...began flying, the blur of ice in combination with speed heavy in the air. I saw my little brother collapse under the impact of a bullet thrown by the boy-giant across the yard. Scotty's teeth made a clicking noise as his stocking covered head was forced one way by the impact of the flying snowball, his lips the other way- suspended for a moment where they had once been in perfect alignment with his red face. My tiny comrade was down for the count.
I had three choices at that point. Stand my position and fight it out (impossible as I was running out of "ammo" and far short on defensive positioning); fall back to the safety of grandma's couch (I liked this thought more and more but it would come with a lifelong stigma); or charge the oppositions bunker. Now I'm not a war strategist, but I thought the third option could at least buy me some time for Scott to pull himself together and help a brother out.
In warfare, charging is generally a last resort. It is most likely necessitated by a critical shortage of resources in combination with a lack of a fall-back option. It is the equivalent of football's 4th quarter, final seconds "Hale Mary" where you will either take the field in victory as a gutsy s.o.b., or you leave the stadium in shame- in war, dead. There are songs about heroes who, in desperation, beyond all reason or possibility muster the courage to chance it all. Grabbing handfuls of snow as I went I began to run toward to onslaught. For a moment the ploy worked. Timmy and his goon, stopped to look at each other briefly before throwing snowballs with more fury than before.
I knew the charge had been a mistake from the beginning. For one thing, I'm not very fast. For another, I was the ideal target- stunned and enlarged by a super puffy red coat, waddling toward (not away) from the enemy. Timmy and goon were delighted, licking their chapped lips as I approached.
To be continued and concluded...