Davey Faces his Goliath

 

     They faced each other. One group of boys up on a hill, a smaller group below. The boys above had the advantage of a clear view as well as gravity to aid them in throwing their chosen projectiles, mainly stones.

     Davey was once again left to his own devices, and his little “gang” was outnumbered by the children looking down at them with malice. Having a reputation of possessing quick reflexes and a sharp eye, he was known for walking through the park, and all the yards along the way, then when a patch of clover was at his feet, he could zero in on the rare four-leaf clovers and even more hard to find five-leaf specimens. He’d look, bend down and pluck one, just as fast as that. He could catch a fly from midair with the flick of a quick arm and snatch it in his fist. (With encouragement, he could have been a pro ballplayer, but he got none of that growing up.)

     He threw stones here and there, but mainly assessed his situation. Davey was pelted by pebbles, dodged a brick or two, and watched a shard of metal land at his feet. He looked at one boy in particular who’d been taunting him menacingly with words as well as sharp rocks. He picked up a fair-sized stone and aimed it at the apex and the child atop it.

                                                                      THUD!

     The stone hit its mark, striking right at the boy’s temple just as the big-mouth braggart turned his head toward his comrades. The injured child collapsed and then fell down the back of the hill. Davey realized he’d probably killed his target. Like before with the Russian sailor, he ran as far from the scene as he could, but this time, he felt remorse. He’d fatally struck a fellow playmate. Davey later heard that the boy was in rough shape and possibly could have died. Nobody knew who struck the damaging blow. He never confessed.

     Davey vowed never to throw rocks again. EVER.

     Shortly after that incident he and Harold were sent home to Michigan.

     Twenty years later, living in Delray, Dave Owen was a father of two step-daughters with a baby on the way. In the late summer humidity and city haze, neighborhood children were at play. His little six-year-old favorite, Margie, got into somewhat innocent rock throwing with the Nagy children and some others. At first it was just lobbing, but it quickly tuned into the oldest kids seeing who could throw a stone the hardest and leave a mark.

     Dave took Margie aside and told all of the youngsters, “Stop that! You could kill someone! I don’t want to see any of you throwing rocks at each other, ever again. You got that?” He turned to little Margie, and said, “. . . and if I ever catch you throwing rocks again, I’ll blister your little bottom!”

     Generally, the threat of a spanking would be more than enough for the waif to comply, but the next day, there they were again, chucking stones in the alley, Margie in the thick of things. He walked outside and the girl was still clutching a rock in her tiny fist, about to throw it, her back to Dave. The other children let their rocks drop to the ground, wide eyed. Margie let hers fly, but of course she didn’t have the arm strength to reach her intended mark with any real force. Deed accomplished, she then followed the gaze of at least one child and turned to see her daddy fuming. He took her by the arm and led her to the yard. All the while he thought to himself,

What am I going to do?  I told her not to get into another rock fight and yet she defied me! I need to show those kids that I mean what I say, yet, I can’t beat my little girl!

     Once inside their house, Dave asked Margie, “Do you know what you did wrong?”

     “I threw rocks after you told me not to.”

     “Do you know what I have to do?” he asked.

     “Daddy, please don’t spank me!” she pleaded as Dave slowly removed his leather belt.

     “This is going to hurt me more than it will, you,” he confessed.

     Outside the children listened as they heard the loud crack of the belt as it landed. “WHOMP!” followed by screaming. Again, the striking sound and yet again, followed by the keening wails of a small child. By this time, some of the neighborhood kids had pulled their moms and dads off of their porches and out of their homes, but back then, it was rare for another grown up to interfere with the punishment a parent inflicted upon his children. There was another blow, and another, then loud yelps.

     Inside, Dave was about to lash again. His belt lifted high, it came down and struck the leather couch a sixth time just as it had the others. He had not touched Little Margie. He knew that if he had, not only would it have possibly killed the tiny girl, but he couldn’t live with himself for inflicting such pain. She screamed and cried and meant every lamentation that blubbered from her lips beneath a snotty nose. Arm sore, Dave threw his belt in a corner. Margie did not go outside again until evening.

     For many years the neighbors thought that Dave had whipped his little step-daughter. Even as a teen, Margie believed he’d struck her mercilessly with his belt. A decade later as I sat with everyone and we gathered to talk about the old days, Margie said, “I remember when you hit me with your belt for throwing rocks. I hurt so bad -- far past the first day of school!”

     “You thought I’d actually hit you? I could have killed you if I’d struck even one blow!”

     Mary and Steve Nagy looked at each other, “Yeah, we remember that day!”

     “Well, each and every smack, I was walloping the couch next to your little bottom. I never hit you in your entire life!” Dave confessed. “What was I supposed to do, let you go unpunished for throwing rocks after I told you not to? All those kids watching?”

     Margie sighed, then got up and hugged him. They both had tears in their eyes. He drew back and with a ragged breath said, "I might have killed someone throwing stones, when I was a kid." That’s when he told us all about the last rock fight he ever had:                                                                                           

     “We faced each other. One group of boys up on a hill, a smaller group below. The boys above had the advantage of a clear view as well as gravity to aid them in throwing their chosen projectiles, mainly stones…”