with 40 players, representing just about all of the boys in the school. The guys running across the field would run as a herd, the two guys in the middle picking their targets, often selecting the slower runners first, sometimes getting lucky when a faster one slipped or fell. The object of the game was to pat a runner three times on the back. Upon doing so, the target runner would join the two who started in the middle and help bring down the other runners crossing the field. Eventually, there were more guys in the middle than runners trying to dodge their way through.
The guys in the middle were also able to call a runner over, i.e. call out his name which obligated him to run. This tactic was usually reserved for the best runners. The best runners were called over by name once the pack in the middle had developed a strategy to stop him. Jim, even as a youngster was usually one of the last ones to be tackled. He would run through the mass of players in the middle time after time for the sheer fun of doing it. He would dodge his way through the defensive players, accelerating quickly when necessary, or changing speeds or directions so smoothly that no one could follow him.
Even as a youngster, Jim would often volunteer to start in the middle. Jim was always a good sport, never once, in his years at the school showing anger, even when tackled hard by an older kid. This was also true of schoolyard play generally. Jim, clearly the strongest, most athletic guy we had ever seen, never used that strength against any of us. He never fought. He never shouted at anyone. It seemed he was never angry. He was the calm force of reason among us.
Neither did Jim ever employ negative tactics against us. He would not straight arm to the head. He would not tackle to hurt. He would simply go out there and be the best. On occasions, when a fight would break out, Jim would commonly break it up, often putting his powerful arms around both boys and walking with them a distance, talking to them. No one ever found out what Jim said to them, maybe not even much was said. The key thing was that it was Jim who said it, and that was good enough for the fighters, and for everyone else. There were two noteworthy tactics that brought derision, the second one arising from the first. Jim never engaged in either. The first one was usually employed by big guys once they were tackled. They simply lay flat on their backs. This is because you couldn’t be patted on the back if you lay on it. Sometimes, this tactic would result in a stalemate, the guys in the middle, eventually just sitting there waiting for the guy on the ground to flinch or turn over. One or two pats on the back were often achieved, but they didn’t count. It had to be three uninterrupted pats—three in a row.
The tactic used to counter this manoeuvre was to place a guy behind the downed runner while another tugged at his private parts. This caused the downed runner to curl enough that three quick pats could be administered to his back. This game of cat and mouse proceeded for a few days until one mother showed up at school one day visibly upset. She marched into the school and went straight to the principal’s office.
“My son was hurt playing Pom Pom Pole Away,” she blurted out angrily. “It has to stop!”
The teachers reacted swiftly. The teachers lined up virtually all of the boys in the school and some of the girls, the ones who were known to play Pom Pom Pole Away. The exception was the Grade One and Grade Two classes who were only lectured sternly for quite a while and then released. The teachers then proceeded to give each remaining student the strap, three cracks on each hand. They started at the south end of the two lines in the hallway and proceeded north. Several students, expecting the worst had rubbed chalk on their hands, the white dust exploding as the strap hit.
“Go wash those hands,” they were ordered, “they are filthy.” Once washed, the strap stung more.
Jim and those of us who never employed the negative tactic of pulling private parts never offered any protest. We simply got strapped. We didn’t think anything about it, good or bad. The game of Pom Pom Pole Away was banned from the school yard, banned for life, the life of the school which was closed a few years later.
As for us, the day we all got the strap, we went outside, climbed the fence that separated the school yard from the Renaud farm and picked a few tomatoes to eat. The tomato farmer, who knew us, often invited us to do so, provided we kept to the outside rows. Everyone obliged.
Also that day, the bus driver, Tom S. had an unusual job for us. Tom S. had endeared himself to us earlier in the year by stopping the bus along the side of the road to let us try to catch fish that we had spotted in the ditch.
“Fish!” someone had called out. “Stop the bus! There’s a fish in that ditch.”
Tom dutifully slammed on the brakes and the bus screeched to a halt.
“Go get them,” Tom S. said, “but don’t get wet,” he added, as we dove into the water, perhaps a foot deep. We never caught any fish that day, but we sure loved Tom S. for letting us try. In any event, Tom S. was at the edge of the tomato field later that day, with his shotgun in his hands.
“Listen here boys,” he said. “I’ve seen two pheasants in the hayfield back here behind the tomato field. If they fly over the school yard and I get them, I want you to bring them over to the fence for me.”
“Sure Tom we’ll get them,” we replied. No pheasants flew up, but if they had, we sure wanted to get them for him.
“Hey, you guys,” we heard the teacher say finally. “What are you doing out here. The bell rang five minutes ago.”
“Oh, man,” we said, “we hadn’t heard it at all.”
“We didn’t hear it,” Jim answered. “We were watching Tom,” he added as we hurried to class.
VII—THE WEAKEST BOY IN THE SCHOOL
“We are safe this year,” we thought, as the school bus pulled into the school yard for the first day of school. We’re out of Grade One now.
As we descended the stairs of the yellow school bus, we noticed that a group of big guys watched us, bidding glad salutes to their friends, letting the rest of us walk by. But we suspected they had something else in mind. Eventually, we found out what it was.
“We’re going to figure out who is the weakest guy in the school,” they said, picking out four of the smaller Grade One’s as they arrived at school on their first day. I was glad they didn’t try to figure it out last year, because I would’ve been a candidate.
In short order, they had it down to two. The big fight would be at noon tomorrow. There was a buzz in class all day about the big fight, many unable to sleep that night in anticipation of it, everyone showing up for school the next day. Most people, including the girls showed up to watch, standing in a large circle, each locking arms to form a ring for the combatants.
“Whoever says uncle, loses,” someone said, “and you need to win twice to be the winner.”
The two little guys, not much smaller than me, started slugging it out. Their fists flailed, mostly at the air as they pushed and tugged at each other. They tore their clothing. They rose from the ground with grass stained shirts and pants. But no one said uncle. Each boy put a lot of effort into making the other boy say uncle. The other refused steadfastly. Eventually, one of them would say that distasteful word once. The match ended very abruptly, when the teacher came out to inform us that school would be let out early that day. Several Grade Eight students were ready to declare a champ, on the strength of the one student who had said uncle one time, but not two times as had been established as the criteria for championship.
Jim walked over to the potential loser, put his arm around him, like a friendly bear or a giant. “No way,”
