The 1968 Torn Shirt Incident

  
Most days I was a well-behaved kid, but those days make for boring stories, so, to keep you from nodding, off I’ll tell you about a day in the fourth grade when something in my young skull went haywire. On this day a kid named Steve, or maybe it was Bob, I don’t remember (we never really became friends) …anyway, after recess this kid went and told the teacher a big fat lie that got me into a whole lotta trouble. Well "a big fat lie” is what I called it. That was my initial defense strategy, but as it turned out I was no Perry Mason, because right after I said “big fat lie” the kid reached out and displayed two handfuls of very compelling physical evidence.

Exhibit A.) One shredded dress shirt. The prosecution would assert that prior to recess the alleged victim was wearing this “dress shirt” and that it was in a whole and un-tattered condition. Standing there in his undershirt, he handed the torn pieces to the teacher, who with me in tow, delivered them to the principal, who would later deliver them to my mother in a brown paper bag.

The pile of material was placed on top the principal’s desk: sleeves, cuffs, a collar, and a bunch of miscellaneous scraps. Sort of a make your own shirt kit. Without the advice of counsel I was forced to take the witness stand, and was soon badgered into abandoning my original defense strategy. That prosecuting teacher was really good, but then in the cross-examination I produced some compelling physical evidence of my own.

Exhibit B.) My top button was missing. “Objection!” “Overruled!” I could hear the murmurs from the jury. I could even see ol’ Perry standing in the doorway, smiling. Convinced that their unjust case against me was falling apart, I decided to fight truth with truth! “Steve, er Bob” I explained “grabbed me on the playground, and my button popped off.” The prosecutor paced back and forth trying to regain her lawyer legs, and then came right at me. “So you decided to rip his shirt off and tear it into little pieces?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

The principal’s gavel hit the desk. “Guilty an all counts!” No leniency for the missing button was even considered. Looking back on it, I probably should have gone with a Napoleon complex defense. Being the smallest kid in 4th grade you sometimes have to overcompensate to protect your playground cred.