But she apparently deduced that having yourself tied to a tree and peeing in your pants must be some crafty new tactic to avoid class. She took me inside to be upbraided by the principal, a kind woman who saw at once that something more dismaying had taken place. I was sprung from class and sent home. I suppose the trauma of the ordeal should have left me saddened and wiser. A few jerks who didn't know who Billy Pierce was got scared off by a little bit of pee-pee.
Bullies ought to be made of sterner stuff.
My father's attackers were not so easily routed. Minor leaguers, that's what they are here. It was 1957, and though reports abounded that Brooklyn's Dodgers and New York's Giants were scheming to head west, San Francisco was still minor league territory. But at the end of the day, pal, they're still minor leaguers. Saturday mornings, after he came off work and had a nap, my father would take me to a movie theater down by the wharves that showed nothing but cartoons.