chicken.â He throws another right. To show my contempt I donât even try to block it. It lands on the side of my head and doesnât hurt. There is nothing in his punches. I put down both my arms and let him swingâright, left, right, right. He is breathing heavilyâclouds are billowing out of his mouth. I have him. It is working. And then, disaster.
Rocco Pizzutti impatiently shoves his way into the middle of the circle and unleashes his left, sending Brian sprawling on the frozen ground.
âJeez, Rocco, whyâd you do that?â Brian is almost crying.
âYou want to hit someone, hit me!â
âI donât want to hit you, Rocco.â
So why, I wonder, does he want to hit me? I am standing there in the center of the circle but no longer a part of the scene, feeling sorry for Brian Sorenstag. Also feeling sorry for me.
Later I say to Rocco, âWhyâd you have to interfere?â
âI wasnât going to stand there and let him hit you.â
âWhy not? I was winning. Didnât you see that?â
âWinning,â he says, rolling his eyes. âThe guy was using you for a punching bag.â
âAnd he was all punched out.â
Roccoâs face suddenly breaks into a smile. âThen you were going to nail him down?â
âNo. Then I was going to walk away.â
âThatâs why I hit him.â
âWho asked you to interfere?â
Thanks to Rocco, I now have a fight a day. They all want to see if it is true that I wonât fight. It is true. Once it becomes clear that Rocco Pizzutti is not going to interfere again, I start drawing kids who are looking for a safe chance to win a fight. They are no good at all. I stand there with my arms down and they swing away, timidly at first, and then more freely once they feel reassured that nothing is going to happen to them. But they donât know how to hit and nothing hurts me and there is no glory in hitting someone who just stands there and doesnât fight back. Soon everyone gives up on fighting me.
That is what I wanted but now I am beginning to wonder if it is worth the price. No one wants to talk to me. Stanley avoids me. Donnie smiles pleasantly at me but seems far away. Even Rocco doesnât have much to say. Angela Pizzutti is polite but doesnât tell me about the Kennedy conspiracy anymore. Donna Belini doesnât want to be seen near me. Susan Weller never looks in my direction. When Myrna Levine sees me she doesnât even giggle. Should I tell my mother thereâs no chance for Myrna anymore? I suppose they all have their reasons. No one wants to discuss it, so I donât know exactly what their thinking is. But I kind of do.
My little brother, Sam, comes home from school and, without saying a word, closes his fist and throws a hard punch that lands on my chest. I am getting used to being hit. Actually, he throws a better punch than most of the big kids. It turns out my brother is mad at me because now he has to fight all the time because kids are curious to see if he will fight too. I tell him that if he shows them he wonât fight, kids will stop challenging him. But his only response is to throw another punch in my direction.
I know that once baseball season starts again, if my batting is good, the whole thing about not fighting will be forgotten. Until then Iâm going to school and coming home and spending my time next door at the Panicellisâ. I am living like a German exchange student.
I am helping Dickey work on a 1957 Chrysler, two-tone, turquoise and white. We have a hard time with the push-button transmission but finally get it working, and we rebuild the huge eight-cylinder Hemi engine. It takes two of us to handle, disassemble, and clean the giant 360-cubic-inch engine block and replace the gaskets.
Mrs. Panicelli brings us little sugary Italian cookies. Popeye comes home in the late afternoon and talks about the Communists. He