Kids yelled in amazement. They patted me on the back and some cheered. For a moment I thought they might start singing, “Ding dong, the bully’s dead. . . .”
After a few minutes my brain kicked into gear and I smiled to myself. When one kid asked how I did it, I responded with a relaxed, “It was nothing.” This impressed them. I was now the kid to respect and maybe fear. One boy even acted out the fight. “It went like this,” he announced. “Josh swung his fist down at the new kid. He . . .” (pointing at me) “. . . ducked and Josh missed, then he . . .” (again pointing at me) “. . . Hey, what’s your name, anyway?”
“His name is Rodney, he’s from New York, and he’s with us.” It was Rishi, who had popped up out of nowhere.
“Where’d you come from?” I whispered to him.
“What? We had your back all along,” he replied, leaning over to take a picture of Josh.
“Well, I was prepared to collect your teeth,” he said with a sly smile, “or write your mom a sad letter saying you died a brave death.”
I smiled too. “Gee thanks, pal.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Meanwhile the storyteller was still going on. “. . . Rodney then came up with this vicious right hook. It smashed into Josh’s nose and he went down like a sack of potatoes. It was like Bam and Boom! What a punch!” Other kids chimed in saying that they’d seen it too. In every story I delivered some version of the greatest punch in playground history. Listening to them, I learned a valuable lesson. Don’t say much, if anything. Say, “Oh, it was nothing,” or, “I didn’t do much.” Stories sound a lot better and are more believable coming from someone else’s mouth.
Everyone was all smiles until we were interrupted by a shriek. “Oh my goodness! Oh oh ahh . . .” Long Nose, the aide, had finally arrived on the scene. Kids scattered, leaving a couple of us standing over Josh, who was moaning and holding his nose. “Who did this?” she screamed. She was on the verge of hysterics and, glancing down at Josh, I noticed he did look gruesome. Another aide joined us and was bending over him. Long Nose asked again, this time more angrily than before, “Who did this?”
The other kids backed away. I knew I was going to get it, but any punishment was better than saying the truth about the baseball. I raised my hand.
“You! New kid!” she snapped. “We don’t hit at Baber Intermediate. Look what you did to that poor boy. You’re going to the principal. We’ll see what Mr. Feebletop has to say about this!” She grabbed my arm and off we went. Her ranting about my behavior and rudeness continued across the field, down the hall, and even as we walked into the main office. By the time she had me placed on a bench I wasn’t just frightened, I was deaf.
She lowered her voice as she spoke to two secretaries but she still sounded upset. One of them went into the principal’s office followed by Long Nose. I could hear them talking, interrupted by an occasional deep grunt. After a couple of minutes she flew by, sneering, “You little wretch. You’re going to get it.”
Now, waiting to speak to the principal is a scary thing. Thanks to my big mouth, I’d faced principals before and knew I was going to get some horrible speech and even worse punishment. The scariest part is that I knew nothing about this Mr. Feebletop. I craned my neck to see into his office. At that moment, an aide led a bleeding Josh into the nurse’s office. The second he saw me, Josh jumped back and grabbed the nurse for protection. I almost laughed, but I heard the principal cough and remembered my immediate problems. Principals, after all, are the enforcers of the building, and fighting is always the worst thing you can do. “You may go in now,” the secretary announced. I was about to meet my fate.
Mr. Feebletop had a frown on his large round face. He was big and bald with a very shiny head. His tie was loosened around his thick neck. He leaned in closer to his desk and looked at me with a serious expression. “Sit down,” he said.
I walked over to a chair opposite him and as I sat I noticed a baseball on his desk, and that his walls were covered with photos of baseball players in orange and blue uniforms. The colors of the New York Mets, I thought. They were my hometown team. Behind his desk was a big framed picture of Tom Seaver, the great Mets pitcher. My mouth blurted out: “Tom Seaver.” Again, it had acted on its own and was probably about to get me into even hotter water.
Mr. Feebletop spun around, stood up, and walked over to the picture. “You know about Tom Seaver?” he asked.
“He is the greatest Met of all time,” I answered.
“You are completely right about that,” he almost yelled. “They should never have traded him. Ahhhh, that was the team. The ’69 Mets.”
“They were great in 1986, too,” I said. “Keith Hernandez was an awesome first baseman.” My dad was a big Mets fan and had made me watch a number of the old classic games.
“He was one of the best,” Mr. Feebletop agreed. Then a big grin spread across his face. “So you know about Keith Hernandez, huh? They just don’t make them like that anymore, do they? He was the finest defensive first baseman of the twentieth century.”
From this point on, Mr. Feebletop launched into a history of the team. At times, I mentioned little things I knew. How long we sat there I’m not sure, but one thing was certain. Not since Christmas morning had I seen anyone so happy. Eventually, a secretary stuck her head in.
“Excuse me, Mr. Feebletop. Mrs. Panic wants to talk to you about her chorus schedule.”
“Oh, uh, okay,” he answered. He looked back at me. “Well, it was great meeting you . . .”
“Rodney.”
“Ah yes, Rodney. We should do this again. Oh . . .” He paused. “. . . Let me think. Oh yes, you were fighting, right? Well, hmmm. Try not to do it again. Oh hey, did you see my Tom Seaver baseball?”
“I did. It’s great,” I answered.
He smiled at me as I walked out of his office. I could hear him mumbling to himself, “A nice boy, a nice boy.”