Two Angry Boys

Built into the heart of every boy is the dream for adventure. He longs at some point in his life to do something dangerous. Sometimes that quest for danger is misguided and gets the young man into boatloads of trouble. Other times danger is thrust upon him and he has no choice but to fight. Such was the situation for my brother Tony and me when I was eight years old.

Boys love knives. They don’t have to be sharp. Boys love them even if they are rusty, scratched up or dull. They even love toy, rubber knives. Mine was the latter.

I was excited to have what seemed to me to be a dangerous weapon. I was going through the neighborhood pretending to be an Indian on the warpath. In those days kids were allowed to pretend such things. I walked up to a boy that was much older than me and thrust my knife toward his face, held it there, and snarled in my best Indian voice, “Me gonna take you scalp, paleface.” The young man was not phased by my savage exploit. He grabbed the flimsy knife from my hand, tore it in half, threw it on the ground, and walked into his house.

This little Indian broke into tears, picked up my torn knife, and ran home to my dad. I hit the door at full tilt, bawling at my highest intensity to make sure dad took me seriously. He was instantly up in arms to defend his little warrior. I knew I would be vindicated…but not how. I thought maybe he would go down to the boy’s house and make him pay for my knife or even bend him over and give him a good spanking. I was not prepared for what came next.

My dad called my brother Tony into the living room. Dad told him what had happened. Then he told him to go to the boy’s house and beat him up for what he had done. My brother was aghast. He protested that the boy was in the ninth grade and that he was only in the fifth grade. He said, “That boy will beat me to a pulp.” My dad looked Tony squarely in the eye and gave him a very convincing argument, “If you don’t go beat that boy up…I will beat you up.”

Tony needed no more prodding. Sobbing and wiping tears all the way he walked to the boy’s house and climbed the steps to his home and knocked timidly on the door in hopes no one would answer. I stood at the end of the sidewalk with butterflies in my stomach hoping there would be no fighting.

The door quickly opened and it was the boy himself standing at the door. He stepped out on the porch as my brother pulled himself to his full height and puffed out his chest. He explained to the boy what dad was demanding for the boy’s transgression. Tony said, “Will you come to my house so I can beat you up there so my dad will know I obeyed him?” The boy laughed and replied, “Sure I’ll come to your house, but you are going the get creamed, kid.”

As we walked toward our house the boy’s mother trailed behind us anxious to see her son throttle my big brother. As soon as we approached our house my mom and dad came out onto the sidewalk. Mom was pleading with my dad not to make her son fight. Her words fell on deaf ears.

The boy took up a boxing stance as though he were Sugar Ray Leonard. Without warning my brother slammed him in the midsection with a tackle that took him to the ground. But the boy out maneuvered Tony and got on top of him, caught him by the ears and began pounding the back of Tony’s head against the curb.

My mom was crying and started to go rescue her son, she had had enough. But my dad took her by the arm and said, “Woman, you have to let the boy fight or he will never learn how to defend himself.”

Like a wild bull Tony bucked the boy off and in a flash Tony was astraddle the boy’s chest, his arms pinned under his knees. Tony began hitting him as hard as he could in the face. I’ll save the graphic details…suffice it to say, Tony had the upper hand and my dad was smiling. The crowd that had gathered for the free show was shouting. In those days boys were actually allowed to fight one another to settle a score.

All was going well for Tony until the boy’s mother decided her son needed some assistance. With no one to restrain her she ran up and slapped my brother across the back with her open hand. At that point my dad released the hold on my mother’s arm and said, “Now it’s time to fight.”

My mom stepped toward the fray and called to the woman. She quickly turned around to meet my mom’s fist. The fight was on as the women began scratching, slapping, biting, and clawing. Within seconds the two young prize fighters were on their feet, each cheering on their own mother. It wasn’t long until the women were tearing at each other’s clothes and things began to be embarrassing. The onlookers were hooting and having a grand old time.

Presently, the boy’s mother realized the state of her clothing, “pulled herself together,” and ran home with her son trailing close behind. The fight was over and my brother and mother were declared winners.

My mother was sad that she had to get into a fight but she was proud she had defended her son. Dad never doubted what he did was good for my brother…teaching him to defend his family. It did, however, leave a scar on my brother that I do not think he has healed from to this day. He has always seen himself as a rescuer and that is a difficult burden to bear.

We never heard anything else from the boy’s mother* but the boy and my brother became good friends. Reflecting on that fight, my brother has often stated that the woman’s slap across his back hurt much worse than the pounding of his head against the curb. Tony always was somewhat hard headed.

Within a few weeks of the fight my dad was struck with the last of seven heart attacks and died. His passing launched our family into a downward spiral that lasted for two years.

* I read this story to my mom today and she told me she actually became friends with the woman after the fight.