BIG FIGHT DOWNTOWN

or How Exposed Nipples Aren't A Good Enough Reason Sometimes

Taking a swing at the police officer.
That seemed to be the tipping point.

We stood outside the bank downtown and had watched this scene roil and build fairly quickly like a boiling pot of water… that I guess had never heard the watched pot cliche.

It was a late September evening and the fall fair was in full swing. The fair had long since closed for the day and the fair staff, or ‘carnies’, had made their way from the fairgrounds to the epicentre of our small town for a few drinks and perhaps some food that wasn’t candied and/or fried.

I suspect there were about 25 of them.
At least.

Stratford is weird.
It is, as I often say, the only place in the world where I have stood at the bar between a farmer and an Oscar winner.
(Antony John was the farmer. Christopher Plummer was the Oscar winner.)

Now, our small town is a bit of an anomaly in a sea of farmland.
Thanks to a vibrant tourist trade because of the theatres, we have more lovely restaurants than you’d think we deserve.
It’s like we’ve taken a cool neighbourhood from a big city and stuck it between some cornfields.
Like that movie ‘Field Of Dreams’ except it would be called ‘Field Of Instagram-Friendly Content’.

However, our proximity to more rural communities means we don’t just draw cosmopolitan tourists. We are also a destination for nights out for some of our farmland neighbours from tiny towns.

This is good.
It means our town remains a real working town and does not simply become a artisanal theme park.

Back to the carnies…

It just so happens that on this same night that the carnies had come downtown to wet their whistles and melt their cotton candy rage, a large group of farm boys from the nearby hamlet of Tavistock decided to also descend into the heart of our small city.
They were (and probably still are) affectionately known as ‘Tavi boys’.

I do not know for sure if carnies and Tavi boys are natural enemies, but this evening would suggest yes.
Like a pack of riled up dogs meeting a pack of perturbed cats, a flick of the tail meant something very different to each group.
It seemed to be all misread cues.

A fight was brewing.
No, not just a fight but a full out brawl.

The police were there in force.
Four cruisers. Multiple officers.

Tensions were building.
No punches had been thrown yet but you could tell it was imminent.

But then… the most amazing thing happened.

The carnies all took off their shirts.
Why, I did not know at first.
Aerodynamics? Maximum punching arm reach?

No.
It was so they could see who was on their team.
It had literally become shirts versus skins.

And what was better, is that it made it very easy for myself and my group of friends, as we watched from a distance, to keep score.

The police stayed calm.
Until one of the carnies swung for a police officer.

This, he would swiftly find out, was a mistake.

However, it set off the entire scene like an explosion.
Fists were flying.
Cuffs were being cuffed.

It was chaos.

The carnies, competing on unfamiliar ground in the glow of the Pizza Pizza sign, were no match for the Tavi boys.
Topless barkers were limping away or being shoved into the backs of cop cars.

The fight was over.

We humans love to compartmentalize things.
We love a uniform.
It makes the world much easier to understand if we known which group we’re in or rooting for.

But that same ‘us’ and ‘them’ convenience can quickly give way to mob mentality.
We start doing things and making decisions just because we’re on the same team or aren’t… sometimes without any critical thinking.

You can see this in the news these days (all days).
Left versus Right.
This religion versus that religion.
This Province/State versus that Province/State.

It all gets a bit shirts and skins sometimes.
Association based on the loosest of ties or lack thereof.
Which works great for well-fueled fisticuffs but less so for life in general.

The carnies and Tavi boys, from a distance and fully clothed, were indistinguishable.
They were one mass of drunken idiots.

I like to think there was one or two carnies who, sensing the futility of some post-last call promenade pugilism, kept their shirts on and just went back to their motorhomes.

I’m not suggesting that we ignore egregious acts by people acting as a group but I am suggesting that there are some fights that are fueled largely because you’re wearing a shirt and I’m bare-nipping it.

###

(Pictured: Author waits for the perfect moment to take his shirt off)