Charlie
Although most Americans were concerned about the Apollo 11 moon landing in 1969, my friends and I were engaged in rock fights. Rock fights, that's right. My memory of these particulars must be incorrect because no one died. If you don't mind, let me rewind a bit. A family of three girls moved across the street from me in the summer of 1969. My friends and I had built a treehouse in the woods near my house. The girls started climbing up our treehouse a few weeks after they moved in. Our initial attempt to thwart them was to tear down the ladder and install a rope climbing system, but that did not work. So we implemented a duty watch system that required someone to be on duty at all times to ensure they couldn't climb the rope and use the treehouse. The watch commander would pull up the rope so they couldn't climb into the treehouse.
One day a gruff, tough-as-nails kid with one arm in a sling approaches and insists on entering the treehouse with his cousins, the girls. This kid started throwing rocks at the watch commander, trying to get him to let down the rope when the watch commander said no. The watch commander blew the foghorn. During the days without cell phones, we communicated with aerosol flog horns. Almost all of our mothers kept at least one or two laying around because that was how they got us to come up for dinner.
In 1969 this was how you were called back home for dinner.
Charlie was on the other side of the street when we all got to the treehouse. Within minutes, six of us were on one side of the road, and Charlie, on the other, engaged in a full-on rock fight. I'm sure my memory is hazy, but I believe the rock fight lasted about 20 minutes. Charlie was probably the toughest kid we have ever met, said someone on our side. Here's a kid with only one arm defending himself against six kids throwing rocks at him. On the third occasion, when someone mentioned Charlie's toughness, I asked, "What's up with that?" From that moment forward, Charlie became one of my best friends for the summer of 1969.
Charlie had a tough gig. Every other week, police cars would show up at his house because his dad had illegally kidnapped him. Charlie would also steal anything he could put in his pocket if he walked into a delicatessen. He was always getting into trouble. In 1969, when the Miracle Mets were winning the world series, Charlie got into a fight with a neighborhood kid named John Hass. Charlie wouldn't let John Hass get away with something disparaging about "Terrific Tom," Tom Seaver. We nicknamed John Hass "Horse." They fought on John Hass' front lawn. Funny how you remembered things 50 years ago, but I remember John Hass's mother watching with an infant in her arm. I think she enjoyed the fight from her front porch. That is until her little Johnny started losing. After Charlie knocked Hass to the ground in the contest, Charlie said, "Take back what you said about Tom Seaver, horse?" Hass' mother, obviously a Baltimore Orioles fan as well, responded, "It's not horse; it's Hass, you little asshole." Charlie, of course, replied, "Fuck You! The next thing you know, the baby goes flying in the air, caught by Hass' little sister, and the mother is in a full sprint trying to catch Charlie. Charlie was too fast for her; she couldn't keep up with him. Nobody could beat Charlie in anything.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
the band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
but there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.
In a bush league move, Mr. Haas, a sheriff, showed up at Charlie's house later that night wearing his full uniform and blasting siren. That was the bottom of the ninth for Charlie. By the time Charlie became eligible for "grounding" parole, his mother had moved away, and I never saw Charlie again.
