Literature
Showdown at the Lions Club
I had some really great friends in high
school and crazy experiences with all of them. I met them in different
ways and some of them even started out as enemies. Dale was one of those
cases; and the story leading up to our friendship sounds more like
fiction. During my first year I associated a lot with Perry, my older
brother and his pals, Tommy Troupe, Bob Sanders, and Bob Rittenberry, who
were seniors. This had great advantages since they all had cars, were
really cool, and made great mentors, not to mention the trouble they got
me into early on.
Apparently what I was purported to bring to the party was a connection to
the freshman girls. At the time I was less interested in girls than in the
other more manly activities they offered, like guns, cars, and drag
racing. Possibly our greatest fiasco came about on a Sunday afternoon when
we went out shooting. Our method was to drive country roads with a carload
of armed buddies and look for practically anything that moved, like hawks,
crows and rabbits. Under the circumstances there were amazingly few fatal
accidents. This particular Sunday was not a day to be proud of, however.
What we thought to be a tree full of crows turned out to be a farmer’s
prized game hens. We gunned down four or five before someone shouted
chickens. The farmer took down our license plate and ultimately agreed to
forget about the event if we paid for his hens.
Perry's friends constituted one of several distinct sets of rival "gangs"
in the school and most freshmen, like me, had not yet settled into an
equivalent group of same-age peers. One of my first “wars” with the
opposition occurred when a guy, named Dale Cleek, whom I barely knew,
bumped me in the school hallway. The problem was that a lot of friends
from both sides were watching requiring cool words from both directions
resulting in what was essentially the throwing down of a gauntlet. The
confrontation began to escalate beyond what would be acceptable in the
school corridor and we both agreed with great panache that we would
continue this later in an appropriate place.
The whole affair may have ended there except that Dale, like me, had older
mentors who apparently were in need of entertainment. Each of us received
much advice putting us into a collision course that was widely advertised
as an event on the way. Generally, when a confrontation between two
rivaling guys took place, a lot of words passed back and forth and the
contestant with the best presentation of curse words mixed with coolness
was the winner. Perry and his buddies had had developed a different
approach on such encounters and apparently had used it successfully on
several occasions.
The basic idea was that if I get in one hellacious punch at the outset,
then that really ups the odds of winning. Not only that, the approach was
such a surprise that it would meet little if any defense, a sort of free
punch.
Emotions stirred and rumors floated for about a month and I really dreaded
the night that was now destined to come. It happened at a dance at the
local Lions Club, one of the few venues for dances in Shelbyville. I sat
on one of side of the dance floor and Dale the other, exchanging heated
glances. Perry had sent spies to check Dale out who returned with the
report that he was wearing at least two very large rings. Perry had
rounded up four or five class rings from his guys and told me to put them
on. He continued to coach me right up until the dreaded moment when one of
Dales cronies came over with the dreaded message that Dale wanted to see
me outside. I really didn't want to do this, but I was beyond the point of
no return.
Outside, Dale and his mentors stood in a semi circle with Dale at the
focus. Perry, Troupe, and Sanders followed me. As I walked up to the semi
circle, I never actually stopped, even as Dale started saying something
that was supposed to be cool and scary, and I never actually heard what he
was saying.
I hit him as hard as I could right between the eyes and followed through
as he fell backwards to the ground. I hit him a few more times in the face
before we both wound tangled up motionless on the ground, at which time he
told me that even if I killed him he would not give up. As I felt my shirt
being soaked with his blood, I realized for the first time what I had
done. This really was not fun, even if I was winning. I asked him if he
wanted to shake and call it quits. He responded positively, and indeed we
shook hands and walked away.
I wasn't sure what would come next. Would he sneak up behind me and kill
me? Would I have to do this again without the advantage of surprise? A few
days later Dale approached me still sporting black eyes and cuts on his
face. To my pleasant surprise he said that he really felt stupid going out
and getting his butt kicked for no particular reason at all and he hoped
we could be friends. From that day on Dale and I enjoyed a fine friendship
and had many fun experiences together. His follow on action left me a lot
more respect and admiration than I would have had if he had whipped my
ass.
Forty years later I walked with my daughter, Kris, into his furniture
store on the Shelbyville Square and stood silently before him. After a few
moments of his puzzled look I said, "Okay Dale, you old fart, I recognize
you, so now it is your turn." Before I could get the words from my mouth
he leapt from this chair and hugged me, shouting "DR. DOODLE".