The Serial Fight

I may have told this one before. It's worth repeating.

I never have looked for a fight. Conflict has always found me. And then, I never started the fight. But I always finished it.

Once, in Junior High, this came to a particular head.

I was a quiet unassuming kid. As I've mentioned before, I was a prankster. I did my fair share of 'devilment' as my Great Grandmother called it. I never tried to harm anybody.

That quiet attitude could be mistaken for weakness. Big mistake.

Among other things, I seem to have inherited my Dad's gift for communicating with many different people. Then there are some who just don't care.

So it was with a band of punks or greasers as we called them way back when. Some of these guys were ok and a group of us worked out at the same gym etc.

There were some others who simply had it in for me. The reason? Maybe they didn't like a self reliant kid who minded his own business, who was different himself and didn't go for conformity nor group aka gang activities.

They thought I was a twinkle toes, sissy or something, at least that was the excuse for targetting me.

The harrassment got so bad, a particular punk and I arranged to meet on the grade school field of honor. We met behind the church across the street for a little knuckle dusting.

It started out with us circling one another, sizing up the situation. Or neither of us were gung ho about it lol. but as has been said, there comes a point where you have to stand up.

Eventually we mixed it up and each landed a couple of blows, including a cut above his left eye and a black one for me. One of his cohorts loaned him his pointed boots (Who was the real sissy? -s-) thinking he could land some kind of decisive kick somewhere as the fight was not going well for him. Wrong. Thanks to my big Brother and his ROTC instructors, I knew more than these bozos had 'learned' watching movies. It did not work well for him and the concensus was to apply some kind of code for the rest of the fight.

At that point, the pastor came storming out, remonstrating us and kicking us off the church lot.

With that, we adjourned to the back lot of a nearby filling station. There was a low brick wall separating the station from the field and a line of trees near the alley. Alone at last except for cars near rush hour lol, even a couple of cop cars. Funny, they never stopped.

The fight continued for a while and after wearing this moke down, remembering it would be unwise to apply some of the techniques taught me by my Bro and the Sergeants, I wore the moke down.

He ran. And as a sign of disapproval, his fellow gangers spat on him as he ran, covering his jacket with hockers. Junior High justice.

Mr. Tanoli, the gym teacher and a member of the Indy Captitols football team, walked in the library the next day to start Health and Safety class. First thing he said was,'Who won Mike?' I simply quietly said that I did. There were cheers. I was never bothered again, in Junior High. High School had new challenges, new territory.

I almost forgot. It was there previously that the 'affair of honor' was arranged. Mr. Tanoli didn't interfere, nor did he attend. He left it to us as it should be. He just wanted a fair fight.

I stood up for myself. I took a couple of blows but gave back with interest.

I got home way late for a school night. Mom, in her classic style, saw the blackening eye and a bump on my nose, bruised fists etc. 'Michael St. Clair Hiland, what have you been doing?' She was always one for stating the obvious lol.

'I've been fighting Mom. And I won.'

She left me alone. I simply told her what happened and that there was nothing else to do. There was nothing much for her to do. I think she was just glad I wasn't seriously hurt -s-.

The moke who challenged me seemed to shrink into the woodwork. I was not bothered again. There had been other runins before, but this was the capper.

Imagine what would happen now. I'm not even going to describe. You know the drill.
Terrorism, jail, juvie, expelled...

Threats and guns etc. Generations of entitlement and self indulgence have bred this situation rife with psychopathic mokes who think violence is manhood and winning is killing. Great grist for antigunners.

Except there are a bunch of us who remember what it was like and have imparted how to be men and women.

And in case any doubt we can weather the storm, take the blows and come out on top, let me remind you one of the things my Brother taught me.

Never turn your back on an opponent.

And that stuff my Bro and the Sergeants taught me that I wouldn't have employed in a school fight? I'm not in school anymore.