It was 1967, and race relations in the south were at their most turbulent. My Dad had just left a basketball game at his school when he heard shouting in the parking lot. Following the noise, he discovered a large crowd of African-American students surrounding three white seniors. My dad found out that one of the black players had been hugging a white cheerleader, and the white boys punched him off. They were quickly surrounded by an angry group of the player’s friends. The three seniors were hurling racial slurs at the crowd. At that point, my dad broke in. He yelled to the black students to drop the issue. Then, one of the seniors grabbed him and threw a punch. My dad tossed him off and kept telling the crowd to leave. Another senior struck him, and my dad again shook him off. Heeding my father’s advice, the crowd dispersed. The three racist seniors left, tails between their legs, without another word.
After that night, the entire black population at school saw my father as a hero. My dad single-handedly defused a potential race riot, and won the hearts of an outcast community.
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