Dirt Daubers

How a backyard home run turned into a full-speed wasp ambush—and a tobacco-soaked rescue on Pearl Street

Dirt Daubers and Dumb Decisions

You’d think after nearly getting mauled by a goose, Dennis and I would’ve learned to steer clear of anything with wings. Nope. That late-summer afternoon on Pearl Street, armed with a baseball bat and the confidence of two barefoot boys with nothing to lose, we walked straight into a hornet’s nest—literally.
This is the story of the home run that started a war.

Backyard Ballplayers

We didn’t stay quiet long.
You’d think after nearly getting mauled by a goose, we’d have steered clear of anything with wings.
But nope...

We were halfway to the chat pile when the fence post declared war.

It was a late-summer afternoon on Pearl Street—hot, hazy, and heavy enough to bend the trees. Dennis and I tromped across the yard with our trusty dog Duke trotting alongside, mischief on the mind. The pasture, usually baked hard as an old skillet, was soft and squishy from a pop-up storm that morning. Mud sucked at our bare feet, leaving tracks just like Duke’s.

The storm had come and gone like a sucker punch, dumping rain so fast that minnows still swam in the ditches and steam rose off the ground like angry spirits.

We wore our standard summer uniforms: crew cuts, blue jean shorts, no shirts, no belts, no sunblock, and certainly no shoes. We didn’t need no stinkin’ shoes. Our feet were tougher than a blacksmith’s hands, and our skin tanned dark enough to hide the dirt.

Perfect.

The Swing Heard 'Round the Pasture

Baseball season had just wrapped, but I still carried my bat everywhere—a 29-inch Louisville Slugger, too short for the plate now, but just right for rock launching. We liked to pretend we were Mickey Mantle, the switch-hitting legend from neighboring Commerce. Every gravel chunk was a pitch, every swing a shot into the bleachers or onto the Metheny’s roof.

As we walked, I flipped the bat end-over-end in my hands, stopping occasionally to blast a rock across the pasture. One last swing, I found a near-perfect rock—golf-ball-sized, smooth on one side. I tossed it up and cracked it hard. The rock took off like a missile, a frozen rope down the line. It ricocheted off the left-field foul pole with a clang! that echoed across the pasture.

“Hot corner!” I said proudly. “That one was crushed.”

Of course, our baseball field was also the horse pen, and the foul pole was actually a four-inch metal fence post—set deep in concrete and open at the top. That post had done time as a bottle rocket launcher, a Roman candle cannon, and our favorite: a Cherry Bomb chute. That throaty whump still rings in my ears.

We’d had all kinds of fun in that corner—until that day.

Buzzing Trouble at the Foul Pole

Dennis got there first, grabbing the post with both hands and swinging his leg over the top strand of barbed wire like he’d done a hundred times. But halfway across, he froze—straddling the fence, crouched low, eyes locked on the pipe.

“Do you hear that?” he whispered.

I took a step closer. “Hear what?”

That’s when I caught it—a faint, angry buzzing, rising up from inside the post like a warning shot.

“Cool,” I said, grinning. “Told you that was a homer. Still ringing from the shot.”

Dennis wasn’t grinning. His face drained to the color of paste. His eyes went wide.

“RUN!” he hollered.

Run First, Ask Questions Later

And just like that, he launched himself off the fence like a rodeo rider getting flung from a bull—legs spinning, arms pinwheeling, gone before his feet even hit the ground.

I stood there, blinking.

Then the post exploded.

A million dirt daubers boiled out in a black cloud, buzzing and whipping toward me like heat-seeking missiles.

The leader sounded reveille, and I swear they formed a flying arrow, just like in a Looney Tunes cartoon. And you can bet where that arrow was pointing.

Dennis had a ten-yard head start—and he made it count.

I turned and ran, slipping in the mud, bare feet churning and sliding like a cartoon character trying to outrun gravity.

The swarm caught me halfway across the yard.

One after another, dirt daubers dive-bombed me, unloading venom like little kamikaze snipers.

“Should’ve worn a shirt,” I thought, mid-scream—right before another one nailed me square between the shoulder blades.

Screen Door Shenanigans

By the time I stumbled onto the driveway, my back looked like a turkey shoot target after opening day: one giant welt in the middle, surrounded by a constellation of sting marks.

Dennis, of course, was already safe inside—and worse, he’d locked the screen door.

I pounded on it, begging, howling, while more wasps unloaded on my backside like it was target practice.

Meanwhile, Dennis just grinned through the screen, shaking the door with laughter.

And me?

I was paying the price for admiring my imaginary home run instead of running for my life.

Lesson learned:

Never celebrate around third base when the wasps are still pitching.

Field Medic, Picher Style

That was the day I learned there’s a thin line between pride and panic.

Dad set up a makeshift ER on the back patio—plywood across two sawhorses—and flopped me down face-first like a side of beef waiting for branding.

It took an entire can of Grandad Ben’s Prince Albert tobacco to patch me up. I’m pretty sure there was still a stinger lodged in my left ear.

The Peanut Gallery's Greatest Hits

But the worst part wasn’t the pain.

It was the peanut gallery.

Dennis and the neighborhood boys stood around me, snickering, taking turns slapping soggy tobacco patches onto my welted back like they were playing carnival games.

“Single to left!”

“Double to right!”

“Triple up the middle!”

Each sting got its own fake play-by-play, and every hit drew bigger laughs.

I’ll admit it—I deserved every last one.

Revenge Is a Warm Whoosh

It took two full weeks before I could wear a shirt again.

But when I finally worked up the nerve to face that fence post, I didn’t come swinging a bat this time.

I came carrying a quart of kerosene... and a box of matches.

The dirt daubers got what was coming.

One match. One whoosh.

And just like that, we were already chasing the next crazy idea Pearl Street threw at us.

Bonus Points for Tobacco and Fire

Ever catch a wasp with your back pocket? Share your best “sting story” over at facebook.com/RealChatRat—bonus points if tobacco or fire were involved in the recovery.