Kicked In the Balls- A True Story

Manhattan, Kansas, 1992- I've heard the story so many times and in so many versions from so many people that despite my not being present I do fashion myself as somewhat of a witness. This is a story about some guys. Guys from a fading generation. Guys that were not opposed to knocking your teeth out for an infraction of the unwritten rules. The gravity of that infraction could range from a wrong look to a slight against brethren of the female persuasion but to know you are in the presence of those who reward penalties with the loss of dental features warrants not only respect but attention as well.

They were all out at Tuttle Lake one day. One group of dudes and some chicks. Add one spurned ex-boyfriend, alcohol, testosterone and LSD and you got an afternoon of free fireworks. And yeah, they had Dave's 1964 Buick Skylark convertible too. The same powder blue sled of royalty that had chauffeured him home from the hospital just after his birth some 23 years before.

It was a story that happened in the sunlight but could be told at any time during day or night. And for a long time afterward it seemed to be told in an almost constant ramble. Passed from person to person it flowed seamlessly from conversation to conversation. There was no beginning. No middle. But the ending. The ending was always good. It was just that most times you were never around for the ending. Most people in fact thought the ending was somewhere in the middle but like I said, I've heard the thing told so many times in so many versions that the ending, in what I've deduced as the truth, was Just. Deserved. Warranted. Necessary.

And when all the participants were there to share their versions it was also pretty fuckin' funny.

It started out as something between one of the chicks, the ex-boyfriend and George but really, it was always about Dave. They'd gone up to the lake that day with a couple cars. Dave's in the lead. They had the booze and there was probably some other stuff but that ain't what the story was about. It was summer, it was hot. The lake may or may not have provided some relief. Most likely they just didn't have anything better to do and when Dave offered to drive the Buick anyone close by agreed to go.

They were parked, it was lazy and the sun was out. At first nobody noticed the guy at the other picnic table. But he noticed them. Or more precisely he noticed his ex girlfriend. And he sure as hell noticed the way she was enjoying the company of those guys. So he had to make something out of it. Started out with the verbal sparring which was deflected and ignored. It was August. In Kansas. Not really a good time to get riled up about anything.

But he kept at it. Came over eventually and tried to lay some hands on George. Why he chose George I never understood, maybe he was getting 'too frisky' as he liked to say. Whatever the cause once the hands were laid the situation was attended to. George didn't seek fights but he didn't run from them when they knocked on his door. This one was over pretty quick, George tossed a meat hook at the guy's face. He was already staggered from the booze he'd consumed and he went down. Limped back to his picnic table and nursed his nose while the guys kept going.

But he wasn't done and so he came back. And this time George didn't let him get first hands in. He popped him and dropped him. And here is where the versions get diluted. What George said and how he said it varied depending on the level of inebriation of the one telling it. Jace Face usually had the most dramatic quotes but Tommy could be counted on for his reasoned approach and I use his testament here.

"Get the fuck outta here and don't come back!" is how Tommy recalled George's reaction.

The dude left. He now had a swollen lip to accompany his nose. The guys went back to doing whatever it was they were doing. Impressing the chicks most likely but how they did so is also up for debate. Dave never really offered his anecdotal evidence until much later in the story. He was probably far more concerned with the chicks at this stage than with the showdown and most likely he wasn't even aware of the thing until later. It had been pretty one sided so far and that wasn't likely to rile his fire.

But the dude kept coming. Three times over, four times, then five. Each time he got beaten, each time progressively worse. The nose had a lip, an eye, a cheek and an ear added to it, each arrival being accompanied by more serious threats and invocations to 'Get the FUCK outta here!' Once, after he'd been pummeled to the ground, it was said that Jace Face had to be held back from leaping upon the dented body.

"Let me get him!" Jace Face reportedly screamed. But Jace face wasn't fooling anyone, he didn't like 'gettin' anyone.

The rest of 'em though. They did like gettin' at someone. And as the afternoon faded they each got a piece. The dude kept letting them. He'd heal up for a few minutes then stumble back over and get punched, pushed, tripped and pole axed by whomever it was whose number was called. The face met the pavement many times that afternoon.

But Dave hadn't yet gotten involved. George was finished, bored with it all. Tommy's hands were hurtin' and Mike no longer feigned interest. But the dude wasn't done and he now set eyes on Dave. And as he did, he wrongly decided that since Dave had not yet introduced his fist to the dude's face that Dave must not have been much of a challenge.

History is full of such situations. A vastly misunderstood opponent. The dude set his eyes, they were roundly considered to be chemically enhanced by all who told the story, and he staggered towards Dave. Ignoring the cries to 'Get the FUCK outta here!' by Jace Face, George and Mike he kept coming. Tommy by this point had accepted that there was but one conclusion to this ordeal and he at least was curious to see its climax. Dave said nothing.

The dude stepped into the circle, violating again the territorial boundary. Dave met him with an instant fist. A good one, one that dropped the dude. Dave then reached down and grabbed the shirt, ripping it as he did. Pop! Fleck! Bish! Three quick short hammers to the nose and he let him drop, rising with the torn t-shirt in his hand. The dude groaned and stayed prone for several minutes. But the chemically enhanced surge that raced through his bloodlines once more took him to his feet and he grappled Dave from his knees. Dave evaded the attack returning the advance with a kick that actually knocked a shoe off, not Dave's but the dude's.

He crawled away, one shoe missing, no longer able to wipe the blood with his shirt and his shorts ripped from the abrasive pavement which he now knew so well. It wasn't long before his fires were rekindled though, the rage of forsaken love and violent defeat not allowing him to recognize reality. He charged, feet hitting an uneven rhythm as they pounded across the lot one foot bare, the other covered. Dave exited the circle, met him half way and dropped him strong once more, this time reaching down and prying off the other shoe and tossing it into the woods.

"Now get the FUCK outta here!" Dave seethed to the dude, clad now in only a torn pair of shorts.

At this point the story usually got sidetracked, nobody who told it ever told a condensed version and by this point the assembled were weary from the descriptions. Most thought it ended here.

But it didn't. It couldn't. There had to be another chapter.

And there was. The one where the dude came back, fought Dave again and in this melee lost his shorts, ripped clean from his body. He now had nothing but the white cotton briefs stretched taught over his scraped frame. I know they were briefs because it was the one fact that everyone agreed on. No boxers for this guy. Briefs.

And he came back, marching across the lot to challenge once more. Our guys by now wondering just what it would take to stop him, fists did not seem to be enough. He attacked again and the outcome was predictable. What was not foreseen was the fury of his assault and how in the process of his totally focused energies he somehow managed to break free from his last remaining clothing. Naked.

He yelled from across the lot, appearing to take pride and strength from his new uniform. He threatened, swore and raged. Sweat mixing with the blood oozing from his dozen wounds and obscuring his eyes. Hair matted in tangled fury he raised both arms to the crowd surrounding the Buick. They stiffened and rose as one, united to the threat. The dude crossed the lot, a stumble, a stagger but never losing the target. He came from out of the falling sun, the shadows stretching long before him his vocal chords raw with vile oaths.

And as he stepped to the group Dave stepped from his, anger being replaced by duty. His guys were targeted and their ladies were threatened. He would not allow the farce to continue. It would end here. Now.

And this was the part of the story where you had to pay dues. You couldn't just hear the end and you couldn't just hear it from one person, you needed the stereo version and when it was told right. In sequence with the timing and rhythms it required it had a mythological element to it. And at the terminus it would be turned over to Dave, the scene having been set.

And like I said, I wasn't there but I've heard it told so many times and in so many ways...I knew the end but I waited with baited breath each time I heard it. And when Dave had been allowed to fully immerse himself in the retelling it carried the weight of history. Drama.

The dude lurched to the circle, naked and bleeding but intent on vengeance. And when he crossed the perimeter his end was swift and merciless. I once heard Dave tell this story to his father. I was behind him with his older brother, we were at Arrowhead Stadium watching the Chiefs on a Monday night and refilling our beers when Dave lassoed his father into the the fable. Dave would sometimes get so caught up in his own exploits that he no longer cared about the audience and at these times the story really gained strength, as though he was still standing on the edge of that circle, defending his friends.

And you could see Dave go back there. Back to that lot standing tall to the golden sun as the threat heaved towards him. And here Dave quelled the advance. Quelled it with the only weapon he had left at his disposal. And when he used that weapon he used it with all the considerable force he could summon. He planted his left foot firm, a full stride in front of him and he swung his other foot in a wide, strong arc the full power of physics behind it. It had one singular target and one singular purpose and it achieved it with the full concussion of the universe.

In history there have been three kicks which are considered perfections of science, the full culmination of all the forces of nature colliding in one terrific explosion. Chuck Norris is responsible for two of them. Dave owns the third. And when Dave was telling the story he could tell it with a vividness that was beyond mere words, he would paint it in a picture that caused his audience to wince. And since I knew what was coming, I nudged his brother and we both looked at his father to see how he would react. Dave was sweating, he always did when he told it right, and he no longer knew there was a football game going on. He locked his father's eyes in his and delivered the climax with the same force that he delivered his kick.

"And then Dad, I- (**Editor's Note, The following quote has been deleted due to the excessive squeamishness it has apparently caused to some of audience members...art sometimes it ain't pretty and when The General blushes it's time to rephrase...Editor's Note**) and as he told it a vision of the scene would cross the eyes of those who heard it and the involuntary wince would appear.

And his target dropped with a thud, naked on the pavement. And down for the count.

True story.