|Bubby and Zayde|
Grampy approached the Irishman and asked him to sit up. The Irishman said, "Why do I have to listen to you, you little Jew." And before the Irishman had even gotten the words out, Grampy lifted his fist and beat the shit out of him, left him unconscious in a pool of blood.
We grew up in a tough neighborhood, you know this Bubbala. You can't be weak in such a neighborhood. I told you about my first date with your grandfathah, when we were sitting on the trolly in the Bronx and a boy ran past. He was Grampy's good friend this boy. He called out to Grampy, "Hey Roite! I'd stay and talk to your girl but the cops are chasing me."
Anyway, when Grampy got home that evening he had blood all over his jacket and I became petrified, naturally. I thought the blood was his, but it wasn't. After that, Grampy was always afraid to ride the subway. He thought he might have killed the Irishman and they'd come for him, the Irish.
Your Grampy knew how to use his fists. He was a tough guy, you know.