Please start with Part I and read in sequence.
To this day, I don’t know what came over me next, but I bent my knees – getting in what my seventh grade football coach called the hitting position – and lunged at Petey, hitting him where Coach Winters said one was supposed to hit a running back, my face in his chest.
I drove through the tackle with my feet churning, wrapping the opponent up with my arms. Winters would have been proud. We both fell hard to the pavement, and it must have knocked the breath out of Petey, for I easily got a knee on each of his shoulders, pinning him to the ground. Now what?
In roughhousing, the game would be over. We would get up and wrestle some more. But letting Petey up would spell disaster. He would punch, kick and maybe bite, and I’d be a bloody mess. So I just hung on, shifting my weight and using my arms to counter every attempt to get me off.
I knew my predicament was tenuous. The Hacker boys were yelling encouragements to their fighter, and telling me what was going to happen just as soon as Petey could get at me. I knew they were right.
I couldn’t hold him all night, and, even if I could, it wouldn’t be long before one of the Hackers helped things along by knocking me off him. I could tell a crowd was forming around us, teenage boys, like circling sharks, hungry to see first blood.
Tomorrow: The Conclusion, Rescued by the Fonz