He bore an uncanny resemblance to Howdy Doody. Freckles dotted his pale face, as if suffering from a perpetual case of measles, only these spots were brown and non-bumpy. His hair, jet black and bristly, like fibers of a steel wool pad, was parted in a style reminiscent of the 1950’s- the decade, ironically, which spawned the TV persona who effectively destroyed his childhood. He was all skin and bones, a skeletal presence lacking even the most rudimentary muscles.

Howdy Doody. The name haunted him. The derivations that followed were no less kind, if truncated. Doody. Doots. Dewey. Every one a shiv jabbed squarely in his Adam’s apple. Of all the knockoffs, ‘Doots’ acquired preferential status as the insult to inflict maximal pain. Any word or phrase with ‘dew’ in it became weaponized. Dewey Decimal System. Dew Point. Mountain Dew. Homonyms worked, too. Dewritos. Mr. Do. Deuteronomy. Taunts flew far and wide, a fusillade of barbs thinly veiled as questions from young, inquisitive minds. What are the names of Donald Duck’s cousins? (Huey, Louie, and Dewey). What’s the longest lasting battery? (Dewracell). What Police song topped the charts in 1980? (De Do Do Do Do, De Da Da Da).

There was no place to hide. Everywhere he went, the ridicule followed, an auditory plague that would torment him all through his teenage years. On the bus, in the hallways, at recess… even in the comfort of his own home, where a bicycle drive-by (Dew-why!) rattled the windows and, more perniciously, his soul. On multiple occasions, his mom, a hefty woman who held the unfortunate position as school lunch lady, interceded, usually with a brusque visit to my parent’s house. My older brother, after all, was an agitator par excellence (as I can personally attest). These interventions with my mother, though, generally concluded with a frosty detente that satisfied no one.

Along with my brother, Ralph was the biggest instigator. And the word ‘big’ fit him as snugly as the denim jacket- adorned with various sized pins of heavy metal bands- that habitually cloaked his oversized torso. Tall and lumpy, the most striking feature was his forehead, the result of a stubborn cowlick that forked his hair like a concrete divider on the highway. Physical features aside, his voice, cartoonishly loud and often obscene, was what you remembered. His bellow of ‘Dew-why!’ assaulted any and all eardrums within a mile radius. He pronounced it with flair, too, a synchronistic, downward thrust of his right arm. ‘Dew-why!’ The target of such a forceful vocal projection would surely be intimidated, if not terrified.

Einstein famously defined insanity as ‘doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.’ If that’s the case- and there’s no discernible evidence against Al’s maxim- then Doots was downright certifiable. Despite the invariable retreats to his house, he rarely refused an invitation to participate in our activities. Perhaps, he reasoned, this time would be different. That if he kept coming back, eventually we’d accept him. Like Charlie Brown and the football, an eternal hope betrayed his better senses.

Football was an afterschool tradition in the chilly autumn and winter months of eastern Pennsylvania. These pickup games, typically three on three, were held in my backyard. Doots never lasted more than fifteen minutes. A short pass to him- almost always thrown by me, who attempted to maintain a Swiss-style neutrality- resulted in a bone-jarring tackle, often by my brother. Doots would either clench his back, wincing, proclaiming he couldn’t go on, or, if in a feisty mood, spring to his feet, throwing punches. Regardless of his reaction, he would inevitably slog back to his home a few hundred yards away. The game would go on, seamlessly, as if he never participated.

More creatively (and far more nefarious), we crafted ruses for the sole purpose of antagonizing him. A Trivial Pursuit game, for instance, was manipulated to lob a ‘Dewey’ bomb upon the hapless fool. Knowing the participants and seating arrangements in advance, a card containing the word ‘Dew’ was placed strategically in the deck. After a brief round of fielding questions in history and geography, Doots would roll the die and, no matter which category he landed upon, be asked something on the order of: “What’s the fifth book of the Old Testament?” A panoply of snickers belied our sinister intentions. Without bothering to serve up an answer (Dewteronomy), he stalked out of the house, another early departure.

More than the fierce tackles and rigged board games, the cruelest form of our bullying was foisting an ersatz rival upon him. Barry Hausman was short, almost dwarflike, with an unkempt, sandy-haired moptop and thick glasses. He had an unusual habit of biting his knuckles when properly agitated. It was a strange sight to behold: one hand balled in a fist, the other crammed in his mouth. The skin on his left hand was red and broken, a public display of his oral fixation. He was the most unlikely foe to pit against Doots and, thus, all the more humiliating should Barry prove victorious. And with our help, that was all but assured.

There were three fights in all, wholly organized and promoted by my brother and my friends. The venues were, in sequential order: the bus stop, the banks of a nearby pond, and my backyard. The fights had rounds which, naturally, were unevenly timed, depending upon how Barry was faring. The diminutive brawler had us in his corner for tutelage and support; Doots, as always, was on his own. The first two battles were more or less even, neither scoring a knockout. Both combatants straggled away from the proverbial ring, slightly roughed up and fatigued, but incurring no real damage. The third bout, however, proved decisive.

After a lackluster initial round, we advised Barry on his opponent’s vulnerability. Spurred on by our expert counsel, Barry stormed out of the break and tackled Doots to the grass. He slithered and squirmed his way atop Doots’ back, executing the plan without flaw. Barry proceeded to jump on his spine, repeatedly, both knees hammering the fragile bone. Doots wailed and wailed until, mercifully, the fight was called. Barry’s arm was raised in triumph while Doots lurched home, hunched over, both hands wrapped around his back, caressing it. My neighbor called us sadists, a word I wasn’t familiar with at the time. Looking back, though, the term was more than apt. We celebrated Barry’s win, gleefully rehashing every detail of the fight, fully aware that the hefty lunch lady from school would soon pay us a visit.