Football hooligans and the voice of God

    During my junior year abroad at Canterbury, one professor assigned a term paper to be due at the END of spring break. (Weasel.) So not surprisingly, when spring break rolled around, I had yet to write a word. I went up to London and took a room in a dorm at the University thereof. I found, not to my great surprise, that the application of Strongbow cider to the problem didn't provide much inspiration, so I took a walk.
    At Euston Road tube station, across from St. Pancras and Euston stations, a young man ran past me. Several other young men were chasing him. One caught him, and the chasers started hitting him. In London, where road works are going on, rather than put out orange traffic cones, they put out yellow heavy metal lanterns about two feet high. One of the hooligans picked one up and started hitting the young man with it.
    Londoners were passing by like this was nothing, or none of their business. It was too much for one American, though. I walked up and pulled out the voice of God, saying, "STOP!" They stopped. One said something like, "He was asking for it, innit?" but they melted away with no further show of violence. I helped the young man up. Fortunately, the University of London has a hospital, or one nearby, so I just had to escort him around the block to the casualty department.
    The young man told me that the hooligans attacked him because of his scarf promoting a football (soccer to you) team that they didn't like. He also told me I had saved his life. I don't know about that, but was glad to help. It took a while (seems like weeks, but that seems unlikely) to get the fleck of his blood off my glasses. He said he was OK to go in the hospital himself, so I left him there.
    And I collapsed completely. I can't and couldn't really reconcile my self-image with acts of courage however minor. Did not know how to cope. Eventually made my way to Soho, where I found an intercontinental pay phone, and was able to talk to my brother Frank, who fortunately understood. Then I started feeling better.
    I packed up and went back to Canterbury, where I took a room in a 14th century b&b near Westgate and wrote my paper in four days. Paid a university secretary to type if for me, and sauntered off to explore Yurop. Which is another story.