When people write about their personal history, they tend to write about all the positive memories and conveniently leave out the bad stuff. I am no different. If you think I am going to tell you about the outhouse stuff I did, well, you better think again.

So this story is going to make me look good. I'm ridiculously proud of it.

During Basic Training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, I was made a squad leader. I'm not sure of the criteria they used to select "squad leaders." Maybe they liked the fact that I was 6'2" tall; or maybe because I had been selected to qualify for Officer's Candidate School. I don't know.

Whatever . . .

I also became a squad leader in the "Honor Guard." This meant I wore a chrome helmet with the 101st Division screaming eagle on it. I was so proud. I marched just behind the flags in my spit and polish platoon All this didn't mean I was promoted in any way. I was still a private like everybody else. We wore chrome "chains" at the point where our pants "bloused" just above our boots. They couldn't be seen but the made the pants look really cool.

For a short time after you joined up, nobody could go on a weekend pass. So, on Saturdays, with all the recruits still in camp, the staff would put together some activities. I was a member of "Dog" company. There were four companies in each regiment, and four platoons in each company. Each platoon had four files of nine men each. My position was "anchor," which meant that I was the guy at the front left spot who marched right behind the guidon.

Well, enough of this military BS.

One particular Saturday when nobody in the whole company had a weekend pass, it was decided that the company would have a boxing match. Since there were four platoons, each platoon arranged themselves into the four sides of a boxing ring. So they had two or three matches in which everyone participated with cheers, arms and fists thrust into the air.

After this they all shouted "Big Bubba,!" "Big Bubba," "Big Bubba." Big Bubba Beasley was a black man who stood about six feet four and weighed close to 300 lbs. So Big Bubba stepped forward and they strapped the 18 oz. gloves on his massive hands -- hands that were appended to arms the size of telephone poles. Big Bubba stepped into the "ring," and the sergeant shouted, "Aw'right, which'a you badass troopers got the stones to fight Big Bubba?"

Silence.

After several minutes of feet shuffling and eyes turned toward the ground, somebody said, "Aw, come on! Sum'body have the guts to take on Big Bubba!"

I weighed, for all my height, about 163 lbs. The man was almost twice my weight. This was December, 1954, and I had just turned 18. I couldn't stand it that no one would fight this big man, so dummy (yours truly), stepped forward. Oh, sure I knew how to box. I had taken lessons at the YMCA's Camp Rabun in the Georgia mountains. So, I strapped on the gloves.

I didn't know what I was getting into. People this stupid shouldn't be allowed to vote.

The sergeant blew his whistle to start the round. I bobbed and weaved, shuffled back and forth in my military boots real quick-like, while the big man just stood there lookin' at me. I decided to attack. I stepped in, faked a left hook and connected with a right. The big guy was surprised. I kept it up for a bit more when suddenly a mammoth shaped boxing glove penetrated my Camp Rabun boxing guard as though it weren't there. Inside that glove was a big, magnificent fist the size of a football.

I think I left the ground. In any case, I found myself flat on my back, shaking my head trying to rid myself of the vertigo and stars. One punch from Big Bubba and I was dead meat.

I finally got to my feet and said, "No mas." No more. They took the gloves off and the boxing matches were over. Humiliated, I headed back to the barracks and made my way to my special "squad leader" room and stretched out on my bunk. I needed to get my mojo back.

After laying there for several minutes, there was a knock on my door. I looked up and there stood Big Bubba Beasley.

"Hey man!" said I, and held out my hand for a shake. I definitely wanted to get on his good side.

"You a pretty good boxer," he ventured.

"Maybe not good enough," I replied.

"Well," he continued, "I just wanted to drop by and congratulate you on your courage."

A tsunami of embarrassment hit me like flushing a goldfish down a toilet.

"You were the only guy in the whole company who would stand up against me, and I'm a whole lot bigger'n you."

I guess I grinned and said something moronic.

"I just want you to know that I respect you," said he.

Again, I was speechless. I nodded my head and mumbled, "thank you."

"Well, guess I be gittin' back." And with that, he turned and left.

That was almost 70 years ago. Funny how you remember these things.

Wonder how Jesus would have done against Big Bubba Beasley? Come'on now, you know Big Bubba wouldn't swing his big hammers at Jesus!!! But you know, I think Jesus might have enjoyed the fun. After all, he was only 30-something, still young enough to enjoy a little boy-man innocent mischief.

It was a long time ago, but I remember it clear as day. His name was "Seabolt." He was the guy that taught the boxing class at the YMCA's Camp Rabun in the North Georgia mountains. He would find a voluteer to stand directly in front of him and tell him, "Now go ahead, hit me anywhaere you want as hard as you can." Usually, the guy would just look kind of fumbling stupid, but after Seabolt kept after him for a while the guy would throw a punch.

Seabolt never moved, but the punch never landed. As soon as the guy started to swing, Seabolt would block it. He could move his arms faster than anybody I have ever seen. Then he told us the secret. "Your opponent," says he, "always telegraphs his punches. Just watch him closely and as soon as you see his shoulder muscles bunch up, you know what's coming and from which arm, and you can always block it."

I think Jesus would have known about Seabolt's secret. Still, I think he would have had a big problem blocking those telephone pole arms of Big Bubba. He could duck . . . maybe?

But here's how it would really play out.

Instead of swinging one of his big mitts, Big Bubba would be down on his knees with tears of gratitude in his eyes. He would tell Jesus that he would have loved to be the man who carried his cross for him, but he was born too late.

Jesus would have taken that big, black man by the ears, raised him off his knees, laughed out loud, and given him the kind of hug only God can give.