Fist Fight

I could almost see the steam coming out of both boys' ears.  Each was far too angry to speak.  I noted the bruise on the one boy's cheek and the battered ear on the other's.  For two ten year old kids, both had done a good job each on the other.  Managing at least to have gotten them seated at the same wide table and facing me, I considered where to begin.

Neither boy was one of my students, but I'd seen them enough to know that they had been good friends.  This wouldn't be resolved by telling them to keep their cools.  Whatever had brought this on would fester.

“Either of you want to talk?” I asked.  Neither did. Nor was there any sign that either would cool down soon. Proposing reason was unreasonable.  Surreptitiously, I checked my watch.  I couldn't send them to their classrooms like this unattended.  I had to get to my own classroom shortly.  The boys had a problem, and so did I.

The school had a teacher specialist who would routinely have been doing what had been dropped on me. The staff unofficially referred to him as “Mr. Fight Fixer.”  Fights were uncommon at our school; but kids are kids, and anger wrecks the useful day for everyone within range.  Our specialist was talented and a pleasure to have on board.  Only right now he wasn't. 

       

“Mr. Singer, sir. How long we be kept here?”  The boy with the roughed up ear had spoken.     I glanced over at him, and had an inspiration.

“You two don't be lookin so good,” I offered. “Yo mamas be askin how come you get them faces not so pretty.  What you tell yo mamas? It better be good, or they come longside both'n yo haids.”

For the first time, the boys sat up. Then they looked at each other. Then they both looked at me and began to giggle. They looked back at each other and broke out laughing.

       

One said, “Mr. Singer, you a teacher!”

       

The other, giggling, too, said, “What we tell our mommas?” 

       

I asked, “Baseball game maybe?” 

       

They looked at each other a moment, then nodded.

       

One nodded in agreement. “Okay,” he said, grinning at his enemy of a few moments ago. “Baseball game.”

       

As the two boys left the room, now arm in arm, one looked back and asked, “Mr. Singer, we cain't be tellin our mommas how you talk.  She gonna wanna know why.”

       

I said, “Well, it's a smaller problem than you DID have.” 

       

For the rest of the school year, they grinned at me every time we passed. One or the other would say, sotto voce, “Baseball game.”