of his henchmen stood up to accompany him. Cook glared at the four or five other men who were sittin’ there. “Any of you get in my way,” he warned, “and you’re next.”
Days passed and weeks rolled by. The girl that Ott had stolen from Fitz Cook had then been stolen from Ott by someone else, the twain of whom had skipped town and were somewhere in Missouri, south of Davenport.
Late afternoon on a particularly hot day in late August, Ott Stevens was unlocking the front door to the
sheriff ’s office, having just returned from dinner at Wyrick’s, when he heard a familiar voice cry out from across the street, “Stevens! Your time has come.”
Ott, watching almost in disbelief as Fitz Cook and two of his buddies rushed toward him, pulled his gun just as the mob descended upon him. Two other passersby saw that the sheriff was in trouble and they jumped in to help, brave souls that they were. A fight ensued, arms and fists flying everywhere. Ott was knocked down twice but managed to get upright.
BANG! A loud, crisp shot pierced the evening sky, cracking the—well, I was gonna say “‘cracking the silence,” but, even though the fight really wasn’t quiet, the numerous “WHAMs” and “BAMs” and “POWs” and “OOMPHs” were rather muffled and weren’t nearly as sharp-sounding as the gunshot.
The gathering crowd quickly backed away as did the those involved in the brawl—everybody but Sheriff Ott and nemesis Fitz Cook. Ott was standing maybe eight or nine feet from the corner street lamp. Cook was on his knees in front of the street lamp. They were staring at each other.
Ott, his right arm extending out to his side, was pointing a smoking gun upward.
“Sheriff … Sheriff,” gasped Cook, and then he fell forward, dead, bullet hole in his back.
Every sort of rumor quickly circulated through the town, creating a heap of questions that would have to be answered in a court of law. As proceedings were set up for the case “State of Nebraska versus Ott Stevens,” the defense attorney was none other than John (Johnny) Stevens, the defendant’s brother.
Many, many people from the crowd that had watched the fight were questioned on the witness stand. Ten people gave ten different accounts of what they said had happened. “The sheriff shot him … No, the shot came from another direction and hit Cook in the back … there were two shots … No, it was one shot with an echo … No, it was two shots and an echo.”
Ott had remained silent throughout most of the trial. I think he just figured no one would believe him under the circumstances. Most of the testimony of the witnesses was shown to be in conflict, one way or t’other, with reality and thus could be discarded.
Fortunately for Ott, one lone trustworthy individual, Dominicus (“Min”) Hasty, said the sequence of events
progressed as such:
- 1) Ott put his gun back in his holster the moment the fight began.
- 2) As more people were pulled into the fight, Ott drew his gun, raised it and aimed straight upward, and he fired the gun.
- 3) However, a slight, almost indiscernible moment before Ott fired his gun, another shot rang out from some distance away. The witness was pretty confident that Ott’s shot coincided with the echo of a first shot.
- 4) Mr. Hasty saw Cook get struck in the back; Cook did not change his position after getting shot. He merely fell forward moments later and died. Ott, standing in front of Cook, could not have shot him in the back.
- 5) Further, Mr. Hasty pointed out that the bullet removed from Cook’s body was from a Colt 45 revolver, not a 38 caliber that was the smoking gun Ott had fired. Ott was also carrying a 45, but he chose the 38. If he had intended to kill Cook, he likely would have used the more powerful 45.
Defending his brother before judge and jury, Johnny asked three questions of the defendant.
“Ott, why did you fire your pistol.”
“I noticed that more and more people were being pulled into the fight. I wanted to get everyone’s attention—immediately—so that I could tell people enough was enough and we needed to quit this foolish exercise.:
Ott, Mr. Hasty said that when you were being approached by Mr. Cook and his henchmen, you pulled out
your gun first but then, almost immediately, you actually put your gun back in the holster. Why did you do that?”
“Well, I was worried that I would get angry and shoot the gun without thinking things through. I couldn’t
just toss the gun aside, but I could put it away. When I shoot a gun, I want it to be for justice, not from anger.”
“You put the gun away so that the people in the fight would be safe.”
“Yes sir,” replied Ott humbly.
“And you shot the gun into the sky so that the people in the fight might stop fighting, thus keeping them
safe?”
“Yes sir,” said Ott. “That was my intent.”
After a brief pause, Johnny looked at the jury and said, “Now, pay close attention to this.” The alert jury focused
every eye on Johnny.
“In the coroner’s report it specifies that the bullet’s position relative to the entrance wound was of a severely downward attitude. Specifically, the bullet was fired from somewhere much higher off the ground. To make that shot, you would have had to hold the gun way above your head, maybe even on your tip toes, and then fire downward at a sharp angle.”
“Yes sir, I believe that’s right.”
“You always were the shortest of us Stevenses.”
“Yes, sir.”
Johnny smiled. “Ott, thank you, and thank you, jury, and thank you, Your Honor. The Defense rests.”
Minutes later, jury returned with the verdict: Not Guilty; the judge concurred. Ott was free.
Johnny shook Ott’s hand, and Ott said, in a halting voice, “Thank you, dear brother.”
“A free man deserves to be free,” replied Johnny. “Let’s go.” The two men left the court without fanfare.
That evening, Johnny returned to his third floor apartment, exhausted from the day’s proceedings. He was
pleased with the result.
Johnny, out of habit, always paid attention to detail—every detail, maybe even obsessively so. That’s why he was an attorney and a newspaper editor and a farmer. During the trial, one thought kept recurring almost to the point of interrupting his cognitive abilities. When he entered his apartment that night, the thought came to him again: Have I cleaned the gun?
He opened his gun safe and there it was, clean and pristine. Breathing a sigh of relief but not being one who took chances, Johnny unfolded his gun cloth, added a drop of gun oil, wiped down the pistol’s barrel and chamber, and then ran a clean cloth through the barrel. Johnny planned to return a clean Colt 45 to the man from whom he had borrowed it “just to try it out.” That man was Min Hasty.
The End
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