"Richie Hubber?" I said aloud; pretty much without even realizing I'd said it.

There was a mixture of certainty and doubt within me as I asked the two-word question. I knew the second part was correct, because my blurt was prompted by seeing the word "Hubber" printed on his left lapel. The first bit, though, was the reason there was a question mark after the statement and not a period. With the standard air of anticipation that arises whenever you pose such a question to a person, I awaited his reply to see if he was, indeed, who I thought he was.

"Yeah," he said, his eyes and the slight retreat of his shoulders communicating a certain amount of 'Who the hell are you?' along with the reply.

"Joe Peacock!" I exclaimed, slapping the Emergency Stop button on the treadmill with my left hand as I extended my right toward him.

He reached out to shake my hand. He relaxed as he exchanged his "Who?" mask for a "I know the name, but can't place the face" hat. He knew from the last name that I was from the old neighborhood, much the same that I knew he was for the same reason. However, I had the distinct advantage of knowing his first name based on the fact that he was much older and thus idolized by all of us younger kids growing up. Me, however... I was just yet another young face in a sea of young faces; irrelevant when he knew me because - for the most part - the only time he really saw me was on Halloween, holding out a plastic bag and begging for corn-syrup-derived confections.

"How's it going?" he said with the light tone of someone who shared at least a tenuous connection with me.

"It's good, man!" I replied, stepping off the treadmill and walking around it so as to create an environment more conducive to regular conversation... Or rather, as natural a conversation as one can have while trying to mitigate the heavy breathing that comes from completing 28:59 of their planned 30 minute run. "Just, you know... Getting a workout in..."

"I heard that," he replied, and smiled the smile of a man who'd lived his life in the gym and had 'heard that' at least a thousand times. Because it's all anyone ever says when you're in a gym and asking them how it's going. He added a very standard "Same here."

"Good," I said. "Gotta keep at it... So how about you, man? What are you up to these days?"

"I'm a paramedic now," he responded. He smiled and pointed at his right breast. Opposite from the name plate which read "Hubber" was a crest, bright as sunshine, which read 'Dekalb County Fire & Rescue'.

And that made perfect sense, given Richie's reputation around the neighborhood. He was always the guy you heard elderly neighbors talking highly about; always asking why you couldn't be more like him just after you were caught stuffing firecrackers in the mail slot of their front door. He was always carrying heavy loads or moving a misplaced (or deliberately-and-mischievously-placed) landscaping boulder for his neighbors. And it wasn't just that he was helpful and kind - he was also constantly running laps in the neighborhood, keeping in shape for his multiple State and National wrestling titles.

But it wasn't just him - it was the entire Hubber family. Paul (the youngest) and Matty (the middle kid) were both also natural athletes and all-around decent guys. The most baffling part, though, was that they weren't Flanders-esque in their do-goodery. They were actually genuine, great people who were fun to be around. Paul and Matty played flag football in the neighborhood pick-up games (Richie sat out because, frankly, he'd beat the holy hell out of everyone and it was just plain unfair... See? See what a great guy he is?). Paul would routinely bring his fair share of sodas and snacks to Jay's treehouse, and Matty would always lend a helpful hand raking up enough leaves to leap into in the fall. Even the parents' got into the act; throwing neighborhood cookouts and supporting any roofing repair endeavours with labor from Mr. Hubber and lemonade from the Missus, all the while cracking the dirtiest jokes you'd ever heard. Through and through, the Hubbers were good people.

But for me, none of them could top Richie; for it was Richie that saved me from the sewer drain in front of Jay's house and, in at least one way, saved my life.

We were just kids, Jay and I... Hardly 11 years old. We'd lived in the neighborhood about a year when Courtney Walker moved in - the meanest, hardest, most insanely malevolent 14 year old in the world. I mean... He was a boy named "Courtney." If that doesn't do something to turn your spit into acid and make you want to bite everything that moves, I'm pretty sure nothing will.

Courtney was large for a 14 year old... Hell, Courtney was large for a 21 year old. He was about 6' 2" and sat at a very round two-hundred-and-something pounds. I never knew how much he weighed exactly, I only knew that he felt about as heavy as a bookcase full of encyclopedias. And I knew this because, more than once in my life, I'd had both sitting squarely on top of me.

"GHHHHKKKKKKKKK" I said, attempting to beg for my life.

"No, not 'ghkkkkkk,'" Courtney said, mocking what little noise I could squeeze out of my throat, "I said to say 'master.' Now, say master."

"GURrrrrRRRRRRkkkkkkrrr," I replied.

Courtney sighed. "We're going to be here all day again, I see," he said. "If you don't say 'master' this time, you're going into the sewer with your little faggot boyfriend."

"I'm NOT a faggot!" said the echoes of Jay's voice from the hallows of the open manhole sitting just at the edge of his own front yard.

"You ARE a faggot," Courtney said, and he hocked up a huge loogie and spat it at the hole. Unfortunately for Jay, he scored a perfect three-pointer.

"UGH!" the hole echoed. "You SUCK, Courtney!"

The manhole was a brand new instrument in Courtney's sick and twisted bag of tricks. He'd gotten the idea after running out of the special mud he'd invented that he liked to rub into our faces - equal parts Georgia red clay and his own urine. He called it "playing cowboy and indians" on account that it painted our faces. We called it Thursday.

Courtney shifted his weight slightly, placing more pressure on my liver and kidneys - but allowing my chest to lift off the ground and inhale some much needed air.

I gasped. With what little voice I had, I yelped "Let me up!" with a strained defiance. I knew that I should have said 'master' - had I just said that, all of this would have ended and we'd have been free to go on home and cry about the fact that we would never get a moment's peace for as long as we lived. Because Courtney was going to kill us. Soon, we figured. But not before he'd practiced every form of torture that my older brother hadn't yet come up with.

"Hey, fatass," Courtney said, slapping the back of my head hard enough to make my nose bounce off of the lawn, "That's NOT what I told you to say!"

"Fatass?" Jay's yard's manhole yelled. "Look who's talking, chunkass!"

"Aww," Courtney said, rolling his weight back onto the middle of my body, "Isn't that sweet... The skinny faggot's defending the fat faggot! That's just so cute!" He huffed a little, and then leaned his body forward and placed a knee on the ground. He needed all the leverage he could get to heft that massive body of his up onto its feet.

I gasped again, relishing the opportunity to breathe again so much that I passed on the chance to show my defiance to Courtney's insane bullying. Instead, I just rolled over onto my back and huffed and puffed as much air as I could, as quickly as I could.

"You two lovers love each other so much... Maybe you'd like to kiss, huh?" Courtney said, grabbing my left ankle. My shirt began to roll up the small of my back as he dragged my body across the yard. "It's nice and dark down there... You two can kiss and be all faggoty all night!"

This scared me. Not so much for the thought of going into the open manhole - we neighborhood kids had poked our heads down in the drainage systems more than once. It wasn't THAT scary... It was just very, very confined. And dark. And far away from the house. And Jay's parents weren't home... And wouldn't be home until Monday.

"NO!" I screamed, kicking my free foot at his clinched hands.

This angered Courtney. It angered him so much, he pushed my foot to the side, lifted his own foot, and stomped down on my groin. He then reached out, grabbed my free foot, and continued dragging my large, exhausted, swollen-testicled body closer to the hole.

And that's when I heard the pitter-patter of running feet.

I'd heard those same feet running before - just about every single day that I played outside with Jay, in fact - but I don't think I'd ever heard them running quite that fast. And I was sure I'd never heard them running that fast and getting that close at the same time. And I was VERY sure I'd never heard them run fast, get close, and then stop pitter-pattering completely as they left the ground and carried the body they belonged to directly over my head and into Courtney's oblong body.

There was a loud "OOOF!" followed by the unmistakable sound of a person hitting the ground. Then some rustling. Then a very loud "NO!" and the sound of something hard and fist-shaped hitting something soft and fat-shaped.

I rolled over to see a hulking, muscular fireplug of a guy sitting on top of Courtney Walker, slamming his fists into the mounds of fat encapsulating Courtney's body. I was too tired to stand, in too much pain to think, and too shocked to say a single word... But I was too pleased not to smile.

"Oh my GOD!" the manhole yelled. "Joe... JOE! Are you okay!?!"

I tried to yell something in the affirmative... But I couldn't. I was still regaining my breath and reeling from the nutstomp and smiling like a maniac at the best sight I'd ever laid eyes on. Richie Hubber had a huge handful of Courtney's hair in one hand and was slapping his rosy red cheeks with the other.

"Never again, right?" He said.

"NEVER!" Courtney yelled.

Richie slapped a couple of Courtney's chins, then repeated the phrase. And after each "Never again, right?" would come a yelping, almost shrieked "NEVER!" followed by the wet paffs of a freshly licked palm slapping the face and belly fat of an oversized bully.

I walked over to the manhole and looked down at a mud-and-lugie-covered Jay. "Dude..." I said between breaths, "You have GOT to see this."

"What?" Jay said, looking up at me, hearing echoes of yelps and shrieks but unable to make anything out clearly.

"Come look," I said, reaching my hand down to help him out.

Jay took my outstretched hand and I tried to lift him out, but I couldn't. I strained and I grimaced and I grunted, but I couldn't get Jay high enough to grab onto the side of the manhole.

"Shoot," I said, not quite old enough to understand that, if there were no parents around, I could curse without being punished, "I can't do this." I turned around to see Richie sitting triumphantly on Courtney, just starting down at him. "Richie," I said cautiously.

He turned and looked my way. "You okay?" he said, observing the abrasions on my arms, the grass stains on my shirt, and the mud caked on my face.

"Yeah," I said. "Thanks... Um... Do you think you could, like... Help?"

He stood up. With an extended index finger, he pointed down at Courtney and said "Not a muscle." He walked over and looked down through the manhole. to see a helpless Jay stuck in the drainage block. He reached down as Jay reached up and, with a single motion, lifted Jay right out of the manhole. "You okay?" he said, repeating his question to Jay.

Jay nodded. "I am now." He looked over at Courtney and his jaw dropped. He spent a moment absorbing the scene, and after what felt like an hour, uttered a single, powerful word: "Wow."

"I don't think he'll be bothering you again," Richie Hubber said to two kids he didn't even know. "If he does, you let me or my brothers know... You know where we live, right?"

We both nodded.

"Okay," he replied, and without another word, began back toward the street. He stopped for a moment near Courtney and said, "You lay there a while... Think about what you did." He then began trotting on the open road, continuing his afternoon jog.

Again, Jay released a shocked "Wow," echoing what we were both feeling. But this time, he followed up with "Come on."

"Why?" I asked, falling into step right behind him as always as we marched toward Courtney.

"Are you kidding?" Jay asked, standing near Courtney's head. "This is our chance!" And with that, he leaned his body forward, lifted his right leg high behind him, and then brought it swinging forward into Courtney's red face.

It was a beautiful sight - Courtney's nose collapsed into his face and a thick stream of blood began pouring out of his right nostril. He began crying again, finding it impossible to snuck and snivel with a nose full of blood... Or with a face full of Jay's sneaker, which he was fortunate enough to experience several times in a row.

I couldn't resist. I felt empowered in a way I never had before in my life as I reached down, grabbed Courtney's left ankle, and split his legs wide open. With a satisfied grin, I lifted my right foot high above his groin. I closed my eyes and began stomping downward. A second later, I heard a loud "CRUNCH!" and felt my head bounce off of the ground.

Electricity coursed through my body and I saw yellow and blue shapes in the backs of my eyelids. After a moment of collecting myself, I opened my eyes to find Richie Hubber kneeling just beside me, releasing my midsection as he rose to deliver unto Jay what had been delivered unto me - a Goldberg-esque flying shoulder tackle.

I sat up just as Jay went down. Richie stood over Jay, looked back at me, and said "HERE! NOW!"

I didn't even bother to consider the ramifications - if Richie Hubber said "HERE, NOW," you went there before you even thought about when.

"What the HELL are you two doing?!?" He barked.

We didn't answer.

"WELL?!?"

We looked at one another, silently trying to work out who would be the stupid one to open their mouth. But it ended up being not necessary, because Richie already knew the score.

"I don't care WHAT he did to you before... You don't kick a man when he's down!" He yelled. "I already took care of him for you... I told you he wouldn't mess with you again!"

Jay and I, being telepathically linked, both looked at the ground in shame simultaneously.

"Now get home!" he said, slapping the back of my head fairly hard. I immediately began trotting toward my house. "You too!" I heard from behind me, followed by the report of a smack to the back of the cranium and Jay's tiny yelp.

I got home and got bathed and laid in my bed, considering what it was that had just happened. The only conclusion my pre-pubescent brain could come up with is that Richie just liked to beat up on everyone. I also considered that Richie had no sense of fairness and no sense of justice, and that was just fine by me, because Richie also had muscles like Hulk Hogan and could throw me through the planet if he wanted to.

I lived in mortal fear of Richie Hubber for a few days... As the seventh day turned, I began to live in regular fear of him, which persisted for a month or two until I just lived in cautious awareness of him. He ran around the neighborhood with the same determined look on his face, driving his feet into asphalt that varied from sticky in the summer to rock-hard in the winter. He went on to wrestle in college, and his brothers continued to rack up the various accolades and honors that came with excelling in sport. Paul, a year older than Jay and I, grandfathered into a different high school from us when the county redistricted, and so time began to fall away and we got too old to trick-or-treat, so we heard less and less from and about the Hubber boys.

I only got into a small number of actual fights in junior high and an even smaller number in high school. But I was mixed up in at least a hundred different skirmishes during those years. Being a member of our wrestling team carried with it a responsibility and a right to insert oneself into any and all fistfights in our school. Most of the wrestlers took it upon themselves to disrupt the bigger, badder guys - the ones who the teachers probably couldn't break up on their own. Me? I tended to stick to defending the smaller, weaker, younger kids... The ones who got ambushed and mercilessly harassed; the ones it was hard to sympathize for because of their complete lack of will-to-live. It also happened that these tended to be my friends, as I was as into - or moreso - Dungeons and Dragons, comic books and various and sundry "nerdy" things, and the wrestlers and football players... Well, let's just say they tended toward only understanding the finer points of less... Civilized... Activities and games.

It wasn't until much later, when I was just a week older than 31 years, that I realized how much impact one guy had on my outlook toward fighting and its proper place. And here I was, standing in front of him at the gym, huffing and puffing as much as I was the day he saved me from Courtney.

"So..." I said just after that small, uncomfortable silence that sits between people who haven't seen one another in an extremely long time and had nothing at all to talk about, "How's the family? Still in the neighborhood?"

"Oh, yeah," he answered, still trying to place my face into the proper container that held the memory of me, "Mom and dad won't move..."

"Same with mine," I answered. "Maybe one day..."

"Yeah," he chuckled, "Maybe... But not soon, I hope! There's too much stuff to move..."

I laughed. "Same here, man... Same here..."

We smiled and nodded and faced, yet again, the realization that we didn't really have much else to relate on - save one event.

"Hey," I said, preparing to bring it up. "You remember Courtney Walker?"

He looked at me, momentarily puzzled. "Nah... Can't say I do," he said.

I almost began to explain it to him. I almost started vocalizing the events of that day, describing in excruciating detail every aspect of what went down. I almost began thanking him for the impact he had on my life and the thing he taught me without even knowing he was teaching it.

But then I realized that, on that day so long ago, I stood before him a weak, fat kid with pee-mud on his face and the taste for revenge in his mouth. And today, I stood before him the man I am now... Perhaps no better, but certainly not covered in pee-mud.

It was then I decided that it was probably best to just say "Alright, man, I'll let you get back to it... Take care, see you around!" And get back to work. And that's precisely what I did. And in the back of his mind as he walked away, he was probably thinking "Well, that was nice... Another face from the neighborhood." And then he got back on the road and began running his heart out; off to save yet another life.