The Rock Fight

The rock fight

There are some lessons in life that can only be learned the hard way.  No matter how many times we are told are shown, our hard-headed, stiff necked nature will not allow us to fully comprehend the concept. 

Case in point.  I lived on a dirt road that had a sloping hill covered with gravel that led to a small lake named Waterloo.  There were around a dozen kids living on our block at any one time, and like most kids, we fought on a daily basis.  One day best friends, the next sworn enemies till death. 

Of course there were levels of fighting, each kid knew that. Strictly on the non-verbal level (we all know the verbal levels of fighting which can easily lead to physical fighting) you had the push or shoving match.  Usually between friends the shoving match did not have to have a winner, but if you did not participate, you lost the argument.  Next came "the swing".  "Larry took a swing at me!" 

This meant you probably tackled Larry a little too hard, said a remark that cut too deep, or some other infraction.  If Larry did not connect with his "swing" or punch, you could choose to ignore it, torture Larry more, or "swing back."  A lot of these options had to do with who was watching, how much "egging on" occurred etc. 

Next came the wrestling fight.  This could start as a contest of strengths and escalate into a bloody mess, or merely one person would "give," thus surrendering.  Having two older, stronger brothers helped me be the neighborhood wrestling champ.  I wasn't worth a darn boxing, but if I got some goober on the ground he was soon seeing things my way. 

The bona fide "fist fight" came next.  Swinging arms, childhood obscenities, occasionally a split lip, black eye, or bloody nose was the sum total.  I lost as many of these as I won.  The hardest part was to keep from crying from anger as you fought.  It’s not manly to whip someone with snot and tears running down your face.

 But the worst, most evil, vile, and dangerous fight you could be in was the rock fight.  On most of the occasions I saw this happen, the combatants had an argument of some time that led one of them to storm away, hurling insults over their shoulder.  The person left standing in the middle of the road would reach down, pick up a pebble and hurl it at the other party.  If the pebble hit (which it usually did not), the rock fight would begin in earnest. 

The only thing that kept a rock fight from being lethal was that most of the kids on my block were either terrible shots, or too little to throw a rock that could do much damage.

A rock fight would end when one person would flee, threatening to tell the other person's parents, or if a parent saw what was happening.  As a general rule, you had to be pretty dumb to get into a rock fight in the first place.  Here's where I fit in.

 Two neighbor boys about ten or eleven had an argument that escalated into a rock fight.  What the argument was over, no one knows.  It could have easily been over the way one dropped the others bike too hard after riding.  It may have been over scaring fish away from a favorite fishing hole on Waterloo by throwing rocks.  Whatever the case, the two boys began hurling rocks at each other from about fifty feet. 

Seeing it happen, and not having an interest in the argument, I thought it was neat.  So neat, that I wanted a ring side view.  I had a friend with me, Roland, who was easily convinced (Roland had the IQ of a St. Bernard) to go with me to get a closer look at the fight. 

At this point there were several other spectators including sisters of the combatants who were taunting the opposing boy.  Roland and I proceeded to move through the woods that ran along side the road where the fight was taking place.  "This is great fun!  Lets get closer," I thought.  We proceeded to crawl along a clay embankment that kept us "protected" from projectiles while giving us a great view of the action VERY close up.

While I was maneuvering for a better spot, the world exploded.  It felt as though someone had hit me in the head with a sharp rock.  And that is exactly what happened!  I reached up to the part of my head that now was feeling warm and tingly and it was wet!  Blood!  I was bleeding!  Hey, this isn't fair!  I was only watching; now I'm dying!

As anyone who has ever had a cut in the scalp will know, there are thousands of capillaries running just under our hair.  That's how we loose our heat in the winter, overheat in the summer sun.  So when you get beaned there by a pointed object traveling two hundred feet per second, blood goes everywhere! 

Being extremely squeamish (lots of other stories), I knew it was only a matter of time before I expired.  So with the help of a sympathetic Roland, and oh, by the way, the sight of my injury caused the combatants to cease their hostilities and eventually make up, I hobbled to my dear sweet Mom. 

In my mind, I just knew she would turn into Florence Nightingale and with glassy- eyed love, sweep me into her arms as she kissed me and examined my wound, telling me how sorry she was, and  asking how could anyone do this to her poor baby.

 Now, if there are any moms reading this you will know the real picture.  In comes your son who is always getting cuts and scrapes, covered with Texas red clay, dripping blood from a wound in his head which you have seen before on your older sons and neighbor's sons.  And if in all the world you could find the two hardest elements there is to get out of clothing, furniture, and carpet, and placed them on a human tornado for maximum distribution, you would have blood and red clay on a blubbering twelve year old boy.

My mom isn't a mean lady, far from it, but as soon as I said "rock fight" in any context she had her doubts about the mental competence of her youngest son.  Instead of saying "Oh, poor baby." she said, "What happened to you!?"  She promptly marched me into the bathroom, examined my head, peeled off my shirt, sent Roland home, and made the hottest possible wash cloth she could make to clean me up (I think more for punishment than for cleaning).

Instead of being gently rocked, I found myself getting a lecture.  Soon I was on my way to the emergency room with a grumpy mom, to get stitches.  Five to be exact.  She was concerned about my head, but not the injury.  I think the most painful part of the process was not the tug of each stitch, or even the rock itself, it was disappointing Mom.  Each time she said "Stupid," as in "watching a rock fight is a stupid thing to do", it hurt more than anything.  And I had that "slap upside the head" that implanted the wisdom to "mind my own business."

As a side note, I learned it was not one of the combatants who hurled the rock. No, it was the sister of one of them who, seeing Roland and I sneaking through the weeds assumed we were going to ambush her brother.  She promptly found a rock, charged and threw.  I know there is a moral about women in there somewhere, but I haven't found it.  Oh well, mind your own business, it hurts less than a thump in the head.