It was July, 1970 in Mobile, Alabama in Scott hatfield’s backyard. We had already decided on the two three-kid teams. Scott got his big brother, Kevin on his first pick (he always did) I got Randy Van Hussen because he was the oldest and biggest. That left the Burns brothers, Norman the 10 year old and his overweight brother Glen the 8 year old. I picked Norman because he had the Daisy pump rifle.
We had agreed to all go home, load up on BBs and bring your guns. Most importantly cover every part of your body with loose denim, leather, padding, helmets,gloves, goggles, etc. you know the regula BB gun fight gear. We were to meet up at the “abandoned farmhouse in the woods” We just called it Sleepy Hollow.
“Sleepy Hollow at 3pm - come ready to have a shoot-out till one team surrenders Don’t be late!”
Now sleepy hollow was technically on the Hatfield’s family property and that meant a home field advantage. However we never expected the bastards to cheat like they did. All three of them had PELLET rifles that also were pump-guns and we walked right into their ambush.
Norman Burns took the first hit, right in the right eye of his dad’s motorcycle goggles. It made a spider web of cracks and we couldn’t tell if he was crying because it hurt or because he knew he was going to get a whipping when he got home. In any case the scrawny toe-head ran off and left his pump-rifle in the leaves.
I dropped my Daisy Winchester replica (great accuracy but no power) and grabbed the pump-action.
About that time Randy rushed a dilapidated outshed and actually TACKLED it and the whole thing came down in dusty boards on top of Scott . I took the opportunity to hit him in his ass with an 8 pumper. His two teammates unloaded a few rounds on Randy and one took off part of his left nostril. This 6’ kid was done now too, more pissed off than defeated he just ran off too because he was bleeding. I got couple of more shots off but too wary of the guns now to be effective. My own teammates had been yelling PELLETS!" when they ran off.
When it was over I had 2 whelps on my forehead and at least 2 on the back of one thigh. I probably took at least 20 painless hits in my stiff-ass jean jacket but eventually had to run off in search of a medic myself.
I don’t remember ever playing with those guys again before we moved.
Dirty Rotten Sons of bitches!