Holly Wimmer was not a girl you messed with lightly. In an incident during freshman year while walking the crowded hallways in her pom squad uniform during passing period, senior football player Ty Malone smacked Holly on the ass. Some football players were known to take such liberties with the poms and cheerleaders. It was not popular among the squads and resulted in a few screaming matches, but nothing more. That day, however, the balance of power shifted.
The sound of the smack had not even died away before Holly spun around and smacked Ty. Well, smacked is the wrong word. Punch is a better word for what Holly did. Jab would most likely be the technical term. Holly delivered a textbook-full-weight-behind-it jab right on to Tys nose. You see, Holly was the youngest of five children. And the only girl. So, growing up with five brothers had made her what we liked to refer to as a brass cupcake. Cute, pretty and delicious looking, but you could get your teeth broken if you took liberties.
Ty staggered back, nose in his hands. The blood was starting to run through his fingers, when Holly uttered one word, Pig. Then she turned and walked away through a rapidly clearing path down the hallway. This act earned Holly the admiration and respect (and for some a healthy dose of fear), a three day suspension for fighting under the zero tolerance policy, weekly visits to the counselors for the rest of the semester for anger management and a large bubble of personal space from then on in the hallways. Her boxing skills and athleticism also earned her the co-captaincy of the squad that year, and all years since. And it goes without saying, no one bothered the pom or cheerleading squads from that point forward.
Holly! I called out. What did we have to read for lit class today?
Holly turned and stopped in the hallway by a bank of lockers. As I stepped up to her, I pointed at her shoes and exclaimed, Whats that!?!?
Holly looked down and saw I had my hand in a fist with a single finger extended, the sign for one punch. I grinned.
Gotcha. I was still grinning. Holly had not been playing Uncle Mickey for that long, she still did not have the paranoid instincts a seasoned player like myself had, which made her an easy mark. Uncle Mickey was a game my circle of friends had been playing since we started high school. The name came from Bryans Uncle Mickey, who taught that game to him. I am sure it has another name, but thats what we called it. The object of the game was to make a symbol below your waist and to get the other person to look at it. Each symbol represented a number of punches you then got to deliver to the bicep of the other player. In this case, it was a simple fist with my pointer finger extended.
Holly grimaced. OK. Take your best shot. She said as she turned her head, chin into her shoulder.
I thought about this. I was hitting a girl. I should not put my whole shoulder into it, or twist my fist to generate more torque right before I hit or extend a knuckle. And, again, she was not a seasoned player, so I really should not take advantage of that. That was the reason I only used the sign for one rather then a larger number. I decided to go maybe half power, maybe even a fourth. I gave Holly a short rabbit punch into the upper arm.
Ow! I cant believe you would hit me that hard! Holly squealed, dropped her book and turned her back to me. She have a little half sob.
I am sorry! I was trying not to hit that hard! Seriously! I explained.
That really hurt you jerk! This is a stupid game. I dont know why I asked to play. Holly sobbed.
Thats all I needed, a reputation for punching girls. I was the first one to tag Holly, so I guess all of this was going to fall down on me.
Hey, I put my arm on her shoulder, I am..,
Dont touch me you ass! Holly sounded pissed, The least you can do is pick up my book for me.
Yeah, yeah, I am so sorry Holly. If you dont want to play anymore I understand. I will tell the guys you are out. I am really sorry. The words rushed out as I knelt to pick up Hollys books. I needed to figure out a way to make this right, some way I could really apologize for this. Flowers maybe? I could write her European History paper for her. I grabbed her book off the floor, and as I started to rise I saw she had her middle and index fingers of each hand extended and crossed. The sign for one hundred hits.
Sucker.
Why are you only using your left arm?
I cannot use my right arm. It is all kinds of sore and not working right now.
Bryan made a fist and a pumping motion with his right arm and hand, a questioning look on his face.
No, not that you toad. Holly tagged me for a hundred.
A hundred? Wow. You suck at this game.
Shut up. She got bored or tired, maybe both, around sixty-five and decided to take the rest as credit against future tags from me. I cant even lift my arm right now.
Bryan was laughing. One hundred. She got you for one hundred. Ha!
Shut up. I am going to need to copy your notes from European History. I cannot write.
Sure. Can you grab my pen out of my bag?
I grumbled, but I did it anyway. I was going to need those notes for an upcoming exam. As I turned back around, I ran right into Bryan making the symbol for one hundred hits.
Crap
The sound of the smack had not even died away before Holly spun around and smacked Ty. Well, smacked is the wrong word. Punch is a better word for what Holly did. Jab would most likely be the technical term. Holly delivered a textbook-full-weight-behind-it jab right on to Tys nose. You see, Holly was the youngest of five children. And the only girl. So, growing up with five brothers had made her what we liked to refer to as a brass cupcake. Cute, pretty and delicious looking, but you could get your teeth broken if you took liberties.
Ty staggered back, nose in his hands. The blood was starting to run through his fingers, when Holly uttered one word, Pig. Then she turned and walked away through a rapidly clearing path down the hallway. This act earned Holly the admiration and respect (and for some a healthy dose of fear), a three day suspension for fighting under the zero tolerance policy, weekly visits to the counselors for the rest of the semester for anger management and a large bubble of personal space from then on in the hallways. Her boxing skills and athleticism also earned her the co-captaincy of the squad that year, and all years since. And it goes without saying, no one bothered the pom or cheerleading squads from that point forward.
Holly! I called out. What did we have to read for lit class today?
Holly turned and stopped in the hallway by a bank of lockers. As I stepped up to her, I pointed at her shoes and exclaimed, Whats that!?!?
Holly looked down and saw I had my hand in a fist with a single finger extended, the sign for one punch. I grinned.
Gotcha. I was still grinning. Holly had not been playing Uncle Mickey for that long, she still did not have the paranoid instincts a seasoned player like myself had, which made her an easy mark. Uncle Mickey was a game my circle of friends had been playing since we started high school. The name came from Bryans Uncle Mickey, who taught that game to him. I am sure it has another name, but thats what we called it. The object of the game was to make a symbol below your waist and to get the other person to look at it. Each symbol represented a number of punches you then got to deliver to the bicep of the other player. In this case, it was a simple fist with my pointer finger extended.
Holly grimaced. OK. Take your best shot. She said as she turned her head, chin into her shoulder.
I thought about this. I was hitting a girl. I should not put my whole shoulder into it, or twist my fist to generate more torque right before I hit or extend a knuckle. And, again, she was not a seasoned player, so I really should not take advantage of that. That was the reason I only used the sign for one rather then a larger number. I decided to go maybe half power, maybe even a fourth. I gave Holly a short rabbit punch into the upper arm.
Ow! I cant believe you would hit me that hard! Holly squealed, dropped her book and turned her back to me. She have a little half sob.
I am sorry! I was trying not to hit that hard! Seriously! I explained.
That really hurt you jerk! This is a stupid game. I dont know why I asked to play. Holly sobbed.
Thats all I needed, a reputation for punching girls. I was the first one to tag Holly, so I guess all of this was going to fall down on me.
Hey, I put my arm on her shoulder, I am..,
Dont touch me you ass! Holly sounded pissed, The least you can do is pick up my book for me.
Yeah, yeah, I am so sorry Holly. If you dont want to play anymore I understand. I will tell the guys you are out. I am really sorry. The words rushed out as I knelt to pick up Hollys books. I needed to figure out a way to make this right, some way I could really apologize for this. Flowers maybe? I could write her European History paper for her. I grabbed her book off the floor, and as I started to rise I saw she had her middle and index fingers of each hand extended and crossed. The sign for one hundred hits.
Sucker.
Why are you only using your left arm?
I cannot use my right arm. It is all kinds of sore and not working right now.
Bryan made a fist and a pumping motion with his right arm and hand, a questioning look on his face.
No, not that you toad. Holly tagged me for a hundred.
A hundred? Wow. You suck at this game.
Shut up. She got bored or tired, maybe both, around sixty-five and decided to take the rest as credit against future tags from me. I cant even lift my arm right now.
Bryan was laughing. One hundred. She got you for one hundred. Ha!
Shut up. I am going to need to copy your notes from European History. I cannot write.
Sure. Can you grab my pen out of my bag?
I grumbled, but I did it anyway. I was going to need those notes for an upcoming exam. As I turned back around, I ran right into Bryan making the symbol for one hundred hits.
Crap