The Rock Fight by Mike Sharlow

The Rock Fight

The Rock Fightby Mike Sharlow

Our world was unknown to our parents. It existed as if it were in a parallel dimension. It buzzed on a frequency our parents couldn't see, but our world reacted to the actions, the consequences, and vibrations of their world. All the conflict and violence of their world also played out in ours. They viewed our world through a prism that distorted their perception of who we were, what we did, and why we did it.

It was a hot July day and, instead of playing baseball at the field, fishing down by the river, swimming at the pool, or any of the multiple ways we filled or summer days, we found ourselves embroiled in a conflict with the kids from the adjacent neighborhood.

We knew everything important about our own neighborhood. We knew all the shortcuts from one yard to another. We knew all the hiding places. We knew the best gardens to raid and apple trees to pick. Almost everything significant to us happened in our neighborhood. We caught our first football, hit our first baseball, shot our first basketball, and learned to ride our first bike. This was our neighborhood, the size of our world, and we were compelled to protect it.

We had gathered in the cinder alley by our house. Most of us from the neighborhood were here: Eric, his brother Todd, John, Larry, Joey, Paul, my brother Matt, my brother Tim, and me. This was our gang, our army. I was unsure who declared war first: us or them, but we were in our territory, and they were presently a block and a half away walking towards us. So, they were the invaders.

The tension had been simmering for months, since late last winter when Matt, John, Eric, Todd, and Tim ventured close to their neighborhood — but still in our neighborhood we believed — down by the river at the Shad Hole. We called it the Shad Hole because schools of this fish were attracted to a huge area of open water next to the shore of the frozen Mississippi River.

The open water was created by a constant gush of warm water from a corrugated metal pipe that jutted out about ten feet at the shoreline of the steep riverbank. Most of the pipe was buried underground and followed the incline of the riverbank until it reached the street. The pipe was about four feet in diameter, big enough for us to walk up, and we did on occasion.

The Shad Hole was a frenzy of splashing fish flopping around on top of each other. With every cast you could snag one. We piled the worthless fish on the shore to rot or be eaten by bugs or whatever found them appetizing.

On this day, my brothers and the others encountered two of the Mitchell boys, Tommy and Bobby and Jerry Morrison. I was told that the Mitchells and Morrison were throwing large rocks into the school of fish, thus disrupting the fishing. My brother Tim called them "Stupid idiots!" and Tommy pushed him down. My bother Matt knocked Tommy down and chased the rest of them away.

Later in the winter, at the ice rink at Trane Park, which was in both of our neighborhoods, Eric and John crossed paths with Jim Mitchell and a couple of his brothers. The Mitchells chased them around the rink. It was a big rink, almost the size of a city block, and John and Eric were good skaters, hockey players, so they were able to escape.

Now, about an hour ago, Paul, Joey, I were riding our bikes, no particular destination, just racing around. The sugar from the candy we'd bought fifteen minutes ago from Rich's Grocery Store rushed through us like speed. We laughed as we weaved down the street.

Paul had a black Schwinn Coaster. It was built like a tank and, once it got going, it could really fly, especially downhill. I followed Paul on my orange Sting-Ray with the banana seat with a tiger pattern. Joey lagged behind on a yellow girl's Sting-Ray, a hand-me-down from one of his older sisters. The bike was called the "Fair Lady." He took a lot of crap for it, but he came from a big family where hand-me-downs of everything were common.