Don't Tug on Superman's Cape

Tibet - photo by JoAnn Sturman

By Steven R. Oberst

When I first met Marty, my first thought was, “Wow! This guy has no neck.” It was the Summer of 1970, and Marty and I were assigned as 2nd classman for basic cadet training in Jack’s Valley. Although four inches shorter than me, Marty had to outweigh me by 40 pounds of solid muscle. He had long arms like an orangutan and probably needed a size 48 jacket, so I was not surprised to find out he was a wrestler. We hit it off pretty well in those first couple of weeks while watching Doolies run around in the dirt. 

With a Saturday off, we hitched a ride with a firstie to downtown Colorado Springs. He dropped us around lunchtime at Guiseppe’s by the old Antlers hotel. After some pizza and 3.2 Coors draught beer, we decided to take a stroll around the town. It was a beautiful, warm summer day as we headed up Tejon Street, enjoying the faint aroma of pot that seemed to hover around every little shop we walked past. After a few blocks, we came to Acacia Park which appeared to be completely infested with hippies. Long hair, beards, bellbottoms, love beads and head bands were everywhere.

Acacia Park is the oldest park in Colorado Springs and was established in 1871. It covers an entire city block in the downtown area and has paths that run diagonally from corner to corner. In hindsight, it was perhaps foolhardy for a couple of cadets, whose haircuts definitely branded them as members of the military, to walk through the park instead of around it. It was well known there were some bad dudes in this area of town. These guys may wear peace symbols, but what they actually loved was picking fights with military personnel who ventured into their domain.  I, for one, certainly lacked any experience with fighting. My only fight had been when Mark Putnam spit on my new letterman’s jacket in high school. It lasted only about 15 seconds before a teacher pulled me off of him. Yes, I had survived the challenge of the fourth class cadet physical education boxing class, but doubted that this or the third class cadet training in unarmed combat would be of any value in a real encounter. Marty, however, had no intention of walking around the park. 

We set off from the SW corner of the park intending to go to the NE corner on Nevada Avenue. Other than a few derogatory comments from the hippies in the park, we made it safely, without incident, to the middle of the park. Up ahead the path was clear, but Marty stopped and said, “Hey, let’s go catch a movie.” The theater was just a couple of blocks south of there on Nevada. So, making a right turn in the middle of the park, we headed for the SE corner. 

Up ahead were three long haired freaky people who looked like Hell’s Angels wanna-bees. “Hey,” said the ugliest one of them. “What are you assholes doing in our park? Shouldn’t you be back in ‘Nam killing babies?” Ignoring them we continued walking until they stepped in front of us. Undeterred, we attempted to walk around them. We were past them and I thought in the clear, when suddenly the three of them came at us. The two biggest ones jumped on Marty. The smallest one tried to tackle me, but he only managed to wrap his arms around me from behind. It surprised me when I reacted immediately with a basic unarmed combat maneuver. I stomped hard on his right foot causing him to drop his arms. I spun and brought my knee up hard to his groin. As he crumpled to the ground, I turned to see if Marty needed any help. 

It was not Marty who needed help, but the poor dudes who jumped him. Marty had one guy in a headlock and had the other guy on the ground with a foot on his back and an arm pulled up behind him. The dummy in the headlock tried to hit Marty, which only pissed him off more. Marty threw him to the ground and pushed his face into the dirt. Both men were struggling mightily to break free. Suddenly, from his knees, Marty grabbed both of them by the back of the neck and slammed them together. I will never forget the hollow thumping sound of the two heads colliding. Both were out cold. Marty looked around to see if anyone else wanted some action. Wisely, the people in our vicinity moved back. The guy who had come at me took one look at Marty and quickly scrambled away. 

I honestly can’t remember what movie we watched that afternoon. For some reason I never had occasion to walk through Acacia Park again. As for Marty, after that summer I did not see much of him. I have often wondered what became of him.

Remember the 1972 Jim Croce hit song “Don’t Mess Around with Jim?" Here’s the refrain:

You don't tug on Superman's cape.
 
You don't spit into the wind.
    
You don't pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger
,  
And you don't mess around with Jim.
 
I’ll bet Mr. Croce was thinking of Marty when he wrote that song, but needed a word to rhyme with Slim.  I'm sure his would be assailants in the park would vote for my version.