Slugging Johnson in the gut

Out the corner of my eye, I saw David Bonde, prim and proper with a new hair cut—a straight line across his forehead. He pranced over to the carpet a few feet from the other boys. He took out a brand spankin’ new football card carrying case that housed a gross of cards. A gross was something outstanding at this time in our lives. The only other time we’d ever heard of a gross of something, was firecrackers. And firecrackers are cool. Now, another gross had also made it into the cool category: a gross of football cards.
A gross, for those of you who don’t know, is 144 items. One hundred forty-four—that’s 12 times 12. More than our great 7-year-old minds could fathom.
Bonde pretended not to notice everyone eyeing him from the side. Boys were waterfalling over each other trying to get a good look. He pretended not to care that we were there, but he was performing for us. He knew we were watching…and lusting heartily after every freshly opened pack. Soon, a crowd of boys went over—all the cool guys. James Henrich, David Ripke, Jeff Dicks, Tony Christensen, Greg Oxley, yada yada yada... I knew I didn’t have any business over there. I told myself I didn’t care. When the upper crust moved over to stick their noses into Bonde’s business, it left more room for us. Those guys were the guys who were on the other team—the winning team.

I was sitting in the SRA area while the substitute talked to Mrs. Wellington. I didn’t have anything like a gross—right out of the pack, with its own carrying case, no less—but I had my share of cards. I carried them in some kind of plastic milk carton that had six sections. The night before, I had sorted my cards: Putting all the teams together with the starters in the front and the also-rans at the back.
Jim Johnson didn’t have any cards. I never really wondered why. I guess I never thought about it. I was at the age where some kids had things and others didn’t—we weren’t worried about it. Whether it was because he was less interested, or because his parents didn’t believe in such stuff, or some other reason, I don’t know, and I didn’t care. All I knew now was that he was crowding me—especially with his size XXL belly sticking out of his size M t-shirt. He was looking over my shoulder with his thick, black-framed glasses above his pink, chubby cheeks.
As the second team gathered, Johnson moved to the side, but still looked over with his eyeballs scratching the lenses of his glasses. Rod Bodholdt, the highest one in our group, just barely below the big boys, asked to see my Oakland Raiders, I was eager to oblige. The big man in our little circle wanted to see something of mine.
Then I notice a hand from underneath…it was Johnson’s pudgy paw. I ignored it, except I moved a bit in the other direction. Then, I see his fat finger swipe at Fran Tarkenton just as I was about to pull Fred Biletnikoff from the bottom of the pile. The next thing I knew, I see my whole stack tumble over and spill like powdered sugar all over the rug. Time slowed down. I thought back to the night before—Tuesday…Happy Days…Richie Cunningham…Laverne and Shirley. I had spent an hour sorting, adjusting, and making the order just right.
My eyes flashed. Johnson! What the…? My arm unconsciously flew out to slug Johnson
in the gut. Sure, I found my target okay, how could I miss? He must have weighed all of 100 pounds. My fist was swallowed by his belly. It was like a hay bale made of marshmallow cream. His gut encapsulated my entire forearm, and I pulled it back. Only then did I realize what I’d done. Jimmy was crying, and I saw Mrs. Wellington, who was trying to get out of there for some meeting or something, look terribly annoyed. The sub, Ms. Jensen, told her to go on ahead, she could handle it.
The next thing I know, someone had my collar, dragging me to the teacher’s desk. It was Larry Bielby. He was relishing the moment; for once, he WASN’T the one who was getting into trouble. What would happen? Never before had I been the star attraction of the fighting crowd. I was lucky. The sub didn’t do anything. Once Wellington got out of the room: chaos. Substitute teachers are fun.