Tuesday, November 15, 2005

He who hits first...

When I was ten or there abouts, prior to my adventure to "Triangle Trees" (see earlier post) I went through a stage of being bullied by eighth graders. It wasn't like they were bigger then me just the fact that they were several classes ahead off me in school made them "bigger". Being born with a right arm a bit shorter then my left arm and looking similar to a hook and wearing horned-rimmed glasses made me an easy target or should I say an obvious target. Being the oldest of four kids I had little experience with fighting people outside of my younger brother and no experience fighting kids that truely intended to inflict physical harm on ones body. My idea of being a ruffian was calling Julie from across the street names.

I spent one whole summer running for my life whenever I encountered a certain eighth grader and his posse. Once they chased me up a tree where I sat for three hours as they tried to hit me with rocks and pine cones in their attempt to dislodge me from my roost twenty- feet above their heads and just enough distance to make their projectiles lose their punch. Finally another kid who had some sympathy for me came by so I was able to pursuade him to get my mother. When the bullies saw my mother coming they scattered. You didn't want to mess with my mother.

That particular summer had been a great summer except for the three or four times I had to run for my life or hide from getting my butt kicked. One day word got to me the reason this bully had designs on rearranging my face was because he heard that I had called his mom a "whore". Keep in mind at 10 years old I had never ever heard of the word "Whore". Least not know what the heck it meant. Now it became obvious to me the reason this bully wanted me dead was he thought I had lessened his mother's reputation or enhanced it. I wasn't sure.

That evening when my dad got home from work at the mill I got the opportunity to ask him what the word "whore" meant. From the definition he gave me I was more confused and wasn't sure if what they said I had said was even possible. The "whore" incident hadn't been all that long after I had been told what the word, "fuck" meant, literally. I was still mulling that one over in my mind. At the time I was convinced that the kid that had told me about the word "fuck" came from some "nut" clan. I was pretty sure my family had never partaken in such wierd behavior. I was confident my mom and dad surely hadn't.

I assured my dad I had never called this bully's mom a bad word and couldn't recall ever thinking of the woman in the first place. But I still faced the dilema of running for my life whenever the bully and his posse appeared. I needed a solution.

My dad told me that the reason these kids chased me was because of the "sport" of it. They saw me as an easy target and whenever they chased me I ran, so they had their game to play. He told me they would continue chasing me until I stood up to them and fought. He also told me the secret in fighting was to be sure to throw the first punch. And to make sure the first punch landed where it counted, had the most effect. The three areas he told me was the nose, the chest or the crotch. I wasn't sure if this was good advice or if my dad was trying to make extra room at the table.

Several days later I was walking home across the baseball field between my house and the "Rec Hall", which was the General Store in our town. As I was walking toward my home I heard one of the bully's minions yell, "There's that four-fingered bastard. Let's get him." I turned around and saw four of the posse taking up chase on their bikes toward me with their terra-cotta-toothed leader riding the bike in front. I took off running as fast as I could. As I neared my home I could hear them laughing and puffing right on my heels. I knew I was a dead man, there was just too much space left to reach my yard and little before they ran over me with their bikes.

At the last minute I spotted a large stick laying in a ditch between the ball field and our backyard. The stick was about four feet long and had the diameter of a baseball bat. It was my only hope. Just as the bully was about to clip my heels I veered left and dove on the ground to get the stick. I jumped up with the stick in hand and swung the stick like I was swinging at a fastball. Eyes closed, stick swishing through the air and "POW". I opened my eyes just as the stick slapped across the bully's chest,chin and right shoulder. I hit him so hard the end of the stick broke off and flew several feet. The bully flew off the back of his bike right on his butt and his bike peddled away on its own. I thought there was a chance that I may have killed him. Then he sat up and with an ever so evil voice said, "I'm going to kill you fuckin four-fingered little shit."

He then continued the chase on foot. As he tackled me I made sure to cover my face as best as I could as he pounded all about my back and the back of my head with his fists. When he was done pounding me with his fist he threw in a couple of kicks to the ribs for good measure. He then left me there pounded and crying. But I had a sense of satisfaction knowing I had left a mark on him too. A mark that stayed planted on his kisser a lot longer and in plain view for all to see for sometime.

I guess my dad was right if you stand and fight they will leave you alone but not after inflicting a royal ass kicking.

From that day on the bully never ever chased me again and neither did his flunkies.