Clifford Long was a bully. Some kids are
wired that way. I learned that the behaviour can be adjusted but I wasn't
cerebral enough when I was eleven. I was scared. Clifford intimidated all of
us. It wasn’t that he was taller than the rest of us. It was assumed that he
was stronger. His aggressive language and demands worked for him. Mostly we
managed to coexist, play together, but every kid his age had run-ins with
Clifford. Something would tick him off and he would punch us in the chest or
arms or whack at our heads. I had a couple of such brush-ups with him and I remember
that it hurt. I cannot remember what I did that ticked him off the last time - that
is, the last time he picked on me. It was after school and after supper. A
bunch of us were in the schoolyard which was only minutes from my house. It was
growing dark at about eight o'clock. He was angry and he chased me but I was
faster, far faster, faster than anybody that I knew. In a blink I was out of
the schoolyard, down Church Street, then in a panic bounded up on somebody's
house porch. Behind a small waist high porch wall I hid. Clifford came calling
my name, getting closer, closer. What could I do? What would I do? Then he was
near my hiding spot. I leaped out and bounded down the steps and in mid-flight
punched him hard in the gut, and I ran. He cried out, doubled over on the
sidewalk with hands to his stomach but I was gone, home. Next day at school, I
was worried he would be after me again. Nope. No problem. He stayed his
distance. Days later he spoke with me, just about harmless stuff as if nothing
was different, but it was. He respected me.
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