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There Was No Plan-B

Chapter 1 Knock Down Dragout 1972 He charged at me. Sarling and spitting and cussing and slobbering. I’d already hit him a few times and had smashed him into my pickup door like a rag doll. We wrestled around to the side yard, asses and elbows, all dusty and bleeding, our bodies scraping on the limestone rocks poking like dull knives out of the hard hill country ground. I hit him hard with an almost virgin fist and he fell back for a few moments then came after me again. He whacked me a good one on my left ear, the one that still rings. Some primal memory suddenly took over and I actually got into a three-point stance, the one my high school football coach Freddy Acres drilled into me at Lub

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