Reminds me of the kickboxer I was a reserve cop with

here in Bakersfield back around 1977.

We had monthly meetings, in uniform in the Assembly Room at the Bakersfield Police Department.

Our Reserve Coordinator swore this new guy in.

The new guy looked good - tall, about 6 foot 1, broad in the shoulders, narrow waist, about 220. Solid.

The guy next to me whispered, “He’s a good kickboxer. Looks like he can handle himself.”

“Hmm, I thought. Might be good if things go to fist city.” I was never good at that stuff. My skill, if I had any, was the ability to speak softly and talk a guy into the handcuffs. And, I was never a prick about it. I always pressed the tiny lock on the Peerless handcuffs that prevented them from tightening - something not every officer did during an arrest.

At our next month’s Reserve meeting, I didn’t see the new guy, the kickboxer.

At the break, I asked our Coordinator Lieutenant Cleo Blackburn, “What happened to the new guy, the kickboxer?”

Cleo smiled and said, “Him? We had to get rid of him?”

“Why?” I said.

Cleo said, “He was using his kickboxing skills out in the field. Plus, he had a short fuse. Macho jerk. We can have that. Too provocative.”

I filed that away: don’t try to kickbox people out in the field. Good advice.