I HEAR TWO FAMILIAR REMARKS from readers I meet on the street. One is “Hey, Steve, I like your childhood stories best.” Another is a question. “Do you have any stories you’ve never told because you were a teacher?” Here’s a story I’ve been sitting on for 30 years that will entertain both.

Ridgway is the seat of Elk County, and our mighty Elkers played football against every town around, making them all rivals. The closest rival, Johnsonburg, was our nemesis. They were tough and whooped us plenty, even in our best years, and occasionally we whooped them back.

However, this rivalry was special. It included an annual two-week-long pregame egg-flinging battle between our two towns. Carloads of kids from Johnsonburg would cruise through Ridgway on the weekend before the game, playing it cool, windows up, heads down, until they found high school students gathered in Ridgway’s courtyard park or outside of Gorman’s soda shop. Then the windows would quickly come down and eggs began to fly. Anything within range was pelted. Of course, Ridgway kids cruised eight miles to Johnsonburg and returned the favors.

This went on year after year while I was in high school, but it was mostly a senior activity because it involved the varsity team. It also helped to be old enough to drive a car.

My first involvement began when I was a junior because my neighborhood pal Bimbo from across the alley was a senior with a fast 1957 Chevy. He cherished that car, but was willing to risk it to do his part as a loyal Elker fan. As his neighbor and pal, I was eager to assist. Two other underclassmen joined in our plot. Actually, as alpha dog, Bimbo did the plotting; we nodded.

A straight eight-mile winding road along the Clarion River connects Ridgway north to Johnsonburg. The route turns into Main Street in both towns. There is no other easy route to Johnsonburg unless you take a 24-mile hook route that goes out around Johnsonburg through a few smaller towns, far north, and then comes in from the back. No one would do that. Johnsonburg kids seldom guarded the northern entrance to town.

Johnsonburg is smaller than Ridgway. During egg battle season, Ram fans tended to cluster around their one big lighted intersection right before the road opens toward Ridgway. When Ridgway kids with cartons of eggs drove to attack Johnsonburg, it was like the opening scene of “Saving Private Ryan.”

First the reduced speed limit would slow your car down, and then you had a 50/50 chance of being stopped by the town’s only street light at ground zero. If you caught green, you could blaze through the gauntlet, windows down, eggs flying in and out, in a balanced battle. If you caught the red, you were toast. It was a suicide run, but we did it anyway.

Bimbo, who loves to drive and loves his car, said, “We’re taking the hook. We’re leaving before dark. When we pull into the backside of Johnsonburg, we will go slow down Main Street and time the traffic light. When we know we can make the green, it’s windows down, boys, and start flinging. You with me?” Yeah.

First thing the four of us did was wax Bimbo’s Chevy heavily and repeatedly to protect the finish against egg splatter. Next we rounded up two new 8-track tapes, Three Dog Night and Cream. The eggs we bought, like everyone else, outside of town at Johnson’s Egg Farm at five dozen for a dollar. He never asked questions.

You have to suspect by now with such a large buildup that our Schwarzkopf-style belabored end-run assault ended in disaster. You got that right.

Everything went fine around the hook. For an hour we drove through the forest, listened to music and laughed about our certain victory over the ‘Burg kids. Johnsonburg was a factory town, paper mill, smelly. Ridgway was the county seat with courts, big houses and more professionals. ‘Burg kids were scrappy and tough. You didn’t mess with them.

All systems were go as we crept up Main Street, playing it cool, drifting through town five car lengths behind someone in a white Cadillac. We could see the intersection up ahead and the crowds on the sidewalks.

The Cadillac was nearing the intersection and tapping its brakes because the light was red. Then it flashed to green and the Caddy accelerated toward the crossroads.

“Here we go, boys. Let ’em have it,” said Bimbo. We rolled down our windows as he hit the gas and began flinging eggs at anyone on the street. We unloaded about a dozen before Bimbo slammed on his brakes.

The white Cadillac had stopped in the intersection and decided to make a left. We stopped before the crosswalk and the light turned red.

“Oh, dear God.” We rolled up our windows and checked the locks. Eggs came down like hail. They covered the car. We could barely see out. Then a real big guy, probably one of the Cherry boys, stepped right in front of our car, lifted a watermelon and smashed it on our windshield. Someone hit the passenger door with an empty Coke bottle.

The light changed, Bimbo popped the clutch, and off we flew, leaving behind the dank smell of rubber, our only revenge. The moisture from the watermelon was just enough to dilute the eggs on the windshield and Bimbo’s wipers worked for about five strokes. We made it home. We spent that night at the car wash, tail between our legs, vowing that next year would be different.

And it was. To be continued.

Steve Gibbs teaches at Benicia High School and has written a column for The Herald since 1985.