The fight is not under the glove, it's under the hat, so I believe. Or to paraphrase the Fabulous Furry Freak Brother, Freewheelin' Frank, Attitude will get you through times of no fighting skill better than fighting skill will get you through times of no attitude ...
Two short tales:
When I was in high school, the local cool hangout in our town was a drive-in/ bar called "Rock's." You could sit in your car and have a server bring you milkshakes and burgers, on a tray that hooked onto your car's window sill, or, you could go inside with the rest of the underage teens, flash your phony ID, and get a beer. Steel cans of Jax, Bud, or Falstaff. Miller if you were a sissy.
Like the drive-in in American Grafitti, everybody who was anybody found his or her way into a car and went to Rock's on Friday nights. (There were also a pair of Hopper's Drive Ins, but you couldn't get beer there. You went to Hopper's, drove through, then headed out toward LSU, to Rock's.)
And since Friday night was, in the fall, high school football night, it got fairly raucous after the games were over.
One fine Friday, a bunch of boys from the winning school of the traditional crosstown rivalry between Baton Rouge High and Istrouma -- forgive me if I can't recall which school -- stood in the parking lot en masse. When a car bearing identification from the other school motored through, the group, about thirty guys, would block the drive, descend on the car, open the hood, and unscrew all the battery and radiator caps.
That was the limit of their vandalism -- it was a kinder, gentler age.
As a student of Central High, I was merely an onlooker, enjoying the fun. The mob attended to five or six cars in this manner, the odds too great for the riders to say anything.
Another big hunk of Detroit iron arrived, with a guy and his girlfriend sitting next to him on the bench seat. The mob surged.
The door opened and the guy leaped out. Leaped. He was maybe five-seven, a hundred and forty pounds. He hit the ground, took a couple of steps, his arms spread wide, and he screamed, "Come on, motherfuckers! I'll take you all on!"
You never saw so many teenage boys move so fast. They fell all over themselves to get out of the way. Ran like cheap ink in the rain.
After a beat, the little guy got back into his car and drove through.
I'm guessing he got laid that night.
After he was gone, I overheard two of the guys who'd braced the driver talking. "Sheeit, we coulda stomped him, no problem!"
"Yeah, we coulda," the other teen said. "But if he was willing to take on thirty guys? I didn't want to be the first one he got hold of ..."
Attitude.
Second story:
Some years ago, a writing buddy and I were in Baltimore at a big science fiction convention. There was an off-site party away from the hotel, but the line waiting for a cab was long. The party was only a mile and a half away, so we decided to walk. It was September, warm, no problem.
Thing was, the neighborhood went from swank hotel to ghetto-like slums in about three blocks, and we found ourselves walking in an area that was less than savory. The buildings were run-down, the streets and sidewalks trashy, and pretty soon a guy approached us and wanted to know if we were interested in buying certain illegal pharmaceuticals. Not a good sign. But we kept walking
Shortly thereafter, we came upon a group of young men standing outside a liquor store with more bars on it than Sing-Sing Prison, and realized we were the only two white boys as far as the eye could see.
My buddy looked at me. I smiled. We kept walking. Nobody in the corner crew said a word, they just stared at us.
After we were past, my buddy said, "Damn. Well, I guess the key is not to show fear, eh?"
And I, all full of myself, said, "No, the key is not to feel fear."
Attitude.
Foolish, to be sure -- this was before I started training in silat, but after some years of other martial arts. I was unarmed, and those fellows on the corner would have taken us apart like worn tinkertoys if they'd felt the notion. I figured they must have thought we were either insane or undercover cops, because nobody else of our stripe would be strolling along there after dark. Best not to mess with cops or crazies.
There must be, as I've mentioned before, guardian angels who look out for fools and children. Certainly I have given mine some bad moments and plenty of work over the years.
We arrived at the party safely. Had fine old time.
And took a cab back to the hotel.
Attitude will sometimes do the trick.
Attitude and skill is a much better combination. Attitude, skill, and intelligence is better still.
I don't walk through those kind of neighborhoods at night any more, even armed. Best not to tempt fate too much ...
Two short tales:
When I was in high school, the local cool hangout in our town was a drive-in/ bar called "Rock's." You could sit in your car and have a server bring you milkshakes and burgers, on a tray that hooked onto your car's window sill, or, you could go inside with the rest of the underage teens, flash your phony ID, and get a beer. Steel cans of Jax, Bud, or Falstaff. Miller if you were a sissy.
Like the drive-in in American Grafitti, everybody who was anybody found his or her way into a car and went to Rock's on Friday nights. (There were also a pair of Hopper's Drive Ins, but you couldn't get beer there. You went to Hopper's, drove through, then headed out toward LSU, to Rock's.)
And since Friday night was, in the fall, high school football night, it got fairly raucous after the games were over.
One fine Friday, a bunch of boys from the winning school of the traditional crosstown rivalry between Baton Rouge High and Istrouma -- forgive me if I can't recall which school -- stood in the parking lot en masse. When a car bearing identification from the other school motored through, the group, about thirty guys, would block the drive, descend on the car, open the hood, and unscrew all the battery and radiator caps.
That was the limit of their vandalism -- it was a kinder, gentler age.
As a student of Central High, I was merely an onlooker, enjoying the fun. The mob attended to five or six cars in this manner, the odds too great for the riders to say anything.
Another big hunk of Detroit iron arrived, with a guy and his girlfriend sitting next to him on the bench seat. The mob surged.
The door opened and the guy leaped out. Leaped. He was maybe five-seven, a hundred and forty pounds. He hit the ground, took a couple of steps, his arms spread wide, and he screamed, "Come on, motherfuckers! I'll take you all on!"
You never saw so many teenage boys move so fast. They fell all over themselves to get out of the way. Ran like cheap ink in the rain.
After a beat, the little guy got back into his car and drove through.
I'm guessing he got laid that night.
After he was gone, I overheard two of the guys who'd braced the driver talking. "Sheeit, we coulda stomped him, no problem!"
"Yeah, we coulda," the other teen said. "But if he was willing to take on thirty guys? I didn't want to be the first one he got hold of ..."
Attitude.
Second story:
Some years ago, a writing buddy and I were in Baltimore at a big science fiction convention. There was an off-site party away from the hotel, but the line waiting for a cab was long. The party was only a mile and a half away, so we decided to walk. It was September, warm, no problem.
Thing was, the neighborhood went from swank hotel to ghetto-like slums in about three blocks, and we found ourselves walking in an area that was less than savory. The buildings were run-down, the streets and sidewalks trashy, and pretty soon a guy approached us and wanted to know if we were interested in buying certain illegal pharmaceuticals. Not a good sign. But we kept walking
Shortly thereafter, we came upon a group of young men standing outside a liquor store with more bars on it than Sing-Sing Prison, and realized we were the only two white boys as far as the eye could see.
My buddy looked at me. I smiled. We kept walking. Nobody in the corner crew said a word, they just stared at us.
After we were past, my buddy said, "Damn. Well, I guess the key is not to show fear, eh?"
And I, all full of myself, said, "No, the key is not to feel fear."
Attitude.
Foolish, to be sure -- this was before I started training in silat, but after some years of other martial arts. I was unarmed, and those fellows on the corner would have taken us apart like worn tinkertoys if they'd felt the notion. I figured they must have thought we were either insane or undercover cops, because nobody else of our stripe would be strolling along there after dark. Best not to mess with cops or crazies.
There must be, as I've mentioned before, guardian angels who look out for fools and children. Certainly I have given mine some bad moments and plenty of work over the years.
We arrived at the party safely. Had fine old time.
And took a cab back to the hotel.
Attitude will sometimes do the trick.
Attitude and skill is a much better combination. Attitude, skill, and intelligence is better still.
I don't walk through those kind of neighborhoods at night any more, even armed. Best not to tempt fate too much ...
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