Saturday, January 01, 2005
The Last Guy I Hit Died
Losing a fight to Larry McCracken, a blonde headed tough guy from my neighborhood who fought everyone he could one by one, losing that fight toughened me up. I never developed a taste for blood in my mouth nor could I close in for the kill like Larry but I did adopt some of his other techniques and used them as long as I fought. One of those ancient lessons served me well as I used my right foot as a pivot to spin away from a grazing blow to the forehead and completed the 360 degree turn with a lunge forward and clobbered this guy with my bare left fist right on the sweet spot of his lower jaw. My hand did not sting in much the same way hands don't when you hit a baseball beyond the outfielders. My perfect roundhouse left caught the guy and propelled him backward and to the right and into the Cruft School basement music room window which was without the usual heavy screen mesh that protected it from the playground. There was little sound of impact of my blow on John Grinstead's jaw compared to the crack of the window frame and the shattering of one of the panes when it hit the tile floor of the music room inside and below.
Nothing draws ten and eleven-year-old boys quicker than the call "Fight" but nothing disperses them more quickly than a broken window. I ran south toward my house and I was told that John got up and ran north to his and the playground cleared quickly and the incident was forgotten. John and I were in class together for a few more years before his family moved to the country and we never discussed that Saturday morning or the broken window or even acknowledged it in any way. I've never discussed it with anyone but it was the fight that made me a pacifist of sorts. Before I fled, the image of a boy flying backward into a basement window and teetering there to catch his balance while a thought passed through my head that if he fell through, he might be lucky and not fall the full 5 feet to the basement floor because the upright piano might break his fall. I did not stay to help but ran the 4 blocks to my house and went to the refuge of my room to visualize the terrible consequences of my intended actions and to hope and pray that things were not as bad as I thought they were.
The window was fixed the next school day and the protective screen was in place without fail and, like I say, no one mentioned the incident. I forgot it myself until I saw John's obit last week in the paper.
Farewell, John, I remember you.
Nothing draws ten and eleven-year-old boys quicker than the call "Fight" but nothing disperses them more quickly than a broken window. I ran south toward my house and I was told that John got up and ran north to his and the playground cleared quickly and the incident was forgotten. John and I were in class together for a few more years before his family moved to the country and we never discussed that Saturday morning or the broken window or even acknowledged it in any way. I've never discussed it with anyone but it was the fight that made me a pacifist of sorts. Before I fled, the image of a boy flying backward into a basement window and teetering there to catch his balance while a thought passed through my head that if he fell through, he might be lucky and not fall the full 5 feet to the basement floor because the upright piano might break his fall. I did not stay to help but ran the 4 blocks to my house and went to the refuge of my room to visualize the terrible consequences of my intended actions and to hope and pray that things were not as bad as I thought they were.
The window was fixed the next school day and the protective screen was in place without fail and, like I say, no one mentioned the incident. I forgot it myself until I saw John's obit last week in the paper.
“John Edward Grinstead, 66 -- died Tuesday. Graveside services 1 p.m. Tuesday Prairie Creek West Lawn Cemetery.”
Farewell, John, I remember you.
