The Brawl

We were panting and plastering cheap Burger King napkins on cuts, scrapes, and split lips when the three police cars entered the parking lot in a brazen red and blue flash.

I was part of a loosely organized church youth group when I was a teenager. One night a week, boys, dripping with testosterone, and girls, dripping with contempt, met under the watchful eye of a volunteer youth pastor. It was usually harmless fun, but sometimes we crashed together like atoms sizzling in a nuclear reactor.

One cold February night, all our quirks, festering tempers, and lack of social graces would—once again—be brought together. This time, it would be on ice. We would meet at the church. The fifteen of us would tumble into the volunteer youth pastor’s father-in-law’s 1982 Chevrolet Suburban and drive to the neighboring county’s recreation center and ice rink.

We all enjoyed the anticipation during the drive to the rink. The Suburban was spartan with only one back bench seat. But behind the seat was a linoleum-covered flatbed where gangly boys sat, tucking their legs close to their torsos so no other boy’s legs would touch. If the cracked, gray highway jostled one of the girls, the boys hoped their preferred crush would be seated near enough to lay a shoulder or knee against them. A boy would measure a girl’s romantic interest by the length of time it would take her to recoil from an accidental brush against him.

When we arrived, the rink was busy. Some teens were gliding effortlessly around the ice. Others stood along the wall, trying to look nonchalant while clinging desperately to anything that would keep them vertical. Girls who could skate clustered in graceful groups, slowly circling the rink like sharks in an aquarium.

We only skated for two hours. And with slightly chapped hands and rubbery thighs, we piled back into the Suburban for the customary, and for many, the most enjoyable part of the evening—stopping to eat on the way home.

On the main artery next to the ice rink, fast-food restaurants belched smoke from the grease fires stoked in their kitchens. The youth pastor squinted in the light of the fluorescent Burger King sign hoisted atop 40-foot-high steel pillars, nodded, slowed, and turned the Suburban into the parking lot.

The air, recently fragrant with greasy burgers, was heavy and still. I hoped the three guys would turn around and slither to the McDonalds about 100 yards down the highway.

A hamburger-scented haze met us as we swung open the heavy glass doors. All five lines were doing business with the blinding speed of Las Vegas card dealers. Our group split up, and a few of us stood in each line. 

In one of the lines, two 18-year-old brothers from the youth group named Ricky and Spencer stood behind two college girls and in front of three guys a little older than the girls.

The guys at the back of the line started hitting on the college girls. They were descriptive, but the patience of the girls was commendable. Perhaps they had faced this kind of drooling monologue before. But I could see the hairs on Ricky and Spenser’s recently shaved chins standing up, redness flowing into their cheeks and necks.

Ricky turned his head slowly, and his steely look met the eyes of one of the guys making the comments. There was a brief silence, then I heard a guttural, “What are you looking at?” Ricky’s response was a cold and menacing “Stop.” He turned back to face the front of the line.

The air, recently fragrant with greasy burgers, was heavy and still. I hoped the three guys would turn around and slither to the McDonalds about 100 yards down the highway. But the harassment of the college girls began again with a fresh vigor and a daring abandon.

For a moment, it was quiet. Then, I heard Spencer’s deep voice almost whisper, “He told you to stop.” Like a striking cobra, the biggest of the three guys snapped his hands hard into Spencer’s chest.

The line erupted with swinging arms as the five tumbled against the glass doors that led outside. The outraged manager screamed, “Out! Out!” and, “I’m calling the cops!” amid the surprised gasps of middle-aged women waiting for their burgers.

As the doors swung wide, the melee fell into the empty patio. I ran out, too. The drivers of two other cars that just pulled up knew the three guys. Those cars emptied and joined the fray. I swung around, not knowing which way to turn or who to help. I saw Ricky land a leveling elbow, sending his antagonist to his knees in the drive-thru lane. As I turned to my right, I saw one of the boys my age, grabbed by two guys, while a third landed a right cross to his face—his lip split, and a fountain of blood sprayed from his mouth. His anger became a fury, and he swung one of the guys off his right side while breaking free of the one on his left.

As I ran toward him, one of my friends leaped from the hood of a Ford Escort parked nearby and onto the back of the latest brawler. They were rolling on the ground when we heard a siren’s wail growing closer.

The whine in the distance emptied the parking lot as cars sped away with growling exhausts and squeals of tires. There was a commingled feeling of relief and fear. We were panting and plastering cheap Burger King napkins on cuts, scrapes, and split lips when the three police cars entered the parking lot in a brazen red and blue flash.

The police interviewed the manager. He punctuated his red-faced explanation with flailing arms moving in our direction. Eventually, he walked away from the police and back into the empty restaurant. The crowd that had recently waited expectantly for their burgers had made their way out when the trouble began—some gawked at the roiling chaos in the parking lot while others fled to the relative safety of the Long John Silver’s next door.

We quieted when the policeman walked over to where we stood on the patio. He stood straight and spread his legs like he was straddling a ditch. “I want all of you out of my town,” he said. “I never want to see you again. If I see you in this Burger King, this parking lot, or driving this highway, I will take you to jail.” He said this in a measured but simmering way as veins throbbed on his forehead and neck. The nervous volunteer youth pastor quickly said, “Thank you, sir,” and motioned us with a shaking hand to the Suburban waiting in a lonely parking space.

Instead of being somber, the ride home was exhilarating, even thrilling. Details of the fight were recounted with pride if not complete accuracy. We convinced ourselves we fought bravely. We were high on the excitement as we pulled into the church parking lot. The bitter air chilled the fire roaring in our young souls only moments ago.

Sunday morning was cold but clear. I got to church a little early. Rumors had already spread. Inquisitive whispers floated through the congregation. Growing with devilish surety were the thoughts of criminal misconduct. The volunteer youth pastor walked in a posture of contrition. His eyes were bleary. He was obediently friendly to everyone. I could see that the weight of the previous evening was heavy on his shoulders.

The pastor stepped to the podium with a purpose and greater resolve than I had witnessed before. He scanned the congregation and gave a slight nod that barely shook his generous earlobes. He began in a somber tone.

“Last night, our youth group went ice skating. What should have been a night of good, clean fun turned sour, and before the evening was over, the group was involved in a fight at Burger King.”

There was an audible gasp or sigh, but I couldn’t tell which. Heads began wagging left and right. I saw a few people nod to the same internal rhythm. But the pastor went on.

“I have heard the reports. I have spoken to the youth pastor who chaperoned the ice skating and the ensuing confrontation. I spoke to some of our young people to hear their stories. I needed to know what happened because I needed to speak to you all, to this church.” With this, he gestured, his palms outstretched to the 100 or so gathered.

“Some of you may think the young men involved in this fight should be punished, even kicked out of the church. Well, I want to tell you,” his voice was booming now, surging with emotion, “I wish I had been there! I am, in fact, proud of them.” He went on slowly. “Those boys stood up when others didn’t. I know last night was messy. I know it was ugly. But, I think it was right.”

The noise from the congregation sounded like air rushing from a balloon. It was the sound of relief.

Though I heard every word of the pastor’s sermon, I remember none. I sat quietly, basking in the change that had taken place all around me. There was a different appreciation for the boys in the youth group. Somehow, in the middle of the chaos at a Burger King, we glimpsed a sense of sacrifice and what taking a stand looked like. A good thing began growing inside each of us.

That morning, we left the church with sheepish smiles, content that even adrenaline-fueled boys could matter.