I had not been in a good fight for fifty years.
Last time was at the YMCA in town. A guy who fought all over town who I knew I could take. James Randall. He talked a big game and had whipped a few guys in town but he was skinny with no upper-body strength. We played a game of pool there, I knew a fight would come of it, and I was on a roll and he started moving the balls around on the table with his hands to block my shot and so I just took him to the ground. I said something to him before, but I can’t remember what it was. I wasn’t afraid, but I always got my back up for any fight and I loved that blood-in-the-throat feeling.
This time I was sixty-four years old. The guy was twenty years younger than me and didn’t think I would try anything. A guy like me who had everything to lose. But I had had enough of his stuff and the girls were all out of town and I was, I don’t know, just feeling it, like I had not felt it in, well, about fifty years.
I didn’t wait for anyone to throw a punch, I just came straight at him when he sassed me and got in my face. I grabbed his neck and took him to the floor and held him in a stranglehold until someone pulled me off. It was the best time I had had in fifty years.