Two Physical Altercations'

I've had two physical altercations -- OK, fights -- in my life, and both ended badly. I'm not proud of either, and I don't go around bragging about them, although, technically, I "won" one. Fighting was not my idea, nor my intent in either of them, and any blows I struck were in my defense, only.
In the first "fight," I saw my assailant, very blurried from his blind-sided punch to the back of my head, as I was falling. Phil Zeman, all "blah-blah-blah" about something, in what seemed to be some form of Klingon, right before I blacked-out. I don't know how long I was out, but Phil was gone, and the world had this "tingly" look to it. As it happened on school property, I reported the incident to the Office, who assured me that it "could not have been Phil Zeman..." I left without further discussion.
The second had a lot to do with my association with one Dexter Lee Holmes, out of LA. We were attending a computer operations school in Albany (alBAny), GA, and lived down the hall from each other in the barracks. Dexter had never spent any time out of LA, admitting this was his first time away from a metropolitan city. We'd play pool, get pretty wasted, and end up somewhere where the draconian lighting, on-base, gave us a generous view of the stars on clear nights. "I've never seen this many stars..." That always amazed me.
To say, merely, that Dexter played pool well would insult the man's genius with a cue-stick. He was like a wizard, waving a cue for a wand, making the numbered balls succumb to his will. In my life, I've only seen one better, Ray Tague, but that's a different story, Dexter was really good. We used to play, he'd teach me, and I became a formitable player, as a solo; an even better doubles-partner, which led to all of the trouble later. We used to "own" the tables at the Enlisted Club, and could go there and be the "Champs" of both tables; Dex on one, me on the other, night after night. Every once in a while, someone would bring in a civilian "buddy," or two, and we played some hotly contested matches, winning a little money on the side. I was good, Dex was better, and together... well, as we used to say, "Don't miss."
All of this leads to a night off-base, where both of us learned that racial prejudice was alive and well, and living in southern Georgia. All we wanted to do was shoot some doubles, somewhere, and the club had become boring. In some places, Dex (oh, did I mention Dex is African-American?) wasn't wanted, in others, it was me. We walked a long way, that night, and finally found this roadhouse, where everyone was welcomed. I can't remember the name of the place, nor could I ever find it again, should it ever be necessary, but it had an eclectic selection on the juke box, and pitchers of beer came in a stainless-steel pitcher.
We were goofing around, not betting, not even for drinks. It never got "serious," we each respected the other's game too much for that, and we missed a lot of shots, doing poor impressions of people we'd seen on-base for each other's amusement. I hadn't seen the two "rednecks" come in, I just knew that other people were playing next to us. As we were drinking beer, and playing around, I heard comments coming from the other table about how we were playing. Nothing rude, crude, or socially unacceptable; "Shoulda made that one," and "How'd he miss that?" Stuff like that.
Dex was hearing it too, and intentionally missed a shot he'd normally make nine-out-of-ten times while sleeping. The older guy says to his partner, "Maybe we could teach 'em how to play this game, eh?" Dex calmly laid his cue on the table, and looked at me. I was scratching my chin, and figured, "What the hey..." and gave Dex the "I'm in" look. We had a game. Doubles 8-Ball, no "slop," for a pitcher of beer.
Come to find out, these guys were father-and-son, armed with a lot of luck, but little skill. We played a few games, they bought, we bought, and the older guy says "Let's play for $5 a-head." Both Dexter and I took a jolt on that one. We decided to keep it to $5, and to keep our heads-up to see if we were being hustled. We weren't. If anything, the opposite was true, as we ended up beating them out of $600 each. In the last game, the one for $600, we were down to the 8-Ball, and they still had three or four balls left, it was my turn. We were in the bottom half of the table, the Cue-Ball was near the side pocket, 8-Ball across center, but their ball was blocking the bottom corner pocket, the others limiting my choices in other places.
The shot just appeared to me, drunk as I was, and I called it, "8-Ball, two rails, top-left pocket." I knew it was perfect, the moment I hit it. The 8-Ball hit the two rails, angling across the table directly into the top-left pocket, but it was slowing down quickly, and creeped into the pocket. I had gotten down behind the pocket, to watch the ball roll in, when I stood-up, I was smacked in the face with the business-end of a pool cue, 1/2-inch below my left eye. I went backwards, and over a table, smacking my head on the floor. Again, don't know how long I was out, but when I got up, I had a stainless=steel beer pitcher in my hand, and two jerks were manhandling my friend. I waded in, swinging the pitcher, connecting solidly against the older man's head. I'll never forget the sound, "BONG!" it made, subsequent blows never made the same noise.
When it was over, Dex had the son down, and I was holding a stainless=steel mass that was no longer recognizable as a pitcher. Dad was down, and wouldn't get up until after the cops arrived. I thought to myself, "Well Steve, here you are, in a redneck bar, with a black friend, and the two of us have just beat the crap out of two, probably "regulars," white guys. You are going to jail. You are going to JAIL!" I glanced at Dex, he had entertained similar thoughts, and he smiled weakly. When the Sheriff arrived, Dex says "Here we go, brother." I was thinking of how to explain this to the Navy, and nothing was working.
The Sheriff quickly assessed the situation, and assumed that the two guys still standing started it. The bartender was really great, he saw what the Sheriff was going on, and said "Hold on there, Deputy. I know how this looks, but it ain't them boy's fault. It's all Jake and his son, met a couple of boys they couldn't beat playin' pool."
The reaction of the Deputy to the name gave me a bit of hope. "Hmmph!" the Deputy grunted. "How much this time?" He turned to me, still bleeding from a facial laceration, "How much?"
"Six hundred dollars, Sir."
The Deputy looked at Dexter, who nodded, "Each?"
Dex said, "Yes Sir, each, Sir."
"You husslin' pool, Boy?"
"No Sir, we tried to get them to pay-up at $150, but they doubled, twice."
The Deputy looked at the bartender, "I heard 'em, tried to talk 'em out of it, but Jake wouldn't hear of it." The bartender confirmed.
"You boys military?" The Deputy had noted our haircuts.
"Yes, Sir." We answered simultaneously. "Navy," I added, "at school on the base."
From that point on, we were treated as Victims, who had defended themselves admirably. The father and son were brought around, and told to pony-up $600, each. They complied, at which time the Deputy arrested them for Assault and Battery, and led them off. A cheer sounded, apparantly at justice having been served, and the bartender bought us both a beer. I looked at Dex, and he looked back, then hung his head. "Don't know why we ain't in that cop car, man." To be honest, neither did I. We took a taxi back to the base.
That's it. My two fights. I like to think that fighting doesn't do anything but create hatred, and if one has to resort to it, one's already lost the argument. I know it sounds funny, coming from a retired military guy, I just have problems understanding violence at any level. One of the reasons I chose to persue a degree in English is a belief that words can solve anything, on any scale.