Little bastard

When I think back 30 years ago to a time when I was in fourth grade at the nearby Catholic grammar school, one image comes immediately to mind: being socked dead center in my stomach by a boy named Eddy George (falsified name to protect the {not-so} innocent).

Eddy and I were friends. All of us in fourth grade were friends. Well, at least I was friends with all the boys. Funny thing is I don't remember one girl from fourth grade. Color me the definition of Tomboy because I had absolutely no interest in playing jump rope, hop scotch, or with Strawberry Shortcake dolls (this is a lie: I did like Strawberry Shortcake dolls but I couldn't let that be known out on the playground during recess!) with the other girls. Instead, I wanted to pee standing up like the boys (even tried to once or twice, failing miserably of course) and since I couldn't do that, I played tag and catch with them during recess instead.

Eddy and I often hung out at the playground at the park after school, too, until one day when he stopped being cool with me. I'm not even sure exactly when it happened or why exactly, but Eddy started being an asshole. And one day, before going into the school as we all gathered on the playground running around screaming our heads off, Eddy and I got in a little tiff.

I think I pushed him and egged him on, "Go on an hit me, you think you're so tough!"

I'm sure he mentioned something about me being a "Gir-url" and I, am sure, scoffed and cussed him out. And then, with his right hand balled up into a fist, he flexed his right arm and guided it back a bit so that he could eject his fist right into my stomach.

Holy hell did I want to vomit.

I also wanted to cry and did everything I could not to cry. But I'm pretty certain I failed just as miserably at that as I did with trying to stand to pee.

I remember clutching onto my stomach as if it was going to fall out of my body. I remember leaning over so much laying on the ground so that I could see the detail in the black concrete below me. I remember loafers and white socks darting all about me. I remember hearing nothing but the bell ringing just after my seventh grade brother asked me if I was OK and whose ass he needed to go kick. And I vaguely remember making my way up the few concrete steps into the school, avoiding eye contact with everyone and telling the nun teacher that I wasn't feeling well when asked what was going on.

Fourth grade was my last year at that school with Eddy; that was the year my parents decided to split so the next year I would be attending public school with a whole bunch of new faces. That was the year my life changed so drastically that I could never really catch up with it all.

Thinking about all of this made me look up Eddy George on The Google. It brought me to a Linkedin profile. According to that profile, dude owns his own law firm. I then found him on Facebook and again, mention of the Law Offices of Mr. Big Shot. There's a picture of him in his profile: dark haired, kinda short and stocky. I know it's him. It looks just like the 40 year old version of the 9 year year old who punched me in the gut.

Little bastard.

A part of me wants to send him a Facebook message to see if he'd remember me. But what do I say? "Hey! Are you the Eddy George who socked a girl in the gut in 4th grade at [XYZ School] in 1981?"

Ah the good old days.

1.) Share a story from fourth grade. (inspired by Wild Life in the Woods).