Lost Ground

Somewhere in the general melee we lost our imaginary horses, their ghostly neighing added pathos to this momentous moment. It was decided, we boys, and one sister of a boy we hardly knew, that Custer must die, the Indians win, there could be no sudden victories plucked from certain disaster. We had no Indians, one bow with a rubber-tipped arrow does not make a gathering of the tribes. We had no Custer, six dark haired kids, no long flowing hair, no mustaches. Undaunted we marched on to meet our heroic death, lip-bugles tooting, makeshift flags flying. A fertile field of battle was selected. At the site of our coming glory, it was disheartening to discover, a growling construction site, giant bull dozers, tractors, and iron-toothed diggers busily tearing up our hallowed ground. Jim (my best pal), loudly proclaimed: " fork it," to no one in particular, then sloped away, hands in pockets - an event which I now consider sadly ironic, for ever since, we have lost all sorts of battles over many a fertile field.