Ain't that a kick in the head
This was in late summer of 1980. It was two blocks south of Broadway on Main. I guess about two in the morning. I had been out clubbing. I got off the bus and started walking home. Two guys confront me. One guy was a big guy, and the other guy was about my size.
The big one was the leader. He says I look gay. Am I a fag? I deny. Okay. This starts. These guys were looking for a victim. And I'm it. I know now, I know this: you can't negotiate your way out of this kind of shit. Start fighting immediately or indicate a willingness to hurt and make them believe it. Or start running. Call for help. But no one was around. Or, or, just take your beating.
I'm about 25 years old here. This was before I started boxing. Boxing may or may not have helped because it's hard to give away 50 or 60 lbs. I mean just as an amateur boxer.
But I tried to talk my way out of it. I offered to fight the little guy, "He's my size." No. No, that won't wash.
I could feel the tension ratcheting up. The big guy is enjoying his sense of power. It's the typical bully stuff.
Finally, I figure it's inevitable, and I throw a soft looping right hand on his chin. I might as well get one in. For King and country.
The next thing I remember is I'm in an area. I'm sitting on a gurney. "Where am I?" "You're in the hospital." I was in the emergency ward of St. Pauls Hospital in the West End. "How did I get here?"
A woman had seen me lying in the street and called an ambulance. They check me over and ask me questions. What happened? I'm okay, but I have a perforated left eardr