No one dared mention what Willy had said about the older teacher. She truly looked like she could curdle milk with a hard stare. Gopher decided he didn’t like her.
When Missus Nightingale reacted to Gopher’s inattention and swatted him with her pointer, he took offense, thinking she was singling him out from an entire class that disliked her.
One day, after his mother and father left early for the restaurant, Gopher packed a quick lunch of day-old bread, a slice of cheese and a hunk of sausage. He was going fishing, something he had never really enjoyed, but his parents were very fond of the practice so he decided to give it a try now that he was old enough to make a decent cast on the stream.
He knew of a large hole that was just right for cooling off on hot days. It also had a few fish living there. Most of the boys could be found there on any given day during the summer but they usually weren’t fishing; they were skinny-dipping.
On this day, Willy Guthrie was there, chucking rocks at anything that moved, either in the trees or on the water. There would be no fishing after the barrage of stones Willy had plunked into the water.
So, Gopher joined in and chucked rocks at sticks or anything else floating downstream. Once, while bending over to grab a really good skipping rock, Gopher stood up and was hit in the middle of his back by Willy’s errant toss.
“Hey, you big galloot, that hurt.”
“Aw quit whinin’ you little squirt. It don’t hurt that much.”
“Oh yeah, well how do you like it?” Gopher chucked his flat rock directly at the bigger, older antagonist.
Willy turned to avoid a direct hit but the flat rock curved in such a manner that Willy could not avoid it, hitting him hard on his left shoulder.
“Coulda’ put my eye out, you little wart. Maybe I’ll come over there and punch you in the nose.”
“Why don’tcha try it and see what you get.”
Willy Guthrie was nearly a foot taller than Gopher and certainly much heavier, being several years older. It didn’t take long for his big strides to take him to a position in front of the smaller boy. “Maybe I’ll knock your block off just for that.”
Gopher stood his ground; his fists balled tightly, just waiting for an excuse to throw a haymaker. He got his wish a second later when the bigger boy unleashed a half-hearted right cross.
Gopher had heard many stories about his father’s boxing accomplishments and actually managed to roll with the punch, which landed but did very little damage other than a split lip and a loosened tooth.
Immediately, Gopher threw his own right and caught the bigger fellow in the space between his oversized nose and his left eye.
The boy yelped in pain, as blood spurted from his nose. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and stood in disbelief at the sight of his own blood.
Gopher stood ready for the second attack. It never came. Willy Guthrie began to cry and ran all the way home, holding his nose and trying not to splatter blood all over his once clean clothes.
When Gopher arrived at his home, his mother asked what had happened at school for this to happen.
Now he knew he was in trouble for sure. Not only had he been in a real fight, he had skipped school. Gopher had two choices: either own up to his deeds or fabricate a lie to cover his tracks. He chose wisely to tell the truth.
“Mother, I don’t like Missus Nightingale. She picks on me in class and the other kids laugh at me. So, I cut school and went to the river to catch some fish for dinner.”
The story was partially true, except for the fishing part.
“Then Willy Guthrie hit me with a rock and I got mad. That’s when the fight started.”
“You mean, you got into a fight with big Willy Guthrie? I think that story would be better told to your father—after I clean you up and get some salve on that split lip. As for the loose tooth, just leave it alone for a while and not fiddle with it. It might heal itself in a couple of weeks. If not, you’ll probably lose it and spend the rest of your life with a hole in your mouth.”
Gopher didn’t want that. He had seen plenty of oldsters in town with missing teeth. Now he was really worried. Not only was he certain his father was going to lecture him, but a switch might be in order because he skipped school.
Able Piddington inspected his son’s face. “Willy Guthrie did this to you?”
Gopher nodded. “But I’ll bet he’ll be sporting a black eye tomorrow.”
“And why would you say that?”
“Cause I hit him hard, right on his eye and nose. Boy, that kid can really bleed. He went home crying.”
Able stood back and took in his son’s full height. Even at the tender age of being nearly seven years old, Gopher was no little fellow. He was tall for his age, just like his father was when he was a kid.
“You know, my Father used to spend quite a bit of time teaching me how to defend myself when I was about your age. Would you like me to teach you a few things about the manly art of self-defense?”
“I don’t know. I guess so. Would it help me if Willy came after me?”
“It certainly would. When do you want to start? How about right after dinner?”
“But Father, I have a loose tooth and I don’t want it to fall out. I’ve seen old folk in town with missing teeth and they are ugly.”
Able inspected the loose front tooth. “It’s going to come out anyway, so why worry about it?”
Kirsten gave her husband a look of utter disapproval. As a wife and mother, fist fighting was not among her favorite things.
“Mom said I would have a big hole in my face if I didn’t take care of the tooth.”
“What’s the matter, Kirsten? Don’t want your little man to learn how to fight?”
“No woman worth her salt is eager to see any of her men fight—you included. How many times have I wrung my hands over your fights?”
“Yeah, but I always came out the winner, thanks to my Father. What’s different with Gopher?”
“What’s different? He’s not you, he’s our only son and I don’t want him getting beat up. That’s what’s different.”
“Well, with a few lessons, no one will be able to take advantage of him. Would you deny him that?”
Kirsten Piddington really didn’t have a good answer. Able was right; Gopher would benefit from learning some of his father’s boxing skills.
MORE SCHOOL HIJINX
Eventually Gopher Piddington settled into an acceptable routine at school. Miss Bidwell returned and the class began to learn. Gopher no longer feared even the oldest boys in school, as his father had spent many hours teaching his son some of the finer points of the manly art of boxing. After the word got around regarding the beating Willy Guthrie took at the hand of a skinny little boy, now seven years old, no one bothered Gopher.
But there was one older boy that Gopher decided to tease. He was probably seventeen or eighteen years old—no one knew for sure, as his family kept no birth or death records. Horatio Hairrup was not only tall, he was bulky; some used the word, stout. But Gopher likened the older boy to his friend, Reginald. Both were somewhat slow when it came to the thinking department. Horatio desperately wanted to finish the eighth grade but had to repeat it twice because he simply hadn’t managed to master that portion of McGuffey’s reader.
For some unknown reason, Gopher decided to tease Horatio. The older boy never wore a hat, perhaps because his family had no money for a hat, or maybe because the boy simply didn’t like wearing one.
Near the end of one particular school day, Gopher grabbed a shock of his own hair and lifted it straight up. Horatio Hairrup got the point immediately and signaled to Gopher that he was a dead man by making the slit throat gesture with his finger.
When class was dismissed Gopher Piddington grabbed his book and shot out the door and down the steps, confident he could outrun the heavy legged older boy.
Gopher figured he could outrun or outlast the bigger boy but he soon heard the thundering of Horatio’s heavy boots comin
g up behind him. Gopher steeled himself for a last-minute charge, hoping Horatio would tire.
He couldn’t have been more wrong. Two big, meaty hands clasped Gopher’s shoulders and forced the thinner boy to the ground, where the threat of a hammer-like fist appearing as big as a Christmas ham hung overhead.
Horatio didn’t strike Gopher but he did mutter something like, “Me not like what you did.” Then the bigger boy climbed off Gopher and went his own way.
For several days, Gopher analyzed the recent fiasco. “Surely,” he thought, “If I could get a quicker start I could outrun the big fellow.”
Gopher picked a day when he had the least amount of books to haul home. And he asked Miss Bidwell for the seat closest to the door. She complied with some curiosity, as most children didn’t appreciate the breeze coming in under and around the door.
Just before class dismissed, Gopher grabbed a shock of hair and raised it high enough for Horatio to see. The bigger boy flushed red; his nostrils flared like the mean old bull down in the lowland pasture.
Like a streak, Gopher exited the building, convinced he would prevail this time.
Again, those heavy large hands grabbed him and dragged him to the ground. Again, Gopher avoided being hit. Horatio just smiled at his captive for a few minutes and then let him up.
Now, Gopher wasn’t slow thinking in any sense of the word. He just didn’t know when to quit.
In a sincere effort to increase his running speed, he started running all the way home, including puffing and chugging up the long, winding dirt road to home.
After weeks of the same routine, Gopher was convinced he was in top shape could outrun his bulky nemesis.
Gopher was wrong again. It seemed the heavy young man had reserves Gopher hadn’t considered.
Eventually, after nearly a dozen attempts at teasing and trying to outrun Horatio, the big man merely ceased reacting to the hair-up taunt. Gopher guessed the fellow was tired of the chase, even though he smiled pleasantly every time he was victorious and caught up to him.
While the two did not strike up a friendship outside school hours, they did see each other from time to time. Only now, it was Horatio Hairrup that raised his own hair in jest.
The following year, Horatio finally achieved his long-time goal of finishing the eighth grade and moved away to a bigger town.
Gopher had several more years to go before he could claim either distinction. The lessons he learned from Horatio were simple: Study the material and tease others carefully. He also learned to keep most of his opinions to himself, a habit that would serve him well in future years.
THE BOXING LESSONS
When it came time to actually teach Gopher the finer points of boxing, Able was a bit reluctant. He had learned his skills at the hands of his own father and had been knocked around without mercy on many occasions. His father’s lessons were effective but harsh. No man yet had been able to beat the tall Englishman.
Able wanted his son to follow in his own footsteps in more ways than boxing; he planned on leaving Gopher in charge of their restaurant when he retired. But he didn’t want his only son to undergo the miseries and disgraces he felt at the hands of his father, a man who made his way through life by using his fists.
Besides, Kirsten would not allow such severe lessons and Able knew it. Gopher had no idea what his father had in store for him when it came to actually boxing his own father, a legend in his own time.
It took Able a long time to finally come up with a training regimen that Kirsten was comfortable with. In addition to adhering to the Marquess of Queensberry rules established just sixteen years before, Able assured Kirsten that he would use padded gloves on his hands to prevent the kind of damage bare knuckle fights often inflict on both combatants.
“Remember what you did to your hands when you were forced to fight Ivan? I don’t want either of you to suffer like that. Do you understand?”
Able said he did and would not hurt the boy. “But he will have to know what it feels like to take a punch, otherwise there is no point in just teaching him the part where he hits the other guy.”
“Oh Able, just be careful with our son. Promise me that, please?”
Able’s order of two sets of lightweight leather boxing gloves finally arrived. It took six weeks to get them from Boston.
“Why are these necessary, Father? I’ve never seen them on any fight poster. Is this something new?”
Able told his son that they were the latest things in pugilism and besides; his mother insisted they wear them. “You don’t want to hurt your old father, now do you?”
Gopher was eager to begin, but his father had a few things to share before lacing on the gloves.
“There are some rules to adhere to. There aren’t many but they are important.
“First of all, when a fight breaks out with children, it’s really not a big deal. No one is going to suffer serious damage. But fistfights between grown men are quite another thing: sometimes they expand into fights to the death. Think about that for a moment. Fighting at any level and at any age is not something to take lightly or without proper training.
“Tell me about the time Willy Guthrie hit you and what you did to him.”
Gopher relayed the story as best he could remember. “Well, it started with me getting hit by a rock Willy chucked. When he wouldn’t apologize I threw one back. It hit him and he didn’t like that, so he came over and threw a punch at me.”
“And why did you allow him to make contact with your face? You ended up with a split lip and a loose tooth. Did you enjoy that part of the fight?”
“No, but what was I supposed to do?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. First rule is this: don’t let the other guy hit you if you can possibly avoid it. The second rule is, if you can’t avoid being hit, try your best to soften the blow; you know, roll with the punch to lessen its effect.”
“I think I did a little bit of second one. I remember seeing his fist coming at me and tried to turn away. Did I do good?”
“You did very good, even though I hadn’t spent much time teaching you. And, that fellow was much bigger than you; so yes, you did good.
“Now let’s work on the first tip. There are ways to tell when your opponent is going to throw a punch before he throws it.”
“How is that?”
“There are several ways. One is to watch the eyes of your opponent. When he is getting ready to unleash a haymaker his pupils will get slightly bigger from the anticipation—much like the eyes of a cat ready to pounce. That is one way to tell what’s coming.
“Another is to watch your opponent’s muscles. Often the chest muscles will tighten up a bit just before a punch is thrown. But that method won’t do you much good if your opponent is wearing a shirt.
“Still another way is to prepare yourself. Your balance is key to this method. If you can’t tell when a punch is coming, you must balance yourself so you can move your head or your body out of harm’s way. There’s rarely a need to stand there and take punishment. There’s usually a way to lessen the damage if you understand what the human body does during an attack.
“Why, I’ve managed to whip some pretty big fellas in my day without taking a beating while doing it—all by using the tricks I just told you about.”
“Did your father teach you those things?”
“Yes, but he backed up the words with punches, so I had to learn quickly, lest I suffer a lot of damage. Why, I went to school more than once with a black eye given to me by my Father.”
“That doesn’t sound very nice.”
“It wasn’t but I learned fast and I learned well.”
“Are you gonna give me a black eye?”
“I hope not. Nor do I want one from you. Your mother would kill both of us.”
In the early days of sparring between father and son, Kirsten often stood by and watched to make sure no one got injured.
Able was gentle with his son but the lad occasionally forgot the
basic rule of trying to avoid being struck altogether and Able’s punches landed more frequently than any of the three wished.
As the boy grew, so did his confidence with his boxing knowledge. When Able thought his son, now much taller than any of the other kids his age, was ready for more vigorous workouts, he first had to check with Kirsten and obtain her permission to get rougher.
“Well, my boy hasn’t yet been harmed, so if it’s in his best interest to pick up the pace, so be it. But remember your promise.”
Able Piddington began the second portion of the training; that of explaining what body parts could sustain the least damage and which ones were most vulnerable. “No man can make his nose more muscular and no man can control his tears when hit soundly on the nose.”
Gopher recalled the horror Willy Guthrie had shown when hit soundly on his big nose. “I will remember that. It’s a good thing to know.”
“There are other weak spots on the human body and it will serve you well to understand them. For instance, we all have ribs but those near the bottom are poorly connected and supported, thus much easier to break.
“And then there’s the liver and the kidneys. Both are vulnerable to attack. The liver is especially sensitive to being struck. It can be found just below the ribs and above the hipbone on your opponent’s right side. A well-placed strike to that area will either fracture a rib or send the liver into painful spasms that will buckle even the biggest man’s knees.
“Within the accepted rules are strikes to the head. I don’t mean to the jaw, as hitting an opponent’s teeth can do serious damage to one’s own hand. I mean blows to the temple area. A solid punch there will cause even the strongest man to lose his balance—and that moment of dizziness will allow for any number of follow-up punches.”
“All that is a lot to learn all at once,” Gopher protested.
“I know, but we’ll go over it again and again until you know and understand it all without thinking about it. Believe me, all this will come in handy one day—and you’ll look back on these sessions and thank me.”
The Adventures of Gopher Piddington Page 3