Painful Ribs And Whisky (Part 5)

A boy sitting on a rock getting his feet wet in water

It was several days before Saturday came. That was the day selected by dad for me to race Big Jon. In the days leading up to it, I received training each day. Although there was some running, it was not so much physical training, it was more a mental preparedness.

The Nurse Neighbor

My ribs still hurt and mom had noticed the bruising, so she brought a neighbor over to look at them. I guess she was a nurse or something because she mashed around on my ribs until I began to cry. I figure she was a nurse because even today when I have an injury or pain somewhere, both nurses and doctors mash around on it for a while before making a diagnosis. It was determined that I had one or more broken or cracked ribs. Well, I thought that was the coolest thing ever and it would certainly enhance my near-death experience when telling the story to my peers.

I learned there was no real treatment for broken ribs except surgery if they were pokin’ through something. I was just supposed to be careful, but this particular injury has tagged along with me my entire life.

Mental Preparedness

Friday was the last day of training and dad was teaching me to focus only on the finish line which was a telephone pole. This and all following races would be the distance between two telephone poles, no more, no less. I was little and had short legs; only good for short distances, bad for long distances. I was told not to look at anything but that telephone pole until I reached it. Don’t look left, right, up, down, or even hear anything except Go! and run as hard as I could.

Mr. Big

So, Saturday there was a small group of people including me and Big Jon at the telephone pole outside the park office. There were some other boys, my dad, and Big Jon’s dad. We had begun to call Big Jon’s dad “Mr. Big” because like Big Jon he had one of those last names with no vowels. There was a lot of talking going on but I stood there staring at the distant telephone pole. Big Jon was saying things to me but I heard only one thing: Go! Then I was immediately on the ground. Big Jon had pushed me down. I don’t know if I landed on my ribs but I remember the awful pain even now as I write. Dad was screaming, get up! get up! but I couldn’t get up and just lay there crying. As dad came and helped me up, I heard everybody laughing and realized it was all over and I had lost.

Only dad knew about my ribs so the others were calling me a baby as they laughed. Mr. Big was demanding his whisky, but dad was not having any of it and yelled out that Big Jon had cheated and he wasn’t paying a cheat. There were many other words shouted back and forth, but I won’t print them. Just remember what I said in the last chapter about our dads being prolific in the art of cursing.

Mr. Big Gets His Reward

Suddenly Mr. Big swung at my dad. My dad was a head shorter than Mr. Big so he didn’t have far to duck and the swing went over his head. My dad was 5′ 10″ tall and 160 pounds but I never saw him shy away from a fight. When he came up from the duck he punched Mr. Big hard in the chest. I’m sure he could reach his face but his chest was right in front of him. Well, apparently this can knock the breath out of a person because that’s what happened. He stumbled back and grabbed the telephone pole as my dad pummeled him. Then dad took a few steps back, grabbed the jar of whisky, and smashed it over Mr. Bigs’ head as he said “here’s your blankity blank whisky!”

Well, we had to move right after that, spending the first of many short stints at my grandparent’s house before moving into another kid’s haven; a housing project!!! This would bring more adventure, my first day of school, and “The Sewer Burglar!”

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