Pigeon Bombing
I hadn't done much bombing myself and I never thought old Red would bomb again, but there we were; Red, Freckles, Giraffe, Chubster and I, flying over the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The MET is a very popular pigeon hangout. Down below there was this old lady, walking slowly up fifth avenue. She was wearing a large, round, white hat. None of us would had taken notice until Red pointed it out to us.
"Hey, I'll be a Red haired son of a bitch, look at that white hat." Red said.
Red was mostly gray, but just under his belly was a patch of red, which was beginning to turn white. He was always known as Red, ever since I could remember. I've known Red all my life.
"Since when did you start caring about human hats Red?" replied Chubster.
Chubster looked as his name implied, Chubby. This bird could eat. I'll never forget around three years ago when old Chubster was hanging around Times Square and some kid was tearing off little bits of his pretzel and tossing them at us. Chubster went right up to the kid and grabbed the whole pretzel right from his hand. The kid went to grab it back but Chubster downed it before the kid could grab it. We roared. The kid cursed at old Chubster and chased him a whole city block before Chubster got up
enough steam to get himself and his belly full of pretzel airborne. He flew up onto an awning out of danger.
"I can hit it from here," replied Red.
"You can do what?" asked Freckles.
Freckles body was grayish white and on his face were brown and black spots. Freckles was six years old, a real old timer. Most pigeons, if they make it through the first few months of life, live to be only between three and five years old. Freckles is the oldest of our bunch.
"I can hit her from here. No problem." Red replied.
"You can't bomb Red. We're too old to bomb. Bombing is for the young." Giraffe said.
Giraffe was bluish gray and his neck was longer than most. That long neck saved our necks one day. We were feeding on some bread crumbs in the street where the curb was higher than normal. Everyone was enjoying the snack, especially Chubster, when Giraffe gave a loud warning call. A warning call includes high pitched "err" sounds and the flapping of feathers. We all looked up and couldn't see anything but the curb, when suddenly leaping off the curb down into the street were a group of obnoxious human kids on bikes. They came right at us, but thanks to Giraffe's unusual line of sight and early warning most of us were able to get out of the way. Red got bumped by a wheel and sprained his left foot, so he followed the human adolescence. When they locked up their bikes to get some food, Red bombed their bike seats from three stories up. Old Red could bomb.
We hadn't bombed in years. Once you reach your third year, according to pigeon law, you can no longer bomb. You were not eligible for any tournaments, local, national or world wide. Giraffe was right, bombing was for the young, but Red was the best bomber there ever was. In his prime he was known throughout the world.
I'll never forget the Nationals in Boston one year. The five of us made up the New York team. Red trailed the local favorite by nine points going into the final fly off. He needed a perfect ten to take the individual cup and to win the team competition. There had never been a ten hit run in Nationals, not in the history of the tournament. Most of us had begun consoling Red on a good showing, we had given up, thoroughly convinced that the cup was staying in Boston. Red never gave up though. He had always told us, "If you're born in Brooklyn, you can never give up." If anyone was going to make a perfect ten, it was Red.
It was an extremely difficult run. It started on top of the Capital building, from there you had to swoop down into the Boston Common and bomb the Ugly Duckling statue from at least 100 feet, then it was up to at least 200 feet and a bomb on a swan boat, followed by a glide up Boylston street towards the library. On the way up Boylston a mandatory cab bomb was necessary. When you arrived at the library the contestant had to bomb the book drop in front of the main entrance, soar ( As much as a pigeon can pigeonly soar; we're not hawks here) up to 1000 feet, play the wind, drop one into the Charles River and then head on over to the Fenway. The finalists run was always scheduled to coincide with a home game in the host city. Our Yankees were in town visiting the Red Sox. The final bomb had to hit the home plate umpire. Not only were the targets tough, but you only had ten minutes to make the run. Each of the first five targets hit scored one point each and five points for the home plate umpire for a total of ten points. If you go over the ten minute time allotment, you lose three points. Got it?
Red perched proudly on top of the capital building, ready to go. The official time keeper began his call, "On your mark...get set...FLY! " Red went into a handsome glide straight down to exactly 100 feet and nailed the Ugly Duckling, right on the head. We roared. He flapped hard and took it up to 200 feet, which has always been Red's toughest height (He missed a water tank in Osaka, Japan during the World Wide Winner's Cup the year before from 200 feet). He took aim at a swan boat which was just leaving the dock, and let'er rip. Wham! He hit the boat, two humans and a poodle! Hitting a human on the boat sent the crowd into a frenzy, however it earned no extra bonus points. Even the Boston team cheered. Two points scored and only about one minute off the clock.
Red hadn't smiled or grinned or nothing. He was all business right now. He headed over to Boylston Street and glided down to 30 feet. He had to save his energy for the climb to 1000 feet which followed the cab and library bombs. Red glided up Boylston watching closely for a target cab. Then there it was, a yellow cab who almost ran over an old pigeon feeding on the side of the road became Red's target. He let loose and covered the windshield of the cab! The cabby stuck his head out of the window and screamed up at Red. Red was ahead on time so he circled back and bombed the cabby's head. The crowd went wild! I think I even caught a slight grin on Red's face. He flew up to the library and circled over the book drop.
The book drop bomb had to enter the book drop. This means you had to circle until a human walks up to the book drop and pulls the drawer down to place a book inside. At that moment you have to drop! You had to be ready to bomb when the first human approached, because you might not get a second chance. Twenty seconds after Red began circling a couple of humans approached the book drop. It was a boy and an old lady. The old lady opened the drawer so that the boy could place his book into the book drop. The drawer opened, Red bombed, and in went the boy's book and the bomb. The bomb went in undetected by the humans (Until later when they empty the book drop).
Now came the tough part of the run. Pigeons very rarely fly up to 500 feet, let alone 1000 feet, but this was the Nationals and up Red went: 300, 500, 750 feet. By the time he hit 1000 the Charles River below looked more like a worm than a river. The wind was blowing off the Atlantic ocean at about 15 miles per hour. You have to play the wind from 1000 feet. Red dropped and as the bomb approached it's target it looked like it was going to hit Storrow Drive, which is adjacent to the river, and miss the Charles completely. I thought he started the bomb too far east. It came down and hit the very edge of the river, as a matter of fact it scrapped the rocks which are on the river's bank. We thought it was a miss and the tournament was over, but Red flew down and asked for a ruling. Now if you call for a ruling the two judges and the time keeper must survey the hit area. A majority of two decides the ruling and any time taken for the ruling is not replaced on the clock. Red was at 6 minutes 41 seconds now, but really had no choice but to ask for a ruling. He had to get a "hit" ruling or the match was over. All pigeons gathered at the bomb site.
You could see where the bomb glanced the side wall, but according to the rules of bombing if any part of the bomb made it to the water, it was a hit. The judges surveyed the site and down below rocking on the waves was a small piece of the bomb! It was a hit! The judges gave the "hit" signal, which is a back and forth head movement three times, and off went Red towards Fenway Park. He now had one minute and forty-eight seconds left until the ten minute time limit was up.
The entire crowd flew up and headed over to the Fenway. Many pigeons had already gathered at the park as they were only interested in the finale: the five-point-home plate-umpire-bomb. Fenway Park was packed with humans. This was a pivotal home game as the Sox and the Yankees were tied for first with just eight games left.
The tough part about bombing in a stadium is that the wind does strange things so you have to get pretty close to the target, maybe 20 to 30 feet above the umps head. The entire rim of Fenway Park was lined with pigeons. Then with only 45 seconds left in his 10 minute allotment down from the press box glided Red. I'll never forget it. It was the bottom of the eighth and the Yankees led 4 to 3. The Sox had a man on third, two outs with the count one strike, two balls. All 36,000 humans were watching the game with no idea that Red had 35 seconds to go to capture the National Championship of Bombing. Red would have to drop on this pitch, while the umpire was holding steady over the plate. The only problem was that the base runner on third might try to steal home and tie up the game. This means that the umpire would be moving around and make it an almost impossible hit. Red glided around 75 feet above home plate. The batter came into the batter's box, the catcher signaled the pitcher, the umpire leaned over the catcher and down came Red to about 50 feet. There was 8 seconds left on the clock and on the pitch came the runner from third. Now most pigeons thought it was over. The umpire had to move to call the play at home, but I knew that Red, being the well prepared champion that he was, had done research to see which human would be the home plate umpire for this game and studied weeks before the match to see how this particular umpire stands over the plate and which way he moves on throws to home plate. Red was well prepared, just in case this scenario were to occur. Red dropped the bomb. The umpire moved over to his left to call the play at home, the runner slid into home plate hard, throwing dirt into a cloud over the plate. You couldn't see anything until the dust cleared. The umpire yelped, "You're out!" He then began to make human gestures which indicate that one was just hit by a bird bomb; such as running his hand through his hair, smelling his hand and finally shaking his head and screaming, "Pugh!". Both benches emptied on to the field around the umpire, who at this moment couldn't care about the game and just wanted to get Red's bomb out of his hair. All the pigeons who lined the stadium flew down and lifted our National Champion up into the sky.
"Red, you can't hit that old lady from here on your best day," I said, encouraging the old champion on.
That's all Red needed to hear and out it came. It was an old timers bomb, a little looser than when he was in his prime, but it still moved downward. That's the beauty of gravity. Chubster, Giraffe and Freckles couldn't believe it; they got into though. They looked like kids at their first bombing, cheering it on while watching it's fast decent.
It missed the white hat completely and instead hit fifth avenue and the trunk of a stretch limo.
"Oh, well," said Red," I had to go anyway."
Just like Red, never taking defeat to hard. We all laughed and flew down to the street for some midday feeding.
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Updated Thursday, 04-Mar-2004 14:58:28 PST