Knives

French and Sweaty sometimes got into it. It was pretty rare, but occasionally things would get a little heated and the brothers would start swinging. French usually just got Sweaty in a twisted up wrestling hold and that would be the end. Once we were at Pancake's house and Sweaty caught French with a low blow in one of these rare scraps. French snapped and pulled a knife out of his sock.

 

He was brandishing it around and threatening to stab Sweaty. Pancake' dad came over real slow and took the knife and closed it up. He said; "I'm gonna take this knife. It is still yours but I'm going to put it away somewhere. If you need it you'll find it."

Weird, but Pancake's dad always talked like that.

Several months latter we were in a fenced off schoolyard playing basketball: Sweaty, Pancake, French, Bruce Fish and myself were having a good game of hoops. During the game two cars drove up and blocked off the gate. We were penned in. Five dudes got out of each car. They were from Perth and the had a beef with us because we were from Smith Falls. We were outnumbered 2-1 (worse than that because Bruce Fish refused to fight as he was a declared pacifist). These Perth boys were bigger and older than us so it wasn't looking good. The ten of them started to move forward.

Pancake made an observation: "What the hell is Bruce Fish doing?"

All 14 of us looked. He was systematically stabbing the tires of the two cars.

French took advantage: "I'm telling you boys he'll stab you next." Bruce Fish musta looked crazy. The Perth boys were pissed, but scared. We all slipped out of the gate past Bruce Fish and sprinted away.

A couple blocks later we stopped running. Bruce Fish handed French the knife. It was the knife that Pancake's dad had taken from him. Bruce Fish explained: "I found it stuck in that tree by the swings."

Are those wooden lacrosse sticks?

French and I took in a game of lacrosse recently. His son's select team was playing in Cornwall versus a team from the Mohawk reserve.

The game went well. Lil'French scored three goals in the first half. He is one fast n'feisty son of a bitch. As the Ottawa team scored the "chippiness" increased. The Mohawks were adept at these little flicking slashes across the wrists, but lil'French kept scoring.

I thought a fight'd break out, but it didn't - just more slashing and crashing. After half the Mohawk team came out, and they looked different. French said: "Are those wooden lacrosse sticks?" They were. The Cornwall boys started to lay in the lumber and some crushing body checks. They were no longer trying to win. They were trying to exact some physical punishment. Near the end of the game a full out fight ensued. Helmets and sticks flew.

French surged forward, but the ref put a stop to it...briefly. The fight resumed moments later in the parking lot. French and I were trying to extract lil'French. Since he had scored so many goals; everyone wanted a piece of him.

I was holding this one guy and French was about to deck him - he uncocked his fist - and said: "Dean?...holy shit...Mean Dean?" The guy I was holding said: "French?" They shook hands and started laughing. In the midst of this crazy brawl French and Mean Dean were introducing their kids. Mean Dean's boy and lil'French had been the boys that started the whole mess.

French said: "Remember that time you punched that guy in the truck?"

Dean: "I remember.'

They both stood there grinning. The brawl carried on without us.

Mean Dean

Mean Dean was the only guy that ever beat French in a fight. This is something that French disputes, but it was at least a draw: nil -nil. He would hang out with us every once in a while. French had a lot of respect for Dean. He always referred to him as "a stand up guy".

Dean's full name was Dean Medicineshield - he was 1/2 Arapaho and 1/2 Cree. I credit him with "the best fight ever". French refers to it as "the quickest".

Pancake, French, Sweaty, Mean Dean and I were walking home, late one night, down main street; when a pickup truck with a couple of rednecks drove by. This one good ol'boy yelled at Dean: "Hey Dean - you an apple - you a bush nigger". Then he laughed like a maniac and high-fived his pals. They all started to hoot and holler and make tomahawk chopping motions.

French took off running after the truck, but Mean Dean held him back and said: "he's mine". Dean slipped out of his cowboy boots and sprinted after the truck. I could see the look of fear from the boys in the truck, but they didn't go fast enough; he caught up. Mean Dean climbed up over the tailgate, grabbed the good ol'boy by the neck and absolutely hammered him in the face. I could hear the fleshy thud down the street. The good ol'boy was knocked out and slumped to the floor of the truck. Dean jumped off the side as the truck still rolled and walked back to us in sock feet.

French handed him his cowboy boots. All he said after this brief fight was "thanks French".

Sweaty's Monte Carlo SS - the mobile party.

Sweaty felt that he needed a car (a sweet ride) to level the playing field with French and his Mustang. Sweaty did so by getting a 1986 Burgundy Monte Carlo SS. It was big and pretty cool, but it wasn't a Mustang Cobra Jet.

Bruce Fish had the solution. He found a pair of huge wooden house speakers and a stereo system in the dump. Sweaty and Bruce installed them in the trunk of the Monte Carlo. Now it was sweet. Sweaty would role up to one of the many field parties, pop the trunk, pull out the speakers, set them up and crank some glorious hair metal. The first time he did it the crowd surge forward in awe and wonder to the sounds of Bon Jovi's "Living on a Prayer". Sweaty was the man!

One day we were heading home from a big bonfire. Sweaty, French, Pancake, Ollie (me), and a couple of girls piled on our laps drove down this old dirt road. It was really foggy and dark. Sweaty slowed down. He'd seen something ahead. He cautiously inched forward. We couldn't see a thing. He moved the car forward a bit more and there was a metallic bump and grinding sound. The car had hit a train. The train was going really slowly as it slid into town. He tried to back up, but we were hooked. We scrambled out of this two door death trap. I remember puling the last girl out as she screamed.

The car slowly got pulled under. As each wheel hit the car would be dragged further under. We watched in silence - looking at each other as each new piece of the Monte Carlo was destroyed. The car was getting eaten. As the wheels struck the trunk Sweaty yelled: "not my fucking speakers"!