Blog Post: Like Collo Hadn’t Warned Me

[From Our Blog]

New blog post by mickleinapickle – discussions in this thread, please
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“He’s gonna stuff me.”

“Don’t talk like that!” Collo grabbed my arms. “He’s just a twinkling fairy!”

“Yeah, but look at the size of him!”

“Don’t think like that… you can beat him. You’re representing ‘B’ troop. Remember your training! Don’t let him catch you… keep moving… you’re faster than he is.”

“Yeah, but he looks like he can handle himself.”

“He’s too slow… too cumbersome.” He looked at me earnestly. “Don’t forget what I told you… they’re all tarts in ‘C’ troop. Especially him.”

“Yeah, but he’s built like a bloomin’ tank.”

“Use your reach!” He pretended a killer blow. “Don’t let him near you… pick him off at a distance… head punches… body blows… you can beat him.”

“Yeah, but see how he’s glaring at me… it’s very off-putting.”

Collo hit himself on the forehead. “Look at me! He’s just trying to psyche you out. Keep moving… high work rate. Quick hands… right, left! Quick feet… in, out!”

“Yeah, but I’m feeling unwell.”

He grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard. “Remember to keep to army timing and you’ll batter him. One… two three… one! One… two three… one! One… two three… one!”

“Yeah, but…”

“One… two three… one!”

“Ok.” I’d run out of arguments.

“Come on, killer… let me hear you growl.”

“Grrrr.”

The referee beckoned me. Collo slapped me on my back. Ow! That hurt.

The referee checked our gloves. “No gouging,” he indicated with his thumb. “No rabbit punches,” he mimed a karate chop. “No hitting down here,” he mimed a punch to his groin. “I want a good clean fight. No biting, butting, spitting or swearing. No kneeing in the knackers. If I tell you to break… break!”

I glanced at my opponent. His nostrils flared… Neanderthal incarnate! I was hyperventilating… gasping for breath.

The referee looked into me eyes. “You OK, son? Are you ready for this?”

“Grrrr.”

Taking a step backwards, he raised his hands in dramatic gesture. “Get ready to defend yourselves,” he warned, then clapped his hands together sharply and commanded, “Box!”

I took my crouched stance like Collo had shown me. One… two three… one!

“Come on, lads… nice and steady now.” The referee advised.

“Knock his f*ck!ng block off!” I heard his corner shout.

I pranced around the ring like Collo had schooled me. One… two three… one!

“Come on, lads… pick it up a bit,” the referee encouraged.

“Punch his f*ck!ng head in!” I heard my corner shout.

I kept my right hand in reserve like Collo had taught me. One… two three… one!

“Come on, lads… let’s see some action now,” the referee ordered.

“He’s just a streak of p!ss!” I heard his corner shout.

I poked out my left jab like Collo had told me. One… two three… one!

“Come on, lads… go for each other,” the referee demanded.

“He’s just a pile of sh!t!” I heard my corner shout.

My opponent hit me in the face like Collo hadn’t warned me. One… two, three…

And then I saw stars.
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By @mickleinapickle
Get the discussion going – post your thoughts & comments in the thread below…

 

[Pamela Jo]

You are great at pacing and dialog. My Dad was a military lightweight boxing champion. He learned after a drill sgt beat the crap out of him to get him to sign out of the paratroopers. He'd put his hands in his pockets on the chow line. He never got a rematch with that sgt like he'd planned. D Day got in the way.

 

[mickleinapickle]

You are great at pacing and dialog. My Dad was a military lightweight boxing champion. He learned after a drill sgt beat the crap out of him to get him to sign out of the paratroopers. He'd put his hands in his pockets on the chow line. He never got a rematch with that sgt like he'd planned. D Day got in the way.

@Pamela Jo Collo was my mate in the army back in the seventies. He was a tough lad from Birkenhead (sounded like, 'baconhead' in his accent), and was part of the regimental boxing team. He persuaded me to have a go at the sport... the flash fiction piece concerns my first and last match. I was built for flight not fight. He won his first two matches, but then got badly beaten in his third, which caused him to pack it in. Trouble is that he had a very generous nose which proved to be a good target for an opponent. He just couldn't stand the pain of getting hit on it after his third bout. We took up tennis after that, and both got OK(ish) at it.

Interesting snippet about your Dad. Would make a good short story (or long one), but maybe have it that he met up with the drill sergeant on the beach at D-Day, and after a heroic battle, they ended up slugging it out. I think the story is just waiting to be written.

 

[Peyton Stafford]

New blog post by mickleinapickle – discussions in this thread, please
---

“He’s gonna stuff me.”

“Don’t talk like that!” Collo grabbed my arms. “He’s just a twinkling fairy!”

“Yeah, but look at the size of him!”

“Don’t think like that… you can beat him. You’re representing ‘B’ troop. Remember your training! Don’t let him catch you… keep moving… you’re faster than he is.”

“Yeah, but he looks like he can handle himself.”

“He’s too slow… too cumbersome.” He looked at me earnestly. “Don’t forget what I told you… they’re all tarts in ‘C’ troop. Especially him.”

“Yeah, but he’s built like a bloomin’ tank.”

“Use your reach!” He pretended a killer blow. “Don’t let him near you… pick him off at a distance… head punches… body blows… you can beat him.”

“Yeah, but see how he’s glaring at me… it’s very off-putting.”

Collo hit himself on the forehead. “Look at me! He’s just trying to psyche you out. Keep moving… high work rate. Quick hands… right, left! Quick feet… in, out!”

“Yeah, but I’m feeling unwell.”

He grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard. “Remember to keep to army timing and you’ll batter him. One… two three… one! One… two three… one! One… two three… one!”

“Yeah, but…”

“One… two three… one!”

“Ok.” I’d run out of arguments.

“Come on, killer… let me hear you growl.”

“Grrrr.”

The referee beckoned me. Collo slapped me on my back. Ow! That hurt.

The referee checked our gloves. “No gouging,” he indicated with his thumb. “No rabbit punches,” he mimed a karate chop. “No hitting down here,” he mimed a punch to his groin. “I want a good clean fight. No biting, butting, spitting or swearing. No kneeing in the knackers. If I tell you to break… break!”

I glanced at my opponent. His nostrils flared… Neanderthal incarnate! I was hyperventilating… gasping for breath.

The referee looked into me eyes. “You OK, son? Are you ready for this?”

“Grrrr.”

Taking a step backwards, he raised his hands in dramatic gesture. “Get ready to defend yourselves,” he warned, then clapped his hands together sharply and commanded, “Box!”

I took my crouched stance like Collo had shown me. One… two three… one!

“Come on, lads… nice and steady now.” The referee advised.

“Knock his f*ck!ng block off!” I heard his corner shout.

I pranced around the ring like Collo had schooled me. One… two three… one!

“Come on, lads… pick it up a bit,” the referee encouraged.

“Punch his f*ck!ng head in!” I heard my corner shout.

I kept my right hand in reserve like Collo had taught me. One… two three… one!

“Come on, lads… let’s see some action now,” the referee ordered.

“He’s just a streak of p!ss!” I heard his corner shout.

I poked out my left jab like Collo had told me. One… two three… one!

“Come on, lads… go for each other,” the referee demanded.

“He’s just a pile of sh!t!” I heard my corner shout.

My opponent hit me in the face like Collo hadn’t warned me. One… two, three…

And then I saw stars.
---

By @mickleinapickle
Get the discussion going – post your thoughts & comments in the thread below…

Hands in pockets never good. I made that mistake one frigid night in downtown Seattle, walking back to my hotel after a library conference. Next thing I knew, a little guy with amphetamine-blazing eyes had a knife in one hand and the other too far to the side for my peripheral vision to pick up. I stared him down long enough to disengage my fists and take away his knife (not that simple...had to land a couple of illegal kicks below the belt, and with a broken knee, he was helpless). In Seattle, they describe these guys as sons of habitues. Shorthand is SOBs. Hands in pockets is like wearing a lapel pin that reads beat me.

 

[Pamela Jo]

@Pamela Jo Collo was my mate in the army back in the seventies. He was a tough lad from Birkenhead (sounded like, 'baconhead' in his accent), and was part of the regimental boxing team. He persuaded me to have a go at the sport... the flash fiction piece concerns my first and last match. I was built for flight not fight. He won his first two matches, but then got badly beaten in his third, which caused him to pack it in. Trouble is that he had a very generous nose which proved to be a good target for an opponent. He just couldn't stand the pain of getting hit on it after his third bout. We took up tennis after that, and both got OK(ish) at it.

Interesting snippet about your Dad. Would make a good short story (or long one), but maybe have it that he met up with the drill sergeant on the beach at D-Day, and after a heroic battle, they ended up slugging it out. I think the story is just waiting to be written.

Yes, I think your boxing experience came through very well in your story. I only think your title doesnt do it justice. I thought Collo might have been a brand of toothpaste. Ad with guy in dentist chair, "Like Collo hadn't warned me. Next time I'll purchase it instead of Brand X."
Dad was barely 17 when he joined up. He wanted the paratroops- a new thing then. In the end made it into what became the 82nd Airborne and jumped into St Mer Eglise. Then fought his way across Normandy in the Battle of the Bulge. He was a cocky bastard when he got back to Kansas, but had to finish his last year of HS. You can imagine how thrilled his teachers were. There is definitely a book in there. On my bucket list is a saga about my family history.