HOW BOBBY WARD AND I MANAGED TO SHOOT OURSELVES IN THE FOOT

     My friend and fellow ’68 graduate of Sherman High School, Bobby Ward, and I are the only people I know who have shot themselves in the foot.  It is extremely painful to shoot yourself in the foot and equally embarrassing.    

     There is simply little pity associated with this type of accident.  Folks assume you were playing around, perhaps doing a “fast draw”, when you blast off a round into your foot.  You then hop around, curse and look rather comical…even though it hurts like blazes.  It is not unlike getting smacked below the belt and dropping to your knees.  The “Funniest Home Videos’ are always showing footage of someone getting hit in the crotch, folding up in pain, while the audience howls with laughter.

     I was playing in Sherman’s church softball league one summer and a ball was hit, rocketing off the bat at about 3 feet above the ground, until it connected with my “huevos rancheros.”  I landed on top of 3rd base with a thud and commenced to thrash around in the dirt.  However, the spectators erupted in a twitter of laughter and as bad as I hurt, I did not dare grab hold of my injured “self”, for fear of only more abuse and mocking.

     So…I grabbed my knee.  This did not help at all, but I felt it aided in salvaging my dignity.  Maybe people would think I was hit in the knee, which is not as funny, but I don’t think they bought it.

     Bobby was out with Jerry Roberts, Randy Pearson and other friends during our senior year of high school and they were shooting a borrowed pistol.   Bobby lowered the weapon and it went off, burrowing a bullet into his ankle where it connects above the foot.  He then fired off the rest of the rounds into the sky, disgusted with himself.  He limped to the car and they got him to the hospital.   

     Bobby’s mother later told me, Jerry Roberts called her at home and said, “Mrs. Ward…Bobby shot himself…in the foot.”  She said those few seconds between, “Bobby shot himself” and “in the foot” seemed like an eternity.  Within those few seconds, she was already off the sofa and racing for the car,  envisioning her son stretched out at the Dannel & Son Funeral Home.  She was able to come to a screeching halt when she heard of the lesser severity, gave a deep sigh, gathered the information and met her son at the hospital.

     However, I thought it was funny.  I laughed, mocked Bobby and joined in the gleeful chorus of mirth over his embarrassing misfortune.   I went to Six Flags Over Texas soon after and got a newspaper front page printed, in bold headlines, "BOBBY WARD GUNS HIMSELF DOWN".    (It turns out Bobby has saved the paper for over 50 years and intends to drop into my coffin at my funeral.)     However, the lesson here is I was sending out some really negative karma and setting myself up for serious pay back.

     Sure enough, sometime later I was at my Great Aunt Jessie Cole’s farm, outside of Sherman, shooting Bois‘d Arc apples off trees near her stock tank, with a 32 caliber pistol.  I stepped in a hole, produced by a cow’s hoof, fell backward and shot myself in the foot.

     I was covered in mud and fresh green cow poop.  My foot was on fire and I hopped on my good foot to the home of my poor aunt and sent her into convulsions with my tale of carelessness.  I had to try and calm her down, called my ambulance-driving friends at Dannel & Son to meet us at an intersection and deliver me to the hospital.

     Later in the day, Bobby called my home and my baby brother Bill told him I was at the hospital, getting a bullet dug out of my foot.  Bobby assumed Bill was continuing to mock him from his earlier accident and finally said, “OK…for the last time, where is your brother?”  Bill assured him it was true and Bobby was thrilled!  Paybacks can be very satisfying.  He came to the hospital and harassed me until I could convince the nursing staff to throw him out.

     It was all very embarrassing and as I hobbled around on crutches, I had to explain what happened…”NO, I WAS NOT PRACTICING A QUICK DRAW”… “YES, MY DOCTOR THINKS I WILL STILL BE CLASSIFIED 1-A by the draft board”.

     My next-to-smallest toe on my left foot kind of juts out and I can predict rain…other than that I came through this gunplay rather unscathed.  My baby brother Bill sat down on a pair of scissors, carelessly left between sofa cushions a couple of days after my gunshot wound.  His bottom required stitches and my father bemoaned the fact he had to endure a shooting and stabbing within his own family in the same week.

     Bobby joined the marines after high school and went to Viet Nam.  He was awarded the Silver Star after gallantly participating in a great deal of combat.  His wounded foot became insignificant, as he was all shot up with bullets and shrapnel.  While convalescing, Bobby’s mama didn’t know how he was, only that he had sustained a number of wounds.  She began calling and kept going up the chain until she found an executive officer who promised her, if she would just stop calling, he would get her some answers.  Several officers went to the hospital and found Bobby. They got him out of bed, covered in bandages, leaned him against a wall and photographed him.  They sent the picture to Mrs. Ward to show her he was alive and well.  Before they left the hospital they instructed Bobby to ask his mother not to call the Marine Corp high command any more. 

     This unfortunate gunshot to the foot debacle  cooled me on firearms.  Now that I have grandchildren, I keep no weapons around, no longer hunt dove, quail or deer and have given all God’s creatures a pass…live a long and happy life.

     Basically, I do not trust other “hunters” or gun enthusiasts.    No matter how many safety courses are taken or how much precaution is demonstrated, if you are in the presence of  someone with a loaded firearm, there is a good chance you will get shot.   Seasoned sportsmen, such as former Vice President Dick Cheney have inadvertently shot companions in the face while hunting.  Who knows if differing political views were being discussed?  I make it a point not to discuss politics, especially with those from my home state of Texas, where I am now considered a sissified, "wild eyed liberal" outcast. 

Since I have been away for a long time, Bobby has convinced me it is not healthy to disagree with those who are undoubtedly more conservative and certainly better armed.