Does Everyone Need a Pat on the Back?
It’s Sunday morning. I’m sitting quietly, enjoying my coffee, when a memory from almost fifty years ago comes riding back into my mind.
Funny, isn’t it, how some of the craziest moments in our lives return when we’re doing absolutely nothing?
I’m twelve years old, growing up in Windsor, Ontario.
It’s summertime, late afternoon, and I’m shirtless, riding my bicycle home from my buddy Kris’s place. I’ve got to be home for dinner at five o’clock.
My dad will be sitting at the dining room table. Shirtless, cigarette in hand.
And I’d better be on time.
Back then, my bicycle was freedom.
I could fly around town, my thin blond hair blowing behind me, enjoying the speed, the wind, and that wonderful feeling of being alive.
There was something about the rhythm of pedalling, the movement, the freedom of going wherever my legs could take me.
And then…
WHAM!
Some guy leaned out of a passing car and smacked me right across my bare back!
A random act of not-so-kindness!
Fortunately, I didn’t fall off my bicycle. Somehow, I managed to keep my balance.
But here’s the part that still amazes me nearly fifty years later.
I started chasing the car!
Think about that for a moment.
A twelve-year-old kid, on a bicycle, chasing a car full of guys he didn’t know.
What exactly was I planning to do if I caught them?
Apparently, that question never entered my twelve-year-old mind.
I was furious.
And I was going to catch them!
I pedalled like the wind. Actually, more like a hurricane.
The car was heading along Prince Road toward Malden, and I figured I might catch them at the first traffic light.
Nope.
They turned right.
Now we were heading toward the busy intersection of Tecumseh Road and Huron Church Road, where truck traffic heading toward the American border seemed endless.
But I knew something.
There was another traffic light ahead.
And if that light turned red…
I HAD THEM!
I flew past my old grade school, Marlborough, like someone blowing smoke from a Marlboro cigarette in a windstorm.
Yeah, I know. Pathetic comparison.
But I like it.
My heart was pounding, my legs were pumping, and I was absolutely determined to catch that car.
I wanted that licence plate.
And I wanted to confront the guy who had smacked me.
Then I saw it.
The traffic light was turning yellow.
The car was slowing down.
And twelve-year-old Chuck Bates was about to catch Slap Happy Stewart!
I pulled up beside the car, right there in the middle of the road.
“I GOT YOUR LICENCE PLATE, IDIOT!”
And then I offered him some additional advice about where he could go.
Something about having a harmonious life.
You know the expression.
It rhymes with truck.
And my name is Chuck!
I’ll never forget the look on that guy’s face.
His eyes practically popped out of his head.
You know those little squeeze toys where you press the middle and the animal’s eyes bulge out?
That was him!
I don’t think he could believe what he was seeing.
The twelve-year-old kid he’d just smacked across the back had chased down his car and was now standing there, on his bicycle, giving him hell!
The light turned green.
And they drove away.
Now, looking back all these years later, I recognize just how badly that situation could have ended.
First, that smack could have knocked me off my bicycle and straight onto the pavement.
Second, what on earth was a twelve-year-old boy going to do if a guy in his early twenties had stepped out of that car?
I suspect the sheer shock of seeing me there worked in my favour.
But at twelve?
I wasn’t thinking about any of that.
I was thinking about standing up for myself.
And apparently, I had enough determination in those skinny little legs to chase down a moving car!
Eventually, I made my way home.
I told my father what had happened.
The police were called.
My father knew people on the force. He had relationships throughout the neighbourhood and the city, and over the years I’ve heard some remarkable stories about the man he was.
Those are stories for another day.
But there’s one moment from that afternoon I remember particularly well.
My father was sitting at the dining room table, shirtless, smoking his cigarette.
He took a long drag.
Then, with his other hand, he turned me sideways to examine the bright red handprint still visible across my back.
He looked at it.
And then he said:
“I’ll look after it, son.”
Cigarette smoke drifted from his mouth.
And that was that.
I knew my father.
He took care of it.
I went into the house.
And, by the way…
I made it home for dinner on time!
Nearly fifty years later, sitting here with my Sunday morning coffee, I still smile at the memory of that skinny, blond-haired kid chasing down a car.
I can also appreciate how foolishly dangerous it was.
But there’s something about that boy I recognize in myself even today.
He wasn’t always wise.
He certainly wasn’t always cautious.
But when something happened that he believed was wrong, he wasn’t inclined to simply accept it.
Life would eventually teach him that not every confrontation requires a fight, and that sometimes the greater strength is knowing when and how to respond.
But that willingness to stand up for himself?
Well, I suppose some things stay with us.
And I knew something else that afternoon.
My father had my back.
Be careful who you pat on the back.
From Sunglasses in the Rain — a developing collection of personal stories and reflections by Chuck Bates.