April 18, 2024 • 11 mins
This is a story of loss and survival. It’s an anti-war story, a story about not judging a book, or in this case a person, by its cover, or in this case his physical appearance. It’s kind of an amusing tale that’s so damn sad, you might just want to cry.
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Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:05):
Welcome to the ten Minute Storyteller. That's me Bill Simpson,
your host, narrator and author. We hear at the ten
Minute Storyteller endeavor to entertain you with tall tales or
rendered swiftly and with the utmost empathy. We pledge to
(00:25):
pack as much entertainment, emotion, and exploration into the human
condition as ten minutes will permit. Many novels on steroids.
Two day's offering is entitled He Left His Balls in Fallujah. Fellujah,
(00:49):
for the uninitiated, is a city in central Iraq and
the site of a major engagement in the war between
Iraq and the United States, fought between November seven and
December twenty four, two thousand and four. This is a
story of loss and survival. It's an anti war story,
(01:13):
a story about not judging a book, or in this case,
a person, by its cover or in this case, his
physical appearance. It's kind of an amusing tale that's so
damn sad you might just want to cry. He Left
his Balls in Fallujah. More than a dozen years coaching
(01:39):
high school hoops, Bob thought he'd seen and heard it all. Nope.
Tonight's away game at South Central was set to serve
up something entirely new and different. Bob noticed the wild
looking dude during warmups, hard to miss chest, arms and
(02:00):
thighs bursting through his referee's uniform, all muscled up from
head to toe and tats covering every square inch of
skin below his neck. A scantily clad glamour queen running
down his right bicept onto his forearm, A bird cage
(02:21):
with an open door on his left bicept, and three
little birds flying away down his left forearm and wrist.
A skull and bones on his right thigh, a fluttering
American flag on his left thigh, three blood red roses
on his right calf, and an M twenty seven infantry
rifle on his left calf. Bob knows it's an M
(02:45):
twenty seven because his brother had carried one for the
US Army in Afghanistan. The muscled up, tattooed referee stands
at least six feet three inches tall and has not
one single hair on his head. His scalp glistens under
the bright gymnasium lights. A few minutes before tip off,
(03:10):
the stands beginning to fill with students and parents. The
ref signals to the two coaches. To meet him at
half court. His voice deep, guttural, filled with gravel. He
sounds like curly Jack Palance in city Slickers. I got
a problem, men, nothing we can't overcome, I'm sure, says Bob,
(03:33):
an outwardly cheery guy who frets over life's minutia despite
the reality that his life has been a pretty smooth cakewalk.
The ref gruns, you only got me my partner. He
just got in a wreck. A wreck, asked Bob. Yeah,
some broad tee bonedum. He ain't gonna make it. Jesus,
(03:54):
says Bob. That's terrible. Maybe we should call the game
off like hell, grumbles the ref. I need to doe.
I can land these pigeons solo. No big deal. Oh well, yeah,
I'm sure, says Bob, even though he doesn't have a
clue what the ref just said. But if this guy
your partner, I mean, I mean, if he's going to die,
I feel like who said anything about him dying? Well, well,
(04:17):
you said he wasn't going to make it to the game.
Side swiper, he ain't gonna make it to the game. Jesus,
gotta wait for the cops to come to the scene.
You know how it goes. It takes hours, oh, says Bob. Oh, okay,
so you're both good. I call the game solo. The coaches,
neither of them about to argue with this bald headed biamuth,
(04:39):
nod and scurry back to their respective benches. The game
gets underway. The quality of play is small, high school mediocre.
The big guy with the whistle and the muscles, and
the shiny pat and the black and white uniform, he's
easily the star of the show. He flies up and
(04:59):
down the floor with Gusto and Bravado. Well into his forties.
He sprints effortlessly from one end of the court to
the other, always on the ball, missing nothing, eyes in
the back of his head. When he blows his whistle,
the whole universe comes to a standstill. I got number
five with the body, and he gives a little hip thrust.
(05:20):
Two free throws. Line it up, boys, and be quick
about it. The boys, unnerved by the hard charging Goliath,
quickly take their places like so many POWs in a
Nazi Staloch. Halftime outside, the wind blows and the snow falls.
Heading into the locker room, Bob asks the ref any
(05:43):
word on your partner, I mean you know, is he okay,
How the hell would I know? What do you think
I'm checking texts in the middle of the game. Oh right,
says Bob. No, of course not, you wouldn't do that.
In the middle of the third quarter, the power goes
out and the gym goes most slead dark. A few
emergency lights provide enough illumination to make out shadows, but
(06:06):
nowhere near enough light to play basketball. The ref blows
his whistle.
Speaker 2 (06:12):
Let's just all calm down, people. It's not like the
Kamis or the Iraqi Republican guards coming in to get us.
Just stay cool and if the lights don't come on
in a few minutes, we'll file out of here peacefully.
Speaker 1 (06:27):
Well, of course, everyone does as ordered. The coaches a
rendezvous with the ref at the scorer's table. All these
years coaching, says Bob. My first power outage, first time
for everything, grunts the ref. I'm going to make a
couple of calls, says the other coach, see if I
can find out how long this might last. The ref
(06:49):
nods and ambles out to the middle of the court.
Stands there with his thick, muscular arms folded across his
powerful chest in the dim light. He looks like an
like an apparition. Bob thinks the Ref might just be
the most virile son of a bitch he's ever seen.
Some unforeseen force pulls Bob out to the middle of
(07:12):
the court. He hears himself say, I noticed that tattoo
of the twenty seven. Yeah were you you know, were
you in the service? Yeah you no, no, no, not me,
but my older brother, Army did a torn Afghanistan. He
sent pictures of him and his buddies, all of them
(07:32):
with their M twenty seven's that you know. That's why
I know what it is good for killing. Bob swallows hard.
He worries about everything, what he eats, what he drinks,
what he says to people, what people say to him.
He should just relax and enjoy life. After all, he
has so little control over anything. Why worry Army? Bob
(07:54):
asks Marines overseas Iraq crazy stuff? Huh? The Ref doesn't answer. Instead,
he pulls his phone out of his back pocket, turns
on the flashlight, and illuminates the fading tat on his
right arm. You want crazy, bub. The Ref's voice sounds
(08:14):
even raspier now and so soft. Bob has to strain
and step closer to hear. I didn't mean anything by it,
you know, I just came out to make conversation. You
see this dame, and the ref points to the scantily
clad glamour queen on his right arm. Yeah, yeah, I
see her. I married her when we were both just kids. Nice,
(08:38):
sess Bob. That's nice. We had two kids, first, a
girl than a boy. Well, that's just awesome. A boy
and a girl. What more could a guy want? I
just have a little boy so far, Mikey, he's two.
They sent me to Iraq December two thousand and three.
Total bullshit, total bullshit. Sodom had nothing to do with
(08:58):
nine to eleven. Nothing, just little Bush trying to prove
he had bigger balls and his old man right, says Bob. Stupefied.
Bigger balls men in their balls are lack thereof. Bob
can feel the sweat gathering in his armpits. The ref
illuminates the newer shinier tat on his left arm, the
(09:20):
one of the bird cage with the open door and
the three little birds making their escape. What's your name,
asks the ref. Bob says Bob, Well, Bob, those birds
that's my wife and kids. Wife and kids. Yeah, I
came back, you.
Speaker 2 (09:37):
Know from my rack, a little a little different, a
little pissed off.
Speaker 1 (09:45):
Bob swallows so hard this time he thinks he might
have swallowed a c ball. My brother too came home.
I guess you could say he was kind of angry.
He have his balls? Huh? Did he have his balls
when he got back?
Speaker 2 (10:03):
Well?
Speaker 1 (10:03):
Yeah, sure he hit his balls. Well, lucky him. Christmas
Eve two thousand and four, Iraq, Fallujah, I got my
balls blown off. Thanks for listening to this original audio
presentation of He Left his Balls in Fallujah, narrated by
(10:28):
the author. If you enjoy today's story, please take a
few seconds to rate, review, and subscribe to this podcast.
The Ten Minute Storyteller is produced by Andrew Pleglsi and
Josh Kolodney and as part of the Elvis Duran Podcast
Network in partnership with iHeart Productions. Until next week, this
(10:52):
is Bill Simpson, your ten Minute Storyteller
Speaker 2 (11:00):
And
Welcome to the ten Minute Storyteller. That's me Bill Simpson,
your host, narrator and author. We hear at the ten
Minute Storyteller endeavor to entertain you with tall tales or
rendered swiftly and with the utmost empathy. We pledge to
(00:25):
pack as much entertainment, emotion, and exploration into the human
condition as ten minutes will permit. Many novels on steroids.
Two day's offering is entitled He Left His Balls in Fallujah. Fellujah,
(00:49):
for the uninitiated, is a city in central Iraq and
the site of a major engagement in the war between
Iraq and the United States, fought between November seven and
December twenty four, two thousand and four. This is a
story of loss and survival. It's an anti war story,
(01:13):
a story about not judging a book, or in this case,
a person, by its cover or in this case, his
physical appearance. It's kind of an amusing tale that's so
damn sad you might just want to cry. He Left
his Balls in Fallujah. More than a dozen years coaching
(01:39):
high school hoops, Bob thought he'd seen and heard it all. Nope.
Tonight's away game at South Central was set to serve
up something entirely new and different. Bob noticed the wild
looking dude during warmups, hard to miss chest, arms and
(02:00):
thighs bursting through his referee's uniform, all muscled up from
head to toe and tats covering every square inch of
skin below his neck. A scantily clad glamour queen running
down his right bicept onto his forearm, A bird cage
(02:21):
with an open door on his left bicept, and three
little birds flying away down his left forearm and wrist.
A skull and bones on his right thigh, a fluttering
American flag on his left thigh, three blood red roses
on his right calf, and an M twenty seven infantry
rifle on his left calf. Bob knows it's an M
(02:45):
twenty seven because his brother had carried one for the
US Army in Afghanistan. The muscled up, tattooed referee stands
at least six feet three inches tall and has not
one single hair on his head. His scalp glistens under
the bright gymnasium lights. A few minutes before tip off,
(03:10):
the stands beginning to fill with students and parents. The
ref signals to the two coaches. To meet him at
half court. His voice deep, guttural, filled with gravel. He
sounds like curly Jack Palance in city Slickers. I got
a problem, men, nothing we can't overcome, I'm sure, says Bob,
(03:33):
an outwardly cheery guy who frets over life's minutia despite
the reality that his life has been a pretty smooth cakewalk.
The ref gruns, you only got me my partner. He
just got in a wreck. A wreck, asked Bob. Yeah,
some broad tee bonedum. He ain't gonna make it. Jesus,
(03:54):
says Bob. That's terrible. Maybe we should call the game
off like hell, grumbles the ref. I need to doe.
I can land these pigeons solo. No big deal. Oh well, yeah,
I'm sure, says Bob, even though he doesn't have a
clue what the ref just said. But if this guy
your partner, I mean, I mean, if he's going to die,
I feel like who said anything about him dying? Well, well,
(04:17):
you said he wasn't going to make it to the game.
Side swiper, he ain't gonna make it to the game. Jesus,
gotta wait for the cops to come to the scene.
You know how it goes. It takes hours, oh, says Bob. Oh, okay,
so you're both good. I call the game solo. The coaches,
neither of them about to argue with this bald headed biamuth,
(04:39):
nod and scurry back to their respective benches. The game
gets underway. The quality of play is small, high school mediocre.
The big guy with the whistle and the muscles, and
the shiny pat and the black and white uniform, he's
easily the star of the show. He flies up and
(04:59):
down the floor with Gusto and Bravado. Well into his forties.
He sprints effortlessly from one end of the court to
the other, always on the ball, missing nothing, eyes in
the back of his head. When he blows his whistle,
the whole universe comes to a standstill. I got number
five with the body, and he gives a little hip thrust.
(05:20):
Two free throws. Line it up, boys, and be quick
about it. The boys, unnerved by the hard charging Goliath,
quickly take their places like so many POWs in a
Nazi Staloch. Halftime outside, the wind blows and the snow falls.
Heading into the locker room, Bob asks the ref any
(05:43):
word on your partner, I mean you know, is he okay,
How the hell would I know? What do you think
I'm checking texts in the middle of the game. Oh right,
says Bob. No, of course not, you wouldn't do that.
In the middle of the third quarter, the power goes
out and the gym goes most slead dark. A few
emergency lights provide enough illumination to make out shadows, but
(06:06):
nowhere near enough light to play basketball. The ref blows
his whistle.
Speaker 2 (06:12):
Let's just all calm down, people. It's not like the
Kamis or the Iraqi Republican guards coming in to get us.
Just stay cool and if the lights don't come on
in a few minutes, we'll file out of here peacefully.
Speaker 1 (06:27):
Well, of course, everyone does as ordered. The coaches a
rendezvous with the ref at the scorer's table. All these
years coaching, says Bob. My first power outage, first time
for everything, grunts the ref. I'm going to make a
couple of calls, says the other coach, see if I
can find out how long this might last. The ref
(06:49):
nods and ambles out to the middle of the court.
Stands there with his thick, muscular arms folded across his
powerful chest in the dim light. He looks like an
like an apparition. Bob thinks the Ref might just be
the most virile son of a bitch he's ever seen.
Some unforeseen force pulls Bob out to the middle of
(07:12):
the court. He hears himself say, I noticed that tattoo
of the twenty seven. Yeah were you you know, were
you in the service? Yeah you no, no, no, not me,
but my older brother, Army did a torn Afghanistan. He
sent pictures of him and his buddies, all of them
(07:32):
with their M twenty seven's that you know. That's why
I know what it is good for killing. Bob swallows hard.
He worries about everything, what he eats, what he drinks,
what he says to people, what people say to him.
He should just relax and enjoy life. After all, he
has so little control over anything. Why worry Army? Bob
(07:54):
asks Marines overseas Iraq crazy stuff? Huh? The Ref doesn't answer. Instead,
he pulls his phone out of his back pocket, turns
on the flashlight, and illuminates the fading tat on his
right arm. You want crazy, bub. The Ref's voice sounds
(08:14):
even raspier now and so soft. Bob has to strain
and step closer to hear. I didn't mean anything by it,
you know, I just came out to make conversation. You
see this dame, and the ref points to the scantily
clad glamour queen on his right arm. Yeah, yeah, I
see her. I married her when we were both just kids. Nice,
(08:38):
sess Bob. That's nice. We had two kids, first, a
girl than a boy. Well, that's just awesome. A boy
and a girl. What more could a guy want? I
just have a little boy so far, Mikey, he's two.
They sent me to Iraq December two thousand and three.
Total bullshit, total bullshit. Sodom had nothing to do with
(08:58):
nine to eleven. Nothing, just little Bush trying to prove
he had bigger balls and his old man right, says Bob. Stupefied.
Bigger balls men in their balls are lack thereof. Bob
can feel the sweat gathering in his armpits. The ref
illuminates the newer shinier tat on his left arm, the
(09:20):
one of the bird cage with the open door and
the three little birds making their escape. What's your name,
asks the ref. Bob says Bob, Well, Bob, those birds
that's my wife and kids. Wife and kids. Yeah, I
came back, you.
Speaker 2 (09:37):
Know from my rack, a little a little different, a
little pissed off.
Speaker 1 (09:45):
Bob swallows so hard this time he thinks he might
have swallowed a c ball. My brother too came home.
I guess you could say he was kind of angry.
He have his balls? Huh? Did he have his balls
when he got back?
Speaker 2 (10:03):
Well?
Speaker 1 (10:03):
Yeah, sure he hit his balls. Well, lucky him. Christmas
Eve two thousand and four, Iraq, Fallujah, I got my
balls blown off. Thanks for listening to this original audio
presentation of He Left his Balls in Fallujah, narrated by
(10:28):
the author. If you enjoy today's story, please take a
few seconds to rate, review, and subscribe to this podcast.
The Ten Minute Storyteller is produced by Andrew Pleglsi and
Josh Kolodney and as part of the Elvis Duran Podcast
Network in partnership with iHeart Productions. Until next week, this
(10:52):
is Bill Simpson, your ten Minute Storyteller
Speaker 2 (11:00):
And
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