Tucson 

	We were at a small professional meeting in Tucson, 
soaking in jargon that only an expert could love.  The meeting was 
on the campus of the University of Arizona, a mile or so north of 
downtown proper.  We stayed at the Plaza Hotel on the northwest 
corner of campus, the main hub for campus visits.  The business 
sessions were held on a pleasant outside patio with roll-away black 
boards for chalk talks.  
	The meeting followed a typical pattern with talks during the 
day and a "banquet" on the evening before the final day when 
people would begin to disperse.  This sit-down dinner was 
scheduled in a restaurant down town.  We convened there, had a 
pleasant dinner and then broke up into groups afterward.  Most 
people walked or took cabs directly back to campus.  Jerry, Bob, 
and I decided to stop for a beer in a local pub of some repute 
before walking back.  We had a couple of beers in the bar.  There 
was some live music, a rock band.  
	Afterward, we strolled back to the main entrance on the 
south side of the campus.  This locale just off campus had been 
renovated over the years, with a series of shops on each side 
catering to student needs and desires.  On the east corner was a 
phone booth.  Bob decided to call his wife back in Pasadena.  It 
was about 11 PM, not terribly late.  Jerry and I stayed on the west 
side of the street, admiring some motorcycles parked there. Jerry 
described to me a cross country trip he had taken on his Honda 
some time before.
	As we stood there, a blue Mustang full of rowdy young 
college men drove north up the street.  They were members of the 
Arizona wrestling team, drunk, and feeling aggressive.  As we 
were standing, chatting on the sidewalk, one of them leaned out the 
window of the car and shouted a greeting - "Fuck you!"  Jerry 
responded with a cheery "Right on!"  That was it, the total 
provocation.
	The Mustang squealed to a halt and out poured the team, 
five of them.  The driver was fairly tall and lanky, three were of 
medium height, one skinnier than the others, and one was a short 
Oriental guy, about as wide through the shoulders as he was tall 
and all mean.  Probably overcompensating.  They bullied up to us 
full of brio and taunts, "What did you say?!" type of thing.   
	I am basically a non-confrontational person (read coward).  
I just hung back and tried to avoid making trouble.  Jerry did not 
start this, but he is not one to be pushed around.  Jerry is not too 
tall, but taller than the Oriental guy.  The Oriental guy stuck his 
face in Jerry's and they traded barbs.  The Oriental guy shoved. 
Jerry shoved back.  The Oriental guy took a swipe at Jerry's face.  
This was not a punch, it was sort of open handed, but there is no 
question in my mind that he deliberately intended to knock Jerry's 
glasses off.  The glasses went flying to the sidewalk, a lens broken 
out, and Jerry knelt to rescue them.  About this time Bob finished 
talking to his spouse and noticed the ruckus.  He crossed the street 
to join us.  That narrowed the odds a bit.  The wrestlers backed off 
and returned to their car.
	We had about a half-mile to walk to get back to the Plaza.  
At this point I made my principal contribution to the evening.  I 
noted that the major drag that would take us to the hotel, Speedway 
Boulevard, was about three blocks to our left along the southern 
border of the campus.  Speedway itself was brightly lit and had lots 
of traffic, but the street leading there looked very dark.  The main 
road onto the campus, however, was moderately well lit with street 
lamps.  I suggested that it might make more sense to walk on 
campus where the light was than to walk in the dark to reach 
Speedway.  Whatever the merits of the plan, that is what we did.
	As we proceeded onto campus we realized that a couple of 
the wrestlers were following us.  Not a good feeling.  After a few 
minutes a car passed us.  We felt some relief that someone else was 
out and about, and we could ask for help if needed.  Not to be.  On 
closer inspection, it was the Mustang.  It cut us off and the three 
guys in the car, including the lanky driver and the spiteful Oriental, 
stopped us while the other two caught up.  They surrounded us and 
began to hassle us again.  Bob tangled with the driver, Jerry was 
giving and taking with three of them, and one of them singled me 
out.
	The next few minutes were surreal.  The guy that took me 
on grabbed me by the collar and stuck his face in mine, and said, 
his voice full of menace, "You'd better get your friends and get out 
of here."  I did not say anything, but it was all I could do not to 
laugh at this ludicrous paradox.  Of course, all we wanted to do 
was to get out of there!  The way he put it, it was as if we had 
encroached on their territory and were itching for a fight by 
refusing to leave.  In the back of my brain, another  interpretation 
that surfaced was that he really did want to kick the crap out of me 
(for sport, I presume), but could not quite bring himself to beat me 
up in cold blood.  I got the distinct impression that he wanted me to 
run and that would have given him the excuse to chase me and 
pound my head.  So I just said nothing and stared into his eyes as 
he glared at me.
	Since my vision was full of face, I could not see very well 
what was going on with the other two.  At some point, another car 
came down the road, heading out of campus.  Bob pounded on a 
fender and shouted that we were being assaulted.  Naturally, the 
driver figured we were just goofing around and hot footed it out of 
campus leaving us alone with our tormentors again.
	The driver finally got Bob in some kind of wrestling hold 
with his arm twisted behind his back, and from that position threw 
him to the ground.  That wrenched Bob's shoulder pretty badly.  
The driver recognized that he had actually hurt Bob, and called to 
his buddies.  They all piled back into the Mustang and took off.  
Bob seemed to be okay, so we got our bearings and took off for the 
hotel.
	All this was played out near a copse of trees just up the 
esplanade from where they had stopped us, north of the Old Main 
administration building that straddles the road at that point. We 
followed the road past the trees and there on the other side, only a 
hundred yards or so from where we had been, was a bunch of 
people playing touch football!  They had been scrambling around 
there the whole time under the street lights on the wide greensward 
that divided the road.  We got back to the hotel without incident 
and went to bed.  
	Both Bob and Jerry were scheduled to make presentations 
the next morning.  Jerry went first and caused quite a stir.  He was 
sporting a piece of cardboard in place of the missing lens of his 
glasses and behind that a really beautiful shiner where the Oriental 
guy had taken the shot at him.  Bob went later.  He gave a really 
nice talk on his work, full of energy and humor.  Then he turned 
green and said he needed to see a doctor.
	I heard later that Bob had to go back to Pasadena and have 
a serious operation on his shoulder for torn tendons.  He (nor we) 
never followed up to try to collect for his medical costs, never 
mind to prosecute an open and shut case of assault and battery or to 
sue the shit out of them.  One of the most amazing things is that 
during this whole episode, when the Mustang first halted in the 
street, and then again when they stopped us on campus, none of the 
three of us highly trained professionals had the presence of mind to 
look at the license number.  We could have hung their balls as a 
trophy on the rafters of the wrestling room.
	So Jerry got his black eye.  Bob got his ripped-up shoulder.  
I had almost forgotten the seriousness of his injury until one day 
when we were sharing a bathing suit on the coast of Sicily (but 
that's another story) and saw these angry welts where the operation 
had left a scar on his shoulder worthy of Frankenstein.  My injury 
was more sublime.  My shirt collar was torn.  It was a nice blue 
dress shirt with fine red stitching on the collar and front placket.  
They guy who had held me firmly by the collar while he demanded 
that I run had torn that collar.  My wife stitched it back quite 
nicely, and I continued to wear it for years.