One day when I was 12, two kids started to taunt me, then they threatened me, then they tormented me. They were both bigger than me and I was afraid so I tried my best to get away from them. But I couldn’t. I needed help.
This was in Cleveland at a softball complex in 1976. Men’s slow-pitch softball was wildly popular in Cleveland and across the country back then. It was also a family thing for us. My father played on two teams, my older brother played on a team, and my cousin played on an elite team that competed at the highest levels.
Batter Up
I was with my father at James Rhodes fields, which had two premier softball fields: lights, stands, and fencing all around. We were watching my cousin play a game on one field. Bored, I wandered over to the empty field and sat under the bleachers playing in the dirt. I was a 12 year old kid just playing in the dirt.
Two kids I’d never seen before came upon me and started messing with me. They kicked dirt, pushed me, called me names. That sort of thing.
In trying to escape these bullies, I moved farther away from the small crowd at the other field. The bullies threw bigger things at me–trash, rocks. They pushed me and kicked at me, getting me to move farther away from my father. I got the feeling they were working themselves up to something more, and I started to cry. It was my main defense. My go to move.
I ran away but I was chubby and slow. It was like the hyenas had separated the easy prey from the herd.
Here come the Marines…
By a small miracle, my father noticed I wasn’t nearby, and saw the pursuit from the other field. He caught up to us before the two bullies did any real damage. But it wasn’t the rescue I was expecting.
My old man tells these guys, “Okay, you want to fight? How about you fight him fair and square. He’ll fight you one at a time, or both at once. Is that what you want?”
Did you say fight them?
It wasn’t what I wanted. I think I mentioned both these guys were bigger than I was. It’s not like I came to that softball field looking for a fight. I was playing in the dirt. I was playing make-believe.
I never spoke to my old man about this, but he had to know that I played with dolls. Yeah, they were G.I. Joe action figures, but they were still dolls. I changed their costumes twice a day. I arranged elaborate scenarios for my dolls to enact. G.I. Joe’s kung-fu grip notwithstanding, I wasn’t really into fighting that much.
Looking back, this wasn’t the first time he had rescued me from an altercation only to pit me against my tormentor like it was Thunderdome. And this wouldn’t be the last time he did it.
The bullies backed down. I can only imagine how crazy this sounded to them, a man putting his sniveling, shaking blob of a son into a fight. They had to think that anyone that crazy would surely kill them later on, win or lose. They just wanted to get away.
Tough Love
I think my father wanted the fight to happen, that somehow I would stop being the daydreaming kid playing with dolls, and finally start acting like a tough kid who might grow up to be a real man. Or whatever. I just needed to get punched in the face and kicked in the dirt a few times, and then I’d be ready to face the world.
My father could laugh, play accordion, dance the polka, and play any sport with the best of them. But he was always ready to throw a punch.
Me, not so much.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…
I’ve joined a workshop (a group of writers) to work more on personal essays. This further delays the rewrite of my next novel, but what I’m learning is a solid technique for drafting, revising and editing stories. Like I’m kind of shocked how useful this is, and that it’s never been shown to me quite like this before. The lesson is that sometimes you have to keep looking for the right teacher. When it clicks, you’ll know.
Maybe You’d Like
I’ve partnered with mystery writers for the August Mystery Giveaway:
Give it a click and check out the covers, see if anything looks good enough to read!
Recommended Reading
I finally finished listening to The Warmth of Other Suns. It’s the story of the great migration (1915-1975) and pretty much had me in tears because you follow the lives of half a dozen people. They’re like family by the end, and you really hate to see family die (most of the time).
Next Picayune
I’m planning on telling the story you just read at The Moth in Ann Arbor next week, so next time I’ll let you know how that went.
Thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune. All the best,
–mickey