morphius would call his only fight a draw, though it was really 3 fights in 1 and I tossed the last guy around like a rag doll.

It's a rerun from http://www.chiefsplanet.com/BB/archi...x.php/t-112420 , but here it is. (I don't count the soup-throwing homeless guy as a loss. I would've destroyed him if I chose to.)

The year was 1975. The place: Hickory Hills Elementary School in Springfield, Missouri.

It was a clear spring day, isolated clouds drifting on a sea of cerulean blue. The shouts of children filled the air.

I was at second base. I always played second base, and no one questioned it. We all knew our strengths and our weaknesses, and no one questioned my ability with a glove.

There was one out, and we were up 3 to 1 in the middle innings. The teacher hadn't come out with her whistle yet, so we all knew that there was no urgency...yet. Paul was on second, and held off my good-natured attempt to push him off.

Who was up in the batting order? My eyes widened. Big Bart was striding toward the plate. We began waving the outfield back. Bart was five feet and five inches of towering giant, 130 pounds of muscle, almost as tall as the tallest girls and much more beefy. He was mighty Casey in any sport we played, by virtue of good genes and early puberty.

I knew Bart well. We had matched up before, many times. I was four feet and eleven inches tall, 90 pounds of bone and flash, the second-tallest boy in the class, so we were often on opposing teams. We were Chamberlain and Russell, Montana and Marino. We respected each other's skills, but in our hearts we knew that we each were the other's barrier to success.

Mark was on the mound, and he put the pitch up. Ball One. The second pitch was in the dirt. Mark knew not to give Bart something to hit. He knew that Bart was impatient, and that he would eventually swing. We all helped, chanting that Bart was off his rocker, just like Betty Crocker. You could get in Bart's mind with that stuff.

The third pitch nicked the inside of the plate. It also nicked Bart's bat. Spinning crazily, the ball rocketed toward John at first base, too hot to handle. It bounced off John, and Bart barreled toward first.

A scramble ensued amongst the gaggle of backup first basemen. For the most part, these were girls who were concentrated in a low-traffic spot hoping to avoid being hit. They were not ready to field a ball. John darted through them, and Bart hit first base. Bart knew about the backup first basemen, knew them well, and he made the bold decision to go for second. The great beast of a man-child sprinted toward me.

Lisa saw her chance. Small and bespectacled, her trademark was her bare-handed style, made possible only by the fact that she had never actually fielded a ball. Today was different, though. Today was her Yorktown, her Kursk. Today was the day that she would become a baseball player.

She knelt down and cleanly fielded the ball. Aware that she threw like a girl, she evaluated her options quickly. There was only one decision to make, and she was one sharp girl. She handed the ball to John.

John whirled and threw, hoping to beat the giant to second base. I was left of the bag, crouched and ready. Bart was coming. The ball was coming. Only physics could predict which would arrive first.

The answer was never revealed. The ball was to my left. So was Bart. The ball was in the base path. So was Bart.

So was my arm. Never slowing, Bart knocked my arm away. The ball went by, embarking on a tour of left field. Bart parked on second. He turned toward me. He turned toward left field. He made a break for third.

Now, I don't normally consider myself a violent man. I broker peace deals. I negotiate. I avoid conflict by hiding. But this was intolerable. I had him dead to rights. He should have been trudging back to the backstop, having learned not to challenge Lisa to John to me.

But he wasn't. He was heading toward third, and the ball was in left field, and the girls chasing it ran like girls and threw like girls, and had no chance of getting the ball back into the infield except by bucket brigade. Paul was already home, and Bart was the tying run, the hero for his team.

There comes a time when a man has to act. There are also times when a man has to lash out mindlessly. This was one of those times.

I met Bart at the shortstop position, behind him and to his right. Football was my sport, and I knew how to hit. I nailed him.

Two hundred and twenty pounds of us went sprawling into the dirt. Two hundred and twenty pounds of us got back up, of which a hundred and thirty pounds was pissed. I held my ground. Sometimes a man has to do that.

Sometimes a man has to know when to give up, too. That's what sets the smart ones apart. The clouds drifted by. The sky was a beautiful cerulean blue. The bottom of Bart's foot was on my face. A teacher ran.

The shouts of children filled the air.

Years ago, a blues band that I was unfortunate enough to play in for a while had a gig at some dive in west Texas that was little more than a barn with a bar license.

The stage actually had chicken wire between the us and the dance floor. I had heard about this arrangement, but never experienced the design feature in real life. That night I was to learn, however, that there are good reasons for such measures in some of the more unsophisticated venues.

After refusing to play his blurry request for "Wipe Out", a large, burly, bearded, bear-like patron threw his domestic beer at us. It was a poor throw and our bass player was dampened slightly, but we weren't overly concerned since we were an extremely talented band at spilling beer on ourselves.

Anyway, we launched a serious attempt to talk the drummer into playing "Wipe Out" when the burly guy - apparently furious that his beer attack had failed - rushed the stage. The bouncer made a valiant attempt to stop him, but bear man was deceptively agile and escaped his grasp. I think bear man was a POW in a past life or something, because he was making excellent progress through the wire barricade when I clocked him with a sunburst Les Paul right on the noggin. His lights went out so fast that I was afraid I might have killed him which would mean spending the rest of my life in a Texas jail thinking of ways to improve the defensive capabilities of chicken wire.

But thankfully, the bouncer said he would be okay because he had been struck more forcibly than that in the past many times. The Les Paul was fine and, since that time, I've been amazed that the Surfari's still have such passionate fans.

FAX in round 1.

FAX

Heh-heh-heh. Wipe out.

Last year I was talking to this girl that I used to be friends with at a bar. I had a few in me but I wasn't totally shitfaced. Well, her boyfriend takes exception to me talking to her (even though I was engaged at the time) and just sucker punches me.

Here's the funny part:

He tried to commit suicide his Freshman year in college. As my friends got in-between us I yelled out "That punch didn't hurt as much as the knife did, 'Slash'!"

I went outside to try and "talk things out" with him. In reality, I said a few words and then punched him three times.

It's still embarrassing as hell to get punched in a bar, especially when you weren't doing anything wrong.

fucking psychos.

"We have both kinds of music, country AND western."

You aren't by chance a blind blues singer with a blonde mullet who was featured in "Road House" are you??

Is Fax Jeff Healy??

I've been in lots of fights. A few I've won big time, a few were bloody draws, and most of the rest didn't amount to much. But there was that one time.... :grr:

Senior year. Got in a shoving match at lunch with a guy who was picking on one of my friends (really small guy who never fought). The bully in question was well hated, and a fight between us was set for Friday night at the fairgrounds. Fights like this are prime entertainment in small towns, and a good chunk of the high school showed up to watch. Prior to the fight, I listened to Eye of the Tiger (this was 1983) over and over to get psyched out. A friend picked me up. My friend convinced me that I needed to relax (MORON) and handed me a pint of Southern Comfort and a joint. I hit both doob and bottle hard, and was completely fucked up when we reached the fairgrounds. My friend's van door slides open, I stagger out amid a cloud of pot smoke, take a swing at the guy, miss by a mile, fall over, and then get beat bloody in front of EVERYBODY. I was lucky I didn't lose any teeth, but I had two black eyes, and bruised and blooded everything on my face.

My friends cleaned me up as best they could and dumped me off at home. I was still drunk and high, and scratched the hell out of the front door trying to open it. Finally, I got the key in, turned the knob, pushed open the door and fell flat on my face on the living room floor. When I opened my eyes, I saw my stepmom's toes in front of my face. I looked up at her and said "AW, fuck."

So, on top of getting a humiliating asskicking in front of the entire school by a complete asshole, I got grounded for two weeks for getting drunk and fighting (luckily no one detected the pot, or I'm sure I would have got a second beating that night).

The good news - apparently the bully wasn't particularly impressive in beating my semi-conscious body, and somebody else kicked his ass shortly thereafter. He quit bothering people. I also challenged him to a rematch, which he declined. Further, I didn't make excuses - I took my lumps and post-fight abuse like a man. So I learned two important life lessons - never fight when you're drunk/high, and if you get your ass kicked, be honest about it.

I had one episode a long time ago..1981..I was drinking at a dive/dump..I was with 2 of my friends..and this guy accuses me of taking $10 off the bar from him..I told the guy..hey..I didn't take your money..well..that was not good enough for him..

So..after about 20 minutes of dirty looks that I got from this guy..he comes towards me..I unleashed a straight right and knocked this dude out..and then took off out the door(I was drinking underage)..leaving my friends at the bar and taking off immediately...I found out later from my friends that the guy was out cold for a while..and had no memory of what happened..the cops came well after I was gone..

But..I will never allow myself to get sucker punched..it happened to me once when I was a kid..and if I see somebody coming at me like that in a threatening way..there going to get hit

ROFL ROFL

Great story Parcells. Great story.

You grew up in Kirksville, right??

The fairgrounds then are now a Super Wal-Mart. Damn, I've bought college supplies on the sacred grounds of Frazod's worst beatdown :( . I heard that they used to have local fights at this old dude's pond behind the Baltimore "Strip" as it was.

The pond I never heard of. My fights were at the fairgrounds, the upper elementary school parking lot, and an open stretch of street in a subdivision off Baltimore across from the swimming pool. My only other fight in the two years I lived in Kirksville was on a school bus.

Good times.

FAX

The only "fight" I've ever really been in was when a couple of girls cornered me in the bathroom in 6th grade. I told them to let me out. They asked what I was going to do if they didn't. I shoved one girl into the other one, they both fell down, and I walked past them out of the bathroom.

Only time I ever got my ass whipped was when I was in trouble growing up, which wasn't very often (I was the good child).

They certainly weren't at the time. The worst part was my folks making me go to church Sunday morning. I was still sore all over and my face was swollen. That was cruel. :D