The Great Clash

In 1961 I was the sole witness to the greatest fight ever held in South Oak Cliff (South Dallas). It was one snippy little, blond hombre, versus the meanest, big-‘ol hombrette ever to mosey down a dusty Texas road. My buddy T-Bone and I were just entering our teens and we just knew, with a sureness only teens possess, we were the two toughest kids within an hour’s bike ride in any direction. We’d often pick fights to build our reputations, like gunfighters. There were lots of challengers in the neighborhood, but we never figured on Francis, the girl who lived next door to T-Bone, giving us a lesson. Not a girl. No way.

Francis was the same age as T-Bone and in the same grade in school, but that was where the similarities ended. She was a head taller, broader shouldered, and thicker by half, outweighing him by a good forty pounds. Her blue-black hair was parted in the middle with the sides pulled into dog ears. She was good at sports, but baseball was her best game. With a great arm, she could put the ball right on home plate from deep center field with just one bounce, and she could knock a ball clean over a fielder’s head more often than T-Bone or I could. Still, we never took her seriously, because, after all, she was a girl, and would fight like . . . a girl. Also, in those days, boys did not fight girls. It just was not done.

Being kind, considerate southern boys, we dubbed her Fat Francis. We called her Fat Francis all the time and everywhere—neighborhood, school, church—it didn’t matter, just as long as she was where she couldn’t hear us. Not that we were trying to protect her feelings.

As a fighter, gaunt T-Bone was a little scrapper. When he punched with his boney fists, it was like being jabbed with the end of a broom handle. And I don’t know what started the contention between T-Bone and Fat Francis that day.

It was Texas-sweltering-summertime and, like everyone else, my family had our windows wide-open to catch any breeze, and any of the neighbors’ business we could get. I was feeling summertime lazy and bored—until I heard the loud and threatening voices coming from across the road at T-Bone’s house. Was there a bout about to begin? I looked out the window to see T-Bone and Fat Francis trying to cower each other by outshouting and name-calling. There appeared to be a good fight a-kindling so I hightailed it over there. I knew if I could get there in time and throw some sticks on the fire, there was a chance for a flame-up. As they were shouting, they started to bump each other like an umpire and manager.

In my full run over there, it took me a second to catch my breath and say, “Whoa there, ‘ol son,” as I poked him on the shoulder. “You’re not going to put up with that, are you, T-Bone? Get her, boy, get her!”

“Yeah. ‘Get her, boy, get her!’” Fat Francis mocked in a whiney tone as she looked down and faced her opponent, nose-to-forehead. Then with a slight laugh she turned to me and said, “Toothpick-boy ain’t gonna get nobody.”

T-Bone was puffed-up-mad, but looked a little unsure. He didn’t know what to do with this girl who continued to insult him. If it was a boy, he’d know what to do. He bumped her again and said, “You . . . you just get outta my yard, Fat Francis.”

Uh-oh. Nobody—but nobody—had ever called Fat Francis “Fat Francis” to her face. Her eyes narrowed and she leaned over him again, looking down menacingly.

I saw my opening. “’Fat Francis?!’ Hey, girl,” I cajoled, “you’re not going to let him get away with that, are you?” I figured I was making some progress, ‘cause it only takes one dog to know “sic ‘em” to get a fight going.

“I’ll show you fat!” she screamed as she came around hard with a right hand and slapped him exactly on the word “fat.” It cracked like a rifle shot. And then there was a stillness. T-Bone fell back two steps from the shot and shook his head. And I thought he did look a little silly, this pasty-skin, skinny boy with a red hand print on the left side of his face.

Taking back his two lost steps, T-Bone looked up at her, and—slapped her back! Francis looked more surprised than hurt. T-Bone looked at his offending open hand and appeared stunned himself at what he had done.

She countered by grabbing double-fists-handsful of blond hair and swinging him round and round and faster and faster till he feet cleared the ground. He got his feet under him and pushed toward her to relieve the pressure on his head and to reach out and get some hair himself. Able to stretch out his right arm, he locked on to her left dog ear.

They flopped hard on the ground, and commenced to wrestling, rolling, kicking, scratching, and hair pulling—all as they spit out as bad of names at each other and their mamas as each could think of. Everything attack-method she used, he used. That is until they rolled against a tree and he saw his next move. T-Bone dropped his pet hold on her hair, and using both his hands, pushed her forearm up square in a patch of poison ivy, and smoked her arm back and forth in it as fast as he could.

At one point during the fracas, she lost one of her shoes. As they rolled around T-Bone’s front yard, she was able to grab the shoe and start pounding knots on T-Bone’s head, all while holding him close with the other hand full of hair. He twisted and stretched just enough to reach her shod foot where he yanked off her other shoe and started whacking every part of her in range. They ended up on their feet exchanging hammer-shots with the shoes.

Then, at the same moment, they both staggered back off each other, exhausted, battered and beaten. They were so out of breath, they couldn’t even cuss each other. Francis turned and limped toward her house, the shoe/club still in her grasp and swinging at her side with each stride. Bent-over, slackjawed and still breathing hard as he teetered back and forth trying to keep his balance, T-Bone looked up to watch her go. Then he straightened up and easily tossed the shoe he had of hers back in her yard, well ahead of her. She stopped and paused a second before turning and giving a gesture with her shoe-hand in a kind of salute.

For quite a while, there were some signs of the battle-royal. Francis sported some bruises, and a bad poison ivy rash on her left forearm. T-Bone had claw marks dug-in from waist to head, and he lost a hunk of hair in the front. He wound up getting most of his hair cut off in a flat top, which sort of helped hide the sparse spot, but made the knots more noticeable.

A week later, Francis chose T-Bone as her rider in a game of horse. After a hard-fought battle, they were the last team standing, and both yelled loud whoops as Francis danced victory circles. T-Bone bounced along on her back with one hand on her shoulder and the other fisted high in triumph for the horse championship of the world they had just won together.

True Champions all.