Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
Fist fighting was not as much a matter of course at Sunalta as it was at other schools; Connaught, for instance. I was involved in fisticuffs early on, but initially more as a recipient than a provider. Had I been of a bellicose nature, whether or not I would have survived through those years with a full set of teeth and an unbroken nose is questionable.
I was in Grade Three when I was first introduced to the doubled fist. One night Lloyd and I were standing at the door to the school on the Girls side waiting for some kind of interschool event to begin. There was a small group of students from various schools eyeing each other and Lloyd decided to be friendly.
'What's your name,' he said to a young fellow standing next to him.
'Feasel,' he replied, 'Jim Feasel.'
'Feasel?' I interjected, feeling at my witty best. 'Sounds like weasel! Where's your tail?' Splat! His fist connected with my left eye completely without Marquis of Queensbury warning! This was obviously his substitute for verbal riposte. It was swift but very impolite and I was shocked and hurt. The thought of engaging in fisticuffs never occurred to me. The janitor unlocked the doors just at that moment and I fled up the stairs and down the hall to my secure seat in the Grade Three classroom. Lloyd was soon there comforting me and trying to dissuade me from running home to Mommy. .
'That guy is a Grade Sixer,' he said, 'Fighting is his specialty!'
'He doesn't look that big,' I said.
'Maybe not, but he's long on experience; he was aching for a scrap.' He eventually convinced me and I stayed on for whatever we had come for.
One autumn afternoon some of us had arrived at school early following lunch and were larking about in the foyer just inside the doors on the Boys side of the school. One of the boys snatched the tweed cap from Lawrence Barrs head (we called him 'Barrsy') and we began a little game of 'Pig in the Middle'. It was a deliberate attempt to provoke and soon succeeded as 'Barrsy' began to get violent. It was at that point that my ever-present 'promoter' suggested that we take the controversy outside into the schoolyard for settlement. 'Barrsy' and I would be the principal antagonists as decided by 'Guess who?'.
We 'put up our dukes' in clasically approved style encircled by a small group of interested spectators about seventy-five yards west of the school.
'Hit him in the 'bread basket!'' my promoter kept muttering to me as he intermittently shoved me in the back to maintain my vigorous involvement. There was only minimal damage caused before our battle was terminated by the ringing of the school bell. 'Barrsy' had his tweed cap back on his head again, Bill felt that he had managed another bout well, and we were not subjected to further ignominy by the teaching staff because we hadn't been reported. All in all a successful encounter! I still didn't know where the 'bread basket' was!
I didn't see major action again until about Grade Seven when I had a difference of opinion with a young man called Harold. Following the standard pushing and shoving routine we got down to the serious business of punching each other in the face. Blood was drawn after a few minutes and we were left undisturbed until we were both bleeding freely from nose and mouth. It was one of the few encounters I recall at which I didn't have my 'bete noir' behind me issuing extraneous instructions.
I don't recall what we were trying to prove but this was one of the longer lasting fist fights and we each had ample opportunity to make our points, whatever they may have been. Unfortunately it was staged on the flats directly north of the Boys side and eventually spotted by 'Wink' Potter who strode casually down to put an end to it.
"What'd you stop it for?' I complained. 'I was just starting to win!'
'You weren't starting to win,' 'Wink' chuckled. 'I'm sure Harold was thinking the same thing.' Where the hell was he, anyway? Maybe Potter was planning to deal with him separately. To avoid the possibility of further fractious outbreaks? What a laugh! We proceeded on to the Principal's office where Potter administered the routine punishment.
My next memorable involvement with fists took place behind the old Mewata Stadium grandstand. There was a senior high school game going on and some of us were playing a 'pick up' game behind the grandstand. There were about eight players on each side of this loosely organized encounter and we had played without incident for half an hour or so. I was suddenly approached by one of the bellicose Connaught school lads who was about a half a head shorter than I. His arms seemed to be about six inches longer than normal, however.
'I'm not afraid of you, Helmer!' he announced. Now, why the hell would he want to be afraid of me? Did he have a bean up his ass because my Dad was coaching an NHL team? Surely it wasn't because his pretty older sister was sweet on my brother but being ignored? While I was pondering a suitable response he made a preemptive strike. He struck me square in the centre of my left eye with his right fist and followed it almost immediately with a solid blow to my right eye with his left fist.
Perhaps you can understand my perplexity. I had never seen him before in my life and had not exchanged either greetings or harsh words with him since we started our 'pickup' game. He had hit me twice in rapid succession before I even had my hands raised. I knew the aggressive Connaught boys were different but this was the limit. He showed no desire to mix it up but wheeled immediately and walked back to join his group. I sported a couple of black eyes for a week or ten days and was kept well- informed as they passed through the various shades of bluish red, green and yellow.
The last and probably most vicious of the fist fights I witnessed at Junior High School took place near the end of my time at Sunalta. There was a bully who lived on Scarboro Avenue somewhere across from Zeke. He was taller and heavier than most of the students, possibly because he was a year or so older than most. He had been shoving and bullying most of the kids at will for more than a year. It was only a matter of time before he got around to Murray McInnes. Trying to bully Murray turned out to be a major mistake. When he shoved, Murray shoved back; when he grabbed Murray's arm and twisted it, Murray twisted free and cuffed the bully beside the ear. That was the only excuse the bully required to beat the shit out of Murray.
The fight began in the roadway and moved gradually back and forth between the outside fence of the school and McInnes's front yard. A circle of bystanders and highly interested former bully victims flowed back and forth with the combatants, grunting and groaning as blows were exchanged. For the first few minutes there were only a few blows landed as the combatants felt each other out. Joe, the bully, had a few inches in height and an advantage of a few inches in reach so he was able to land a few blows on Murray's face early in the contest. The puffed lip and the trickle of blood from Murray's nose seemed not to deter him in the least. I noticed that he was doing something I hadn't seen in schoolyard fights before; he was striking punishing blows to Joe's body each time there was an opportunity. He seemed to know that, although not as visible as facial blows, the relentless hammering of Joe's body was taking an invisible toll.
In the meantime the gruesome savaging of the two faces continued until both of their visages were little more than blood-soaked masks. What were normally three or four minute confrontations had now exceeded ten minutes and showed no sign of relenting. At last Joe's arms showed signs of tiring and Murray was landing his brutal jabs regularly. Suddenly and without warning, Joe shoved Murray backward then dropped his arms, wheeled and walked away without comment, face bloody and puffed, with his head down, debased at last.
Fist fighting seemed to be generally unacceptable at the high school level and I saw only one serious fracas and that was between the school janitor and a drunken youth who was being ejected from a school dance, The janitor was a veteran Cockney whom I suspect had a serious Navy-taught boxing background and relished a chance to have a knockdown fist fight with someone less experienced than he. Although middle-aged he was still quite fit and I once again heard the sickening sound of clenched bare fists striking bone and flesh. After six or seven vicious, gory minutes the young drunk's friends pulled him away and led him off. The janitor seemed pleased with his own victorious exercise.
I obviously had vestiges of testosterone left when I arrived at university and had soon convinced Gunner that membership in the Boxing club would be redemptive. He lost interest after the first year but I persisted until the end of the third year. Because of the limited membership of the club I was frequently matched with members either larger or smaller than I was. One afternoon I was sparring with a fellow who was about twenty-five pounds heavier than I and he hit the side of my jaw with a right hook squarely on what we referred to as 'the button'. It was as close as I've ever come to being knocked out. I was still on my feet when I 'came to' so I assume he just didn't hit me hard enough.
The highlight of that final year was the Assault at Arms held annually at the Drill Hall with Fencing, Wrestling and Boxing demonstrations. I had a three round bout against Steele Brewerton, a highly respected Mormon lad. I had trained at what I thought was a high level for a couple of months but was far from being as fit as I thought I was. Our match turned out to be a slugging contest and Steele and I stood toe to toe for a trio of three minute rounds and tried to knock each other over. Neither of us succeeded and when it concluded I was barely able to lift my arms. In the locker room after the match I got down on my hands and knees and gagged from sheer exhaustion for several minutes.
I marvel at the welterweight professional boxers I see on television these days who throw punches without pause for twelve rounds without any sign of tiring. I shared the medal with Steele Brewerton for Best Boxer so I finished my career with satisfaction.
— The End —