Forced to defend myself

Today I will describe two other fights I was goaded into by adults who should have known better, both on the basketball court.

I was not a brawler growing up. I was more of a peacemaker, one who only stepped in when friends and family were threatened.

Heck, I was as well behaved a Cub Scout as they came in my day, an altar boy and an honor student who had the biggest paper route in the city.

As the eldest child, it was drilled into my head at an early age by my parents to protect my siblings. That and never EVER hit a girl. Even younger sisters. For any reason.

Bill Hammond

Growing up, I was reluctantly drawn into a few battles, almost all of them in defense of my younger brother. Tom had a bad habit of always having the last word, especially when told to not say anything more, a trait that infuriated many.

I saved him from several butt kickings, all of them at least partially deserved.

Anyway, the first instance of fisticuffs happened during a rec league game in the Fredonia Wheelock School gym. I was playing for the Fredonia Jaycees in the early 1970s and we were a terrible team. I don’t ever remember winning a single game.

I had been recruited by fellow OBSERVER staffer Ted Lutz and immediately became the best player on a talentless squad.

We were losing as usual one night when a player scored a basket and was upset a foul was not called on our team.

He complained to the ref then turned to me as I awaited the throw-in from a teammate.

This player, previously unknown to me, screamed, “F***ing OBSERVER!” at me.

Wait? What?

OBSERVER?

I was playing for the Jaycees, what was really going on here?

Turns out this jerk opposed my newspaper’s reliably conservative stance on issues. Frankly, I did, too.

I laughed, prompting him to move closer and yell unintelligibly in my face. I only laughed harder, further enraging him.

He then feigned a punch. I didn’t. I felt threatened by this madman and popped him right in the mouth.

We were quickly separated by teammates and thrown out of the game.

He later ran for public office. He lost in a landslide. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t get my vote.

My final adult altercation happened in a Dunkirk Rec League basketball game I officiated. The game was a mismatch and in the final seconds of the first half, the best player on the leading team attempted a shot from well beyond half court.

Time ran out before he could launch the shot. But as he did so, an opponent deliberately bent down in front of him. The shooter’s momentum carried him up and over the defender. He acrobatically flipped completely over the crouching coward and landed on his feet.

Since the half was over, I declined to blow my whistle. No harm, no foul.

That didn’t sit well with the losing team’s coach, who demanded I call an offensive foul on the shooter.

I explained the half was over and the defensive player was lucky I hadn’t called a personal foul on him for illegal blocking or a technical foul for blatant unsportsmanlike conduct. Defenders have to assume a normal defensive position and allow shooters a spot to safely land. He did neither.

The coach then invoked the magic word and I assessed him a technical foul. That did little to stop his off-color rage and I reached for my whistle to signal a second and disqualifying technical foul.

To stop me, he grabbed my whistle. I signaled the second technical with my free hands and ejected him from the game.

He painfully ripped the whistle from my neck and threw it across the gym. I responded by ending the game and declaring a forfeit.

He immediately punched me in the head, sending my glasses to the floor. He then stomped on my glasses and kicked them into the corner.

No longer an official, I defended myself. I unloaded a big right hand on his jaw and only his teammates prevented him from hitting the floor. It would have been my first career one-punch knockdown.

Hearing a scream, I turned to see their biggest player behind me. He was furiously demonstrating he knew karate, flailing punches and kicks in every direction. He stopped, then cupped his right hand and beckoned me to come forward.

Filled with more fight than flight, I advanced. Thankfully, site management and the winning team intervened and I was hustled away to a safe room.

The police were called, the losing team received a lifetime league ban and the city recreation department paid for a new pair of glasses.

My pugilistic career was over. And my wife would never have to learn all these sordid details. Oops.

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Bill Hammond is a former EVENING OBSERVER sports Editor