"Scarred for life" at seven? You bet, and I'm looking at you, Bob Horton

Bob Horton: Irish or Welsh? We report, you decide.

[Whoa, update: This was intended as a funny story from my childhood, but in no way was it meant to imply that my friend Bob bullied me or even vaguely threatened me way back then; just a memory of a young kid’s experience of life in the fast lane. Bob’s one very good person; always has been]

They’ve arrested a couple of women who stole a seven-year-old’s Trump Hat and slapped him about while doing so, and that seems appropriate, but reading the article, I initially dismissed the boy’s mother’s claim that he’d been “scarred for life” as mere histrionics; surely a Trump supporter of any age is made of sterner stuff.

As he surely is, but searching my memory for what I recalled from when I was seven, I realized that I have never forgotten the awful, dreadful night I endured the night of the Nixon/Kennedy election of 1960, when I had bet a full dollar with nine-year-old Bob Horton that Kennedy would beat Nixon. We weren’t necessarily fully-attuned to politcs at the time: my Mommy was a JFK fan, and Bob’s was head of the Greenwich Republican Party, and we bet accordingly, but I had no souce of income at the time — no allowances paid in the Fountain household — and I had no idea how I’d pay off Horton if Kennedy lost, so I spent a sleepless night worrying about what awaited me at dawn.

Readers familiar with pre-2008 history will know that Kennedy did win, and Nixon was exiled to St. Clemente, where the press wouldn’t have him available to kick around anymore, but all I cared about then was that I didn’t have to come up with that dollar. And 60 years on, I remember.

Looking back, it’s interesting that Bob’s and my political futures were revealed in that bet: I, who ended up a Republican, was worried about honoring my debt, while Bob, now Greenwich Time’s resident Democrat, blew his off. Depending on how you calculate it: inflation; compound interest; etc, Bob owes me $1.00, $8.78, or $19.50, but so far, and despite my occasional nudging over the years, he hasn’t paid me a dime.

Next coffee date, Bob, it’s on you — Justice!