How I Became a Hero…
(and learned to love it)
Long ago and far away there was a small town in the heart of mid America. It was more or less like any other small town complete with churches, schools, taverns, and a few hot heads. There were no pot heads only because that term had not yet been invented. At the time I was 10 or 11 years old and a student in one of those typical schools.
This school was run like any other in which teachers sought a respite from their duties by sending their students out onto the playground for recess, and for rest and recuperation for them. This break from the drudgery of inculcating the young with knowledge was a welcomed period. The teachers rested from a malady we know today as Low T (or its female equivalent), and the kids romped like crazy because of High T, or assorted other hormonal changes that were taking place in our bodies.
My friend (hereinafter referred to as Alan to protect me from lawsuits) and I stopped by the principal’s office to check out a football. We were intent on sailing that pigskin back and forth in an effort to hone our skills for our wannabe positions as star quarterbacks some day. Beyond that I had in mind showing off for the young ladies who might be interested in conjuring up a fantasy or two of me and them in close quarters discovering what life was really all about.
Perfect spirals arched back and forth between Alan and me. We were good. The ladies did not seem to be much interested; however, that is until one of Alan’s Hail Marys soared over my head. I turned to retrieve it and watched the ball bounce unceremoniously into the hands of George, the school yard bully. His reputation was known far and wide. He was one mean dude. He was 4 or 5 years older than the rest of us, and at least 60 pounds heavier. Nobody messed with George. He even had a couple of flunkies that followed him everywhere he went to take care of his light work.
I was nearly as conspicuous as George, albeit for different reasons. I was a resident of the local orphanage and most noticeable by my attire and by my grooming. My trousers were alternately faded bib overalls, or corduroy knickers—both well-worn and well-patched. My head sported a haircut that can only be described as an inverted bowl balanced on the top of my head. My feet were adorned with a pair of “clod hoppers,” a term that meant shoes fit only for use in plowed fields where the terrain was rough and your feet needed maximum protection from Nature. Suffice to say I was both the original “hay seeder” and the kid who “fell off the turnip truck.”
But I had something going for me that the other kids did not. The orphanage housed 70 or 80 kids between 5 and 18 years old. It was situated on some 400 acres of land, thus providing us with ample room to engage in many creative activities. One was known as “getting your butt beat to a pulp.” Up until about age 16 most of us were on the losing side of that game. Well, at least I know that I was on that side. I got decked so many times by flying fists that I called myself “knuckle head” so others wouldn’t ask me about all the lumps thereon. But, we had a code of honor: We never backed down from a fight, and we never gave up even when we were losing. Win or lose, if you kept the code of honor, you were a champion among your peers.
George knew nothing about my background in championship endeavors. But he was about to learn of it.
I motioned to him to toss me the football. He snickered. Then he said “Make me, punk.” He and his flunkies broke into hysterical laughter.
Then I adjusted the rope that was holding up my knickers and repeated: “Come on, George. I don’t have time for your kidding around. Besides, that football belongs to the school.”
George looked at me, then at his flunkies, and then at the 10 or 15 other kids that were gathering around us to get a better view as George prepared to whip my butt. With a snarl he said “Why don’t you try to take it, punk?”
I took two or three steps toward him and said “If that’s how you want it, Georgie boy, then that’s how it’s gonna be.” I pounded one fist into my other open hand while fully expecting to see stars and hear birds tweeting just before the lights went out.
George had a startled look on his face. I had just called his bluff, and apparently he did not know what to do next.
One of his flunkies approached George, and whispered in his ear. Then he placed a chip of wood on George’s shoulder. He turned to me while laughing and said “George wants you to knock that off his shoulder so he will have a good reason to crush you like an ant.”
And so, being the poster boy for turnip trucks, I walked up to George, and knocked the chip off his shoulder. Then I stepped back, made two or three quick punches into the air, and then waited for the beating of my life.
Instead, George panicked. Apparently, he had never been put in this situation before. Again, his flunky came to his rescue. This time he placed a wood chip on both of George’s shoulders. He turned to me and said “This is your last chance to leave while still alive, junior. Knock ‘em both off. George double dares you!”
I stepped forward, sent both chips sailing, and, eager to get this over with, I said “Let’s get it on George. Or would you prefer to fight one of these ladies?” The girls were “ooohing” and “ahhhing,” at my manly gestures.
George, on the other hand, began peeing in his pants. He was frightened down to his wet socks. Finally, he tossed the football to me and said “I don’t want your stinkin’ ball. I’ve got lots of balls of my own.”
As he walked away I heard one of the girls say “Not any more, Georgie boy. Now you got no balls at all.” The laughter could be heard across the entire playground, half of which now had us surrounded. Georgie boy limped away with his tail between his legs. He had been reduced literally to a puddle of pee.
Epilogue. The word spread throughout the school like wild fire. The next day one of the lady teachers came up to me and said: “I understand that you took on the school yard bully, and showed all the kids that he was made of Jell-O. Great going! I hope you don’t mind if I tell ‘Georgie boy’ that I will bring you in to straighten him out the next time he wants to act up in class.” As I recall he was never heard from again.
It’s just as well. But I wonder what would have happened if he ever found out that my fist fighting record at the orphanage was somewhere near 0 wins, and 50 losses?
From that day onward, I was first pick by the boys to star as their quarterback in scrimmages on the school yard. And the ladies? Well, let’s just say I had to keep a little black book to stay up with all my eager appointments. Being a hero ain’t easy…especially when you get drafted to wear the title under false pretenses.
