Seems like forever ago, there was a bar with a barbox called Logan's Lounge. It was a fun hangout for me in my mid-twenties and on one particular Saturday night where it was typical for there to be a 10-deep waiting list on the chalkboard to play, I was doing real good holding on to the table.
Some guys would play for five bucks but most played for a drink. With the games going pretty fast on the barbox, there became quite a backlog of drinks owed to me which I was able to distribute to friends, and yes, the ladies, as I pleased.
There was one tall and very handsome young man who was pretty cocky and when he played me I can never remember if I ran out or maybe he got one turn at the table before I won. Grudgingly, he added his buck, or whatever it cost back then, to my backup beers list. He clearly wasn't happy about it.
He put his name back up on the chalkboard and went back by the bar. The way it was situated in there, one section of the bar was maybe 8 or 9 feet from the head of the table and he decided to stand there and as I said, it was Sat night and there was good activity by all the bar stools and at times it could crowd you a little when shooting from that side.
Well, this fellow, whom I later learned his name was Tommy, he decides he's gonna be a dick and almost every time I have a shot from the headrail going down table, he plants himself in my way with his back to the table like he's unaware of it and so a few times I had to ask him to give me room and, again, grudgingly and s-l-o-w-l-y, he would comply. It was real obvious he was doing this to break my balls.
Fueled by maybe 6 Millers and a couple of shots of tequila, and after about three or four of those crappy "excuse me, please" encounters, I decided I'd had enough of him and his bullshit.
This guy is about 6' 2" and goes maybe 190 and I'm 5' 10" and also about 190. I'm just a year or two out of the army and still feel like I can pull telephone poles out of the ground - the tequila helped with that feeling, too, I'm sure.
It's time for me to break again and there he is with his behind backed up to within a foot of the table and it's clear to *everyone* that this is being done on purpose and so this time I dispensed with the pleasant requests and I moved him out of my way with my left forearm and had the barcue in my right hand.
As expected, he didn't like that one bit and started jawing with me and before you could say 'I'm gonna rip your eyes out and replace them with your nuts' it was 'fight-on'.
And within 6 or 7 seconds I'd been punched two or three times in the head, hard. I thought to myself, 'this ain't gonna be fun'. Or maybe it was just, 'this freakin' hurts'.
I'd been in a few fights in my life and knew from experience that boxing was never my strong suit and, obviously, this guy
was very skilled at it. For me to have any chance at all I needed to run through a couple more of those potential haymakers and grab onto him where I thought I'd have my best shot. And, so I did.
We locked onto each other and began the death rolls on the pool table, the patron tables, then eventually the floor, both of us sneaking in digs and punches whenever and wherever we could. This continued for a minute or two, we somehow made it back to our feet and my nose was bleeding pretty good but like the true knucklehead I was, I charged him to begin round two. This was turning into one of those saloon-type fights right out of the old-west.
The head bartender, Tolly, was a woman for whom I had much respect. She was a good looking older gal with that over-permed platinum blonde hair that looked almost as if it could break if she tried to comb it. She was shrieking as she watched the place getting tore up a little. Most of the stuff there was indestructable but some glasses and a couple of things on the wall were broken. Tolly, like any responsible manager would do, called the police.
Within 30 seconds the sound of the approaching sirens brought Tommy and me back to our feet and, somewhat, back to our senses.
We both went up to Tolly asking for mercy and the possibility of settling up with her for the little bit of damage which she agreed to.
Turns out Tommy had some issues with the cops and so he was real keen on not getting arrested and neither was I so we agreed to let the cops know that everything was cool. The cops came inside and there we stood, both with torn shirts, pretty scratched up, and me with my bloodied nose, but somehow we were able to convince them that we were good and there would be no further problems.
They left, we got cleaned up and even had a beer together. :smile:
This was one of those situations that us guys occasionally experience during our lives where after having a fist fight, the combatants gain a little respect for each other and, in some cases, even become friends. I won't say we became good friends but I did see him a number of times there after and we were friendly towards one another.
And, oh yeah, turns out Tommy was a golden gloves boxer but I don't think he was a champion.
But you'd have a tough time convincing my nose that he wasn't.
:wink:
best,
brian kc
