“Hey, it’s the devil boy!”
9
David Bateman and his two bullies had been kneeling in the third-base dugout at the ball field. I would later come to learn they had been using a magnifying glass to burn ants and beetles and ignite small piles of dry leaves. I had the bad luck to pass just as Tommy Leftkowitz, the designated lookout, raised his head. At Leftkowitz’s pronouncement, the three of them saw an opportunity for infinitely more fun than burning insects, and they raced for their bikes.
My instinct for survival kicked into high gear. I pedaled as fast as I could, my pursuers speeding along the grass outfield on the opposite side of the cyclone fence. I had the advantage, riding on concrete, and probably would have made it safely to my driveway, but I lost focus when I looked back at them, no doubt a survival instinct, and my foot slipped from the pedal. The toe of my Keds struck the ground, acting like an unintended brake, and it sent me careening onto gravel. As I struggled to untangle myself from the bike, Bateman came to a skidding stop, back tire fishtailing and spitting rocks at me.
He dropped his bike and grabbed me by my shirt collar, shoving me into the park while Leftkowitz grabbed my bike and the baseball bat. Bateman pushed me toward the cinder-block bathroom building. I was certain he intended to make good on his promise to drown me in one of the toilets. Instead he pushed me around to the back of the building, out of sight from the playground equipment and whatever parents were there that afternoon.
“Hold him.”
O’Reilly and Leftkowitz each grabbed an arm while Bateman walked to where Leftkowitz had dropped my stricken bike. He picked up the baseball bat.
“Nice bike, Devil Boy.”
The first blow smashed the light attached to the handlebar. The second removed the license plate. O’Reilly and Leftkowitz laughed as Bateman raised and lowered the bat again and again, knocking off the chain and cracking the reflectors and spokes. He saved the final blow for the bell. It died with a sorrowful clang.
Breathing heavily, Bateman dropped the bat. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He looked like some deranged, sneering dog. And yet, at that moment, I also recall an odd sense of calm. Perhaps this was acceptance of my fate, resignation to the fact that I was about to be pummeled and there was nothing I could do about it. Or maybe it was an acknowledgment that I had it coming for peeing in David Bateman’s face, then sticking out my tongue at him. Or it could have been that I was so distraught over what Bateman had done to my new bike that I didn’t care what he did to me. My sudden lack of fear could have been due to any of those reasons, or a product of all three, but I no longer believe that to be the case. I remember thinking this was what I deserved, the devil boy with the red eyes. This was what I had coming to me for being different. It was only a matter of time before, as my father had predicted, I would encounter the cruelty the world held for me. David Bateman was just the person who would deliver the first blow.
His punch to my stomach knocked the air out of me and buckled my knees. I would have dropped had O’Reilly and Leftkowitz not held me upright. Yet the pain was almost a relief. Almost. In truth, it hurt like hell. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t catch my breath, and David Bateman didn’t wait until I could. He clenched both his fists and systematically smashed me about the face and stomach, just as he had smashed my bike.
10
I don’t know how long the beating continued, when it stopped, or why. I suppose that Bateman tired, or it could have been O’Reilly and Leftkowitz lost their courage. Initially riled, I recall the smiles on their faces fading to uncertain grimaces over the course of Bateman’s attack. Smashing a bike was one thing. Smashing another kid repeatedly required a completely different genetic disposition—emotionally primitive, impulsive, lacking any remorse, sense of guilt, or human compassion.
“I think he’s had enough,” one of them said.
“Hold him up or I’ll hit you,” Bateman said.
“He’s bleeding. You’re getting blood on your shirt.”