The School Fight

The School Yard Fight

  At twelve years old I was not the smallest kid in the class, but pretty darn close. My name is Willy Wallace and the guy I managed to avoid for the entire school year was Peter Dombrowski. He was big, tough and a bully. So here it was, 1962, and the last day of school before a two-month summer holiday, and I had been challenged, or rather ordered, to meet Peter at recess behind third base for a fist fight.

  All because I didn’t keep my poise when he messed my hair while in line. I had it combed just right and since sitting across from Maryanne Smith that was very important to me. To be truthful, I didn’t know it was Peter when I turned swinging away and clipped him on the chin. It didn’t fizz the big guy but sure made him angry. So here it was, the last day of classes and I was about to be killed or at the very least crippled for life.

  I watched that big round clock on the wall, the one that was cursed. A few years ago, Miss Brown who was a math teacher and a witch placed a hex on the clock, so it hardly moved. That was the word on the street anyhow. Minutes took forever to tick by and the more you looked at it, the slower it went.

  Today that time piece was moving way too fast as we neared recess time. It was cursed.

Word spread quick, fight, fight, fight, rang out as we headed for the outfield. The mob grew the closer we got. Peter was smacking his meaty fists together, I was sweating and wanted to do what I do best and that is to run. But I couldn’t run. Maryann Smith was right there in the front row as the blood thirsty crowd circled us.

  Peters’ chums were talking him up. Your gonna kill the bum, knock his head off Pete, drop him like a hot potato, things like that. My pals were saying, your gonna die Willy, wouldn’t want to be ya Willy, you’re a dead man Willy, things like that. Did little for my self-confidence.

  We squared off, a self-imposed referee, one of Peters cronies, said it was a rough and tumble, fists only, no kicking. I ignored that, it was a fight after all and if my feet couldn’t do the running then I was going to kick. It was my only hope. Granted, not an admiral thing to do but at this stage of my young life honor was not that big of an issue. I searched the area, waiting for Mr. Johnson, the recess monitor, to come and stop this foolishness. I saw a puff of smoke come from behind the maple tree along the fence and knew Mr. Johnson was having a puff and could care less of the goings on of a bunch of stupid kids.  So, kick it was, and kick I did.

  A perfectly aimed swift kick landed with a blunt thunk right square in Peters family jewels. The sound so loud hushed the masses. Peter covered himself with both hands and bent slightly over. His eyes widened and his pupils danced around in their sockets. Then they crossed and stayed like that, look at his eyes somebody said, his face reddened, look, his head is going to blow up another hollered. Spittle ran down his chin and a low squeal came from him and grew louder and louder until it sounded like a siren. Those in the back rows searched the street to see if an emergency vehicle was passing by.

  Then the big brute straightened. The screeching turned to a growl. He shook his head until his eyeballs were back where they should be a terrifying sneer spread across his ugly mug. “You’re dead now,” said my pals. His gang just cackled.

  Peter growled and moved towards me. In desperation I let loose another lightning-fast boot to the bullies’ twigs and berries and again the dull thunk silenced the populace. His eyes crossed, face reddened, spittle dripped from his lips and this time the back row knew that the shrill piercing siren was not coming from a firetruck.

  Peter recovered from this attack faster than the first time, though one eye was still dancing around in his head. He reached out with a left that if it connected would have ended the fight right there. Peter wanted to drag this on. He snatched my shirt and pulled me closer, his right hand held high and waving around prepared for a smashing blow. I looked up, his fist looked like a catcher’s mitt, beyond that, in the clear blue sky, a group of vultures circled waiting to devour my still warm corpse.

  Then, like a miracle, Peter swayed, his eyeballs disappeared into his head, he swayed some more, then like an imploding building he collapsed into a ragged heap at my feet. Just then the bell rang ending recess. We all ran for the school; the bell had rung. Even Peters advocates left him there to be eaten. The bell had rung, it was all justified.

  From my desk near the window, I watched the lifeless body basking in the afternoon sun. I thought I killed him. My best friend Mike whispered that they hang you for murder and asked if he could have my mountain bike. Murder, oh no I thought. I would get my dad to hire one of those lawyers we watch on the television. They would tell the jury that I was reading in the library and someone that resembled me was fighting Peter Dombrowski. All 75 or 80 of the witnesses would agree and the judge would send me home, a free man, er, kid. And, while dad was in a spending mood, I’d have him buy me Peters three speed bike, the only one for miles around. At the funeral, just before they closed the coffin, I’d ask Peters parents if I could have his beautiful cowboy belt buckle, the one with the mustang horse on it. Then with arms spread, riding with no hands and the sun beaming off my cowboy belt buckle I’d zip past Maryann Smiths house until she came out and in awe smiled my way.

  Another glance out the window dashed all those dreams. There was Mr. Johnson pulling Peter to his feet. He wasn’t dead after all. Mr. Johnson took advantage of the slow trek back and lit up another. Oh, oh, said Mike, you’re a dead man he assured me. A slight tap on the door and Mr. Johnson guided Peter to his desk and smiled and winked at Miss McKeown who also winked and mouthed the word “later”. I guess they were anxiously waiting for summer vacation also.

  Peter growled and leered at me. His one eye was still not right. He pointed and showed me his colossal fists. My life wasn’t worth a nickel. Then a ringing sound played in my head, it got louder and rang again, someone was shaking me, Willy, Willy, I heard my name being called. At first, I was sure it was the angels taking me to heaven. I soon realized it was Miss McKeown. You were sleeping Willy; it is time to go home she said. A quick look at that plagued clock and it was plain that I already missed four minutes of summer break. I wiped the drool from my chin, rubbed my foggy eyes and looked outside. The kids were all gathered at the corner standing behind the patrol boys spreading arms. Peter pushed past, gave the oncoming traffic the finger and at a trot disappeared down the alley.

  It was all a dream. A quick check on the old tick tock and discovered a whole five minutes had been lost, I took my leave. I wished Miss McKeown a happy summer, she hoped for the same to me. Mr. Johnson was standing in the doorway. I guess he was as excited as I was to get on with it because he guided me out in a rather rough way and slammed the door behind me.

  Life was good, I had my bike, friends, a summer off and a possible girlfriend, yep, life is good.

The End.