My Field of Dreams

By Byron McCoy

Who can blame him for daydreaming in class?

he light orange glow of pre-dawn was upon us, highlighting the horizon and silhouetting the bare oaks that encompassed the flooded corn field. As my uncle turned down the final dirt road that led to the field, my heart began racing. I could already envision flocks of ducks quietly landing in our motionless spread of decoys. For now, these ducks were merely apparitions sailing through my mind.

I was quickly brought back to reality as my uncle's suburban came to a halt.He motioned for me to get my shotgun and, as we both stepped out of the vehicle, I once again gazed at the horizon. After we quietly slid our over-and-unders out of their cases, we began the walk to our blind. The only sound I heard was that of my waders sloshing through the waist-high water.

Finally we arrived at the blind, which rests on a small island in a flooded corn field. The blind was concealed by fresh cover and a large willow, shadowing the large box. In front of the blind was a small opening. Within the opening was a beautiful spread of mallard decoys and, as the sun first began to peer over the horizon, my uncle began his calling.

Soon, my uncle spotted a duck in the horizon, merely a speck in the colorful dawn sky. He handed me one of his many calls and, in a soft whisper said, "Here, start making the feed call."

I took the polished wood call and began blowing into the call, replicating the noisy chatter of feeding ducks.

The small speck in the distance was now much closer, and I could see the duck's wings beating the cool morning air. As we continued calling, I watched as the duck made a wide, swooping circle around the spread of decoys. By now I had stopped calling. My hands had left the smooth, cold call and gripped the checkered grip of my Browning Citori.

"Not yet," my uncle whispered. So I waited with my shotgun in hand, staring at the small duck which was once again circling. It felt like an eternity, but finally the duck's wings were set and it was slowly gliding down into the spread.

"Now," spoke my uncle in a low, quiet voice. I raised my shotgun out of the blind, led the duck and pulled the trigger. My three inch shells echoed through the dense, frosty morning air.

A huge smile soon crossed my face after my uncle said, "Nice shot."

I was so excited that all I could say was, "Thanks."

After I picked up the small duck I stared at it in awe. It was a beautiful gadwall hen decorated in mottled browns and blacks. I turned around and began returning to the blind, but as I raised my head, I stopped dead in my tracks. Merely 25 yards away were two small wood ducks silently landing in the spread of decoys. My uncle told me to be ready.

As the first duck began rising from the spread I fired my first barrel, which dropped the duck right away. Alarmed by my first shot, the second woody began rising from the spread. I swung my shotgun and led the second duck perfectly. Caught up in the excitement, I started running toward the two woodies. After nearly tripping twice over submerged obstacles, I reached the two birds.

Never before had I been so proud to be a hunter. I grinned all the way back to the blind, and whenever the action slowed down, I would find myself grinning at the three ducks I had harvested.

As the hunt continued, the action began to cool off. We called in a few more ducks. My uncle harvested a couple of gadwalls but I missed my shots.

By now our hunt was drawing to an end. As we exited the blind, we spotted two ducks in the distance. My uncle and I decided these would be our last ducks. With the call raised to my uncle's mouth, he let out two perfect quacks. Out of nowhere flew two large mallard hens. I couldn't get a shot off, but my uncle connected with one as it glided overhead.

After that we returned to the Suburban and I thanked him. We returned to town.

Now, sitting in a crowded classroom, I stare out a window, peering at a massive oak rising above the brown grass, helpless against the demonic heat of late summer. I dream of the cool fall days soon to come. I think of the ducks, the hunt and the field. My field of dreams.

Byron McCoy is 14 years old. He is an avid duck, quail, squirrel and deer hunter