"Brian McMahon is the most famous man you've never heard of. He's also a founding member of one of the most influential Midwestern punk bands nobody's ever seen" (Gil Kaufman, New City , July 1996).


...Okay. So here I am, again. Another day — another fight. Except this time I'm up against the best reputed boxer in school ... and I guess with whomever else ends up jumping in should I start getting an upper hand. With the needle on my "flight meter" peaking ... and then jamming into the red, ... everybody, including the omniscient narrator, knows for sure that this boy's about t' saddle 'is 'orse 'n get the 'ell outta 'ere. Problem is, though, I'm just crazy enough in love with Mary Ann to confound conventional wisdom. From atop the summit of the approaching horde's long late afternoon shadow, I fix a steely glare upon my cocky challenger and his shaggy second.

Ernie Gallo's always with Grimm. The scariest thing is that even on the school's coaching staff there isn't anyone as goddamn big and hairy as Gallo. When I see him I have to practically stop myself from asking out loud, "Has anybody told you we're supposed to be boys, for christssake!?". But, the fact is I don't have to worry about him. And here's why: even in this day-n-age — 30 years before "Political Correctness" will become essentially a profession — the PC embryo's alive, and not only well but thriving in the McMahon / Gallo dynamic. Public opinion virtually makes our fight unimaginable. It's tacitly understood, all the way from authority figures to peers, that any contact between us must take place on the football field. There, in team practices, Gallo is permitted without censure to cream my linebacker position with his fullback battering ram giving me endless pain and him maximum pleasure. (Unfortunately, it's currently the greatest amount of pleasure being derived by anyone from the use of my body.) And though Ernie's no genius, even he seems to realize that not only would any punishment heaped on me off the gridiron impact him negatively public relations-wise, but an actual fight could well result in my serious injury and the possible temporary loss of his favorite tackling dummy.

Kathy Grimm (favorite song, Bobby's Girl") is behind Gallo with her boyfriend, Robert Reilly. But Bobby's a lover not a fighter — and, incidentally, the only "mick" this group will abide. That's 'cuz in the gang wars he's neutral as the Swiss. So, in actuality, I've more to worry about from Kathy whose a good foot'n-a-half taller than Reilly and outweighs him by twenty pounds at least. She and Mary Biggins' are among the best looking girls at St. Phil's and therefore, according to some universal code of beauty, that makes them best birds-of-a-feather, so to speak. Difference is, unlike Mary, Kathy can be extremely vicious — descending like a goshawk in the defense of her twin. I only hope Bobby can somehow keep her hooded.

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Jim Statz is not beside his girlfriend, Paula Kissrosi. But then who'd expect him to be? He goes to Shaw and barely so much as talks to her junior high friends. And it's a cinch that on the longshot he were here, he wouldn't shed his three-quarter-length leather and risk scuffing his mirror-black Thom McAn Regals on somebody like me. See, Statz's whole thing is looking cool. He's a "rack", yeah, but no workies or shit like that — always totally dressed to the nines. Whenever he's coming up my street on his way to someplace else and I hear those signature cleats, I quick pull up a porch chair and enjoy the show. Spit-shined wing-tips, thick 'n thins, panatella slacks, pencil-wide belt, ban-lon shirt, silver-plate neck-chain and ID bracelet, and a ducktailed pompador with an appropriately-cocked Lucky in the left ear — he looks like a fucking Shangri-la's song. Better! Come to think of it, whenever I've overheard Statz talk it's been about fighting or clothes; the slacks he's wearing; some leather he used to own; a pair of Regals he's gonna get. That makes him pretty unique among greasers, more like some "fly nigger" they'd say ... but not to his face. Right now I'm kinda glad he's not with Paula; 'cuz just in case I do lose I wouldn't want him to see me gettin' my ass kicked. But, I don't really know why it even matters.

There're about a half dozen others trailing behind Paula, but Grimm doesn't waste any time. As soon as he's close enough he throws a faceful of punches — most of 'em land. He has reach, speed, accuracy. I'm at once mesmerized and pulvarized. Having never before seen one of his fights from this particular angle, I'm as fast becoming a fan as I am losing the fight. Hell, if not for the stinging cuts above my eyes and warm blood pooling in my mouth, I just might start cheering any minute for the wrong goddamn guy!...

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