Ira Bader was like most heroes.  At first glance, he wasn't much.  But when met with adversity, he responded with such biting fierceness that the children of Peebles Elementary School, now adults, can scarcely mention his name without bated breath.  He was pale.  Freckles splashed onto his face like soft pink paint drops.  He was scrawny.  Looked like if he ever got too winded his own breath might knock him down.  And he was dirty.  His ears were mud holes of brown, crusted earwax.  Ira kept to himself, but was self-confident when pulled into conversation.  He ignored what the teacher was saying and drew pictures during class.  His pictures were elaborate depictions of massive battles waged in underground tunnels, on hillsides, and in the air.  He filled endless sheets of paper with mutant frogs, land mines and flying submarines.  Then hed tape these papers together and make one long, complex universe out of them. 

Sometimes hed let us draw our own sheets and connect them to his tapestry of battle. 

When Ira entered a room, it became more empty.  He wanted to be avoided, and we usually obliged.  Nothing he ever did would be significant enough to enter into Peebles lore, if it hadn,t been for that one magical Phys. Ed. Period.  Thats when I learned that Ira Bader had the super power to freeze time in its tracks.

            It was fifth-grade dodge ball day.  We loved dodge ball.  Little running, lots of violence.  We knew that dodge ball had rules, but we didn't pay attention to them.  We were more concerned with violence.  I remember on this particular afternoon we played out of doors, at the old tennis courts.  It was a crisp, lovely day, warm sun, bright smiles.  And the odds were against us.  Through some fluke of choosing, all of the athletic kids in class ended up on the same side.  Josh Smalley, Randy Tucker, Sam Anderson, and the dreaded Adam Gargan.  Gargan was distinguished by being the oldest and biggest fifth grader in the United States.  How big was he?  Have you ever seen a building?  He was like that.  No one knew how many times hed been held back, but our best estimates put him at the age of 39.  And this giant was staring down a team of nerdy, rag-tag bandits. 

            Mrs. Gary's fifth grade class was a hotbed of Machiavellian politicking.  My group, the smart kids, was at constant war with the athletic kids.  Our objective: girls.  We weren't entirely sure what girl were for yet, but we understood their affections were the key to some great, mysterious power.  Earlier that year, my girlfriend, April Stephens, had left me for Wayne Rhoads.  I had nothing against Wayne personally, but I had to destroy him.  For honor.  I pulled whatever pranks were necessary, used my rapier wit to attract as much class attention to myself as possible.  wayne and I had established a rivalry that extended to our separate camps.  My boys collected comics and knew the names of the aliens in the Star Wars cantina.  His gang played sports and went deer hunting with their dads.  And now we were placed, by providence, on opposite sides of the dodge ball court.  My guys versus his.  The winners won the respect of the women, and rights to hunt on the pride lands.

            Among our group was Ira Bader, frowning, always sad. 

            The balls were divided.  The big athletic kids got small balls for quick surgical strikes.  I'm a poor thrower, so I got the biggest one I could find.  Maybe I could catapult it over to the enemys side and it would bounce and accidentally hit someone.  Mr. Warfe wedged that whistle into his mouth.  I heard it scrape against his teeth.  The sun glistened off its silver hide like a bayonet.  Then from its hollows came an awful little wail, crisp and efficient.

From the other side of the line came a great outpouring of dodge balls, such a rage of rubber the likes of which youve never seen.  If any on my side of the net were deft enough to attempt a throw of their own, it was beaten down in that single flash of red and yellow.  I saw men fall that day.  Good men.  Gargan threw a tiny ball at Jody Akers' forehead, and Jody crumpled.  To this day, Jody thinks that he's a fire truck because of that critical blow.  I saw others fall; men and women alike, each falling away like paper boats before the ocean.  Derrick Hogan tried to catch a ball, and died three hours later from internal bleeding of the pancreas.  Amy Huntington cannot have children.  Ricky Sharpe  lost an eye and his body can no longer produce glucose. 

I survived the first barrage of artillery and hoisted my huge, two-foot ball into the air.  I watched it float over all of us, a fat red dot in a baby blue sky.  Then it fell, landing about twenty feet to my right.  I never even got it across the line.  While I was watching the ball, a couple of someone's from the other side belted me with tiny dodge ball bullets.  I was out. 

The others fell in short order.  The second-to-last person alive on my side was Jamey Frank a ferocious tomboy with an all-As report card.  She took out several of the other teams heavy hitters, including Wayne Rhoads, before getting nailed on her backside, picking up a ball. 

At the last, one man stood proud.  Ira Bader.  Ira was wearing his thick blue and yellow winter coat, despite the warm weather.  He always wore this coat.  That day it made him look all the more protean, a god of broad shoulders and fast feet.  No.  To say Ira was fast is an injustice.  The boy moved like breath.  He didn't dodge--he flowed.  His body became a living symphony, livid and precise.  In groups of three or thirteen, all the dodge balls missed him.  He leapt and twirled!  Ducked and rolled!  He ran up to the face of the net and stared his enemy in the eye.  None could touch him.  We questioned if he could be human.  No, such a boy as this must be a phantom, or a robot!  Yeah, he had been some kind of robot this whole time, and not a real kid.  He was sent back in time, like the Terminator, but got hit on the head and forgot he was a robot.  

That's why he was making those drawings of wars all the time, because he was supposed to be in the future fighting the Russians for the freedom of the United States of America.  I was watching really carefully in case part of his fake human skin tore away and revealed metal flesh and blinking lights. 

Who was Ira Bader? Was he Superman, Zarathusa, Zeus?  In that moment, he was everything we wanted him to be.  He was transformed from a twerp into a hero.  His newfound agility changed everything.  There was a world just past us.  If Ira wasnt limited by his body, then none of us were.

Ira Bader made time stop.

Most of the class rooted against him.  Now that Ira was revealed to be above us all, they wanted to see the giant fall.  Others just wanted him to give up so we could start playing again.  But he wouldn't go out.  He wouldn't go out.

            Then I sadly learned that Ira was human.  He did not falter: it was his footwear that failed him. His shoes were second hand-me-downs, probably inherited from the 1970s like the rest of his clothes.  During his acrobatics, one moldy, rotten sneaker slipped off.  The missing shoe threw him off balance.  Now it seemed only a matter of time before our colossus would topple.

Ira tried to become whole again by slipping into his shoe.  He succeeded for a time: hopping on one foot like a mad pogo stick.  In the end, it was not one man that struck him, but all.  In one great crescendo of violence, our vile opponents propelled their missiles, striking him on his every patch of flesh. 

Mr. Warfe blew his whistle and we loaded the balls into the dolly.  We lined up in two lines as he herded us back to our classrooms, and out of the beautiful day.  Ira Bader took his place in the back of the line, solemn.  He received some well dones from us boys, and long inspection from some of the girls.  For a few minutes, they saw past the earwax and dirty hair and found something noble.  But, his new allure was forgotten when we arrived back at the classroom.  Once there, Ira quietly shied away from godhood and faded back into reality.  He was a poor kid who wore clothes older than he was, never bathed, and had a lisp. 

As far as we fifth graders were concerned, he would fade away soon enough.