Thursday, July 21, 2005
There Comes a Time When You Must Face It Down
When I was about nine years old, there was a local Bully that terrorized the Georgetown neighborhood I lived in. All of us were really afraid of him. He regularly beat up one of our group when he caught them alone.
One Sunday morning, I went to the store for my Mother, and on the way back, I was stopped by the Bully. He seized me from behind and forced me to drop what I had gone for, and then began squeezing me very hard, trying to take my breath away, all the while making half giggles and grunts from his foul-smelling mouth.
Something changed in me then. With a strength I didn't know I had, I turned around in his grasp, grabbed his collar with my left hand, and hit him as hard as I could with my right hand. He let go of me. I hit him two more times in the mouth really hard, because I was free of his hold and could set my feet better. Blood smeared his face. He backed away with wide, startled eyes, and went flying into his house, never to bother me or the others again. I even remember his first name: Billy.
Billy needed a good whipping to straighten him up. I picked up my sack and went home. My right hand hurt for a few days though.