Column: Living through a schoolyard fight

There was a particular word employed frequently on my junior high school campus that sent shivers up and down my spine.

“Pound.”

Pound? Really?

Not pound as in: “I need to lose a pound or 10 to get into my summer togs.” I’ve been thin all my life so that’s never been an issue.

Not pound as in: “You owe me one pound, 20 pence.” European currencies with their birds, colonnades and color renderings of royals have always stumped me.

Rather, pound as in: “Carnett, I’m going to meet you at the bike rack after the last bell and POUND you!” That always got the adrenaline pumping.

The whole school was watching.

All the kids who rode bikes to school would automatically show up at the public joust because they naturally gathered at the racks at 3 p.m. to collect their Schwinn Racers.

The kids who rode one of the five buses parked in the lot near the bike racks had an unobstructed view — through a window and leather-seated comfort — until the buses pulled out promptly at 3:15 with much growling and belching of exhaust.

Even a poundee’s best friend would show up to watch him “eat it.” There was a perverse fascination with that.

Most students would be there — at least for round one. But the brouhaha seldom lasted longer than Cassius Clay’s first-round TKO of Sonny Liston. Two or three wild swings, a torn shirt and … finis. Blood was rarely spilled.

Frequently, one or both of the combatants would fail to show up which proved to be, in truth, a relief to many.

But when a challenge for a pounding was issued it was never about choice on the recipient’s part. It was an ultimatum. The only options were show up or face disgrace.

“I’m gonna pound you” was the accepted vernacular. And when issued in the mid-1950s, most boys in the 7th and 8th grades at Everett A. Rea Junior High School on Costa Mesa’s westside knew what it meant.

“Hey, did you hear?” one would say to another. “(So and so) is going to ‘choose-off’ Jimmy Carnett and pound him after school.”

“Choose-off.” Boy, that term brings back memories.

Sometimes our principal, the stout Mr. Puffinbarger (we called him “Puffy”), got wind of it and made a preemptory strike over the P.A. system: “There will be no fight at the racks today or you’ll be suspended. Your mom and dad will be in my office.”

You could, of course, take your scrap across the street — to the churchyard. But no one wanted to defile a house of worship.

The pounder’s testosterone-fueled challenge was generally issued at lunch in front of lots of students, including girls … especially girls.

There was no uncertainty as to intent: “I’m going to wring your pencil neck in front of the world.”

And in front of Katie Miller.

Katie was winsome and lovely, with freckles and a ponytail. Her deep brown eyes were hypnotic. I had her address, phone number and date of birth committed to memory. She had no inkling who I was. I didn’t want to introduce myself by getting pounded in front of her.

The possibility of a public humiliation at ground zero of my life haunted me. The prospect of being assaulted by a bully twice my size was existential for this seventh grade beanstalk. Endorphins routinely coursed through my antelope brain.

Though my public pounding never ever occurred, its inevitability seemed certain to me. I never admitted my angst to another. I didn’t want to be branded a coward.

That’s how I became class clown. It was my defense against bullies. They were terrifying in the schoolyard but couldn’t touch my verbal jabs in the classroom. Regrettably, life is lived mostly on gritty asphalt.

Fortunately, many times after a challenge was issued … things would blow over for us Serengeti dwellers. Collective memory was undependable. Lost honor could be restored after all.

The world began anew with the rising of the sun. Perspectives changed overnight. Some guys grew an inch in 24 hours.

Still, many of us worked hard to evade public embarrassment.

JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.