First Knockout: Chick and Snipes [Part II Donkeyland; Cayuga Street Gang; 1960]
I really couldn’t say, myself, but what I remember was we all stopped playing the baseball game and walked over to the new kid standing somewhat in the way of the players; he had moved in by Brandt’s house, called Snipes. He had a gray tea shirt on (muscle man shirt on), looked pressed even, clean. We were all dirty, and he looked too clean for us.
“Anytime anyone of you guys want to fight me, I’m ready,” he said, I noticed a smirk on his face, and he looked ready, but he looked as if he was going to walk away, so everyone walked over to him and started saying: ‘…me, me, let me, meee…have him…!”
Jack, my close friend wanted to fight him bad, and he was always hyper, and he was real comfortable with the idea at first. The train of guys (or so it seemed), all were standing in that empty lot around him now, Indian’s Hill in the background of us: everyone was gambling for the right to beat his ass now.
Jack said, “Let me kick his fucken ass (Jack swore a lot),” and the kid put up his fists and was ready to go, they only stopped because one of the other guys wanted him. Doug, and Roger, Larry (the tough guy of the neighborhood) and a few others and me all wanted him, but Larry was to big for the guy, and much older, and would have killed him, so he knew he couldn’t afford to tangle with him.
Now there was a circle around him, and he stood quietly, stone-still, as everyone wagered for the right to fight him, punch him out, every body wanted the right to punch him out, and I looked, just stared at him. I had been weight lifting, had several fights before, but was no tough guy, not like Larry anyhow, but was getting a reputation—somewhat.
“Can’t I have him,” I said, and everyone looked at me, I mean everyone, and they looked at one another, and Snipes looked at me, and he shook his head ok, as if it was ok for me to fight him, and when he did, I grabbed him and threw him on the ground, and I never stopped punching his face-in until someone grabbed me off of him (I think Jack): lest I make him hamburger. I suppose I was waiting to show the boys what I was made out of; this was a chance, perchance I was thinking that, I don’t know; they’ll tell me later how I was, I told myself. But I had lost control somehow, a light went off in my head, I didn’t like that, it was dull youth telling me to fight I suppose, but I had won the fight, light on or off it didn’t matter, to win was the main thing. But was it unfair? I mean I jumped the gun; didn’t give him a chance. But I didn’t look at the Golden Glove Rules, none of us did, I just punched, grabbed, and I didn’t squander any time in the process.
It was a few weeks later Snipes came to my house, asked me if I wanted to fight him again, since I did not give him a chance. I said I’d care to fight him, but I really didn’t care not to either, I wasn’t mad (and I knew I had to be mad, or take a few punches to get me made first, then I could fight). He said in his own way: I’m not afraid of you; not sure if I can beat you, your pretty strong, but I’m fast with my fists, and didn’t get a chance to use them, but if you’d rather leave it alone, I can but I need an apology for taking advantage of the moment. I said, sure, I’m sorry, but that’s the way I fight I suppose. Evidently he needed prep time; I needed to get mad time. I got to liking Snipes, but he suggested we stay a distance away from each other, lest someone get mad, and he didn’t want his family to provoke anything if I went around his house. I accommodated him, why not, it saved his pride, and who knows, I might have lost the second fight.
“Anytime anyone of you guys want to fight me, I’m ready,” he said, I noticed a smirk on his face, and he looked ready, but he looked as if he was going to walk away, so everyone walked over to him and started saying: ‘…me, me, let me, meee…have him…!”
Jack, my close friend wanted to fight him bad, and he was always hyper, and he was real comfortable with the idea at first. The train of guys (or so it seemed), all were standing in that empty lot around him now, Indian’s Hill in the background of us: everyone was gambling for the right to beat his ass now.
Jack said, “Let me kick his fucken ass (Jack swore a lot),” and the kid put up his fists and was ready to go, they only stopped because one of the other guys wanted him. Doug, and Roger, Larry (the tough guy of the neighborhood) and a few others and me all wanted him, but Larry was to big for the guy, and much older, and would have killed him, so he knew he couldn’t afford to tangle with him.
Now there was a circle around him, and he stood quietly, stone-still, as everyone wagered for the right to fight him, punch him out, every body wanted the right to punch him out, and I looked, just stared at him. I had been weight lifting, had several fights before, but was no tough guy, not like Larry anyhow, but was getting a reputation—somewhat.
“Can’t I have him,” I said, and everyone looked at me, I mean everyone, and they looked at one another, and Snipes looked at me, and he shook his head ok, as if it was ok for me to fight him, and when he did, I grabbed him and threw him on the ground, and I never stopped punching his face-in until someone grabbed me off of him (I think Jack): lest I make him hamburger. I suppose I was waiting to show the boys what I was made out of; this was a chance, perchance I was thinking that, I don’t know; they’ll tell me later how I was, I told myself. But I had lost control somehow, a light went off in my head, I didn’t like that, it was dull youth telling me to fight I suppose, but I had won the fight, light on or off it didn’t matter, to win was the main thing. But was it unfair? I mean I jumped the gun; didn’t give him a chance. But I didn’t look at the Golden Glove Rules, none of us did, I just punched, grabbed, and I didn’t squander any time in the process.
It was a few weeks later Snipes came to my house, asked me if I wanted to fight him again, since I did not give him a chance. I said I’d care to fight him, but I really didn’t care not to either, I wasn’t mad (and I knew I had to be mad, or take a few punches to get me made first, then I could fight). He said in his own way: I’m not afraid of you; not sure if I can beat you, your pretty strong, but I’m fast with my fists, and didn’t get a chance to use them, but if you’d rather leave it alone, I can but I need an apology for taking advantage of the moment. I said, sure, I’m sorry, but that’s the way I fight I suppose. Evidently he needed prep time; I needed to get mad time. I got to liking Snipes, but he suggested we stay a distance away from each other, lest someone get mad, and he didn’t want his family to provoke anything if I went around his house. I accommodated him, why not, it saved his pride, and who knows, I might have lost the second fight.
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 6:09 PM
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