Pat Miletich talks about being a bouncer at a house party, and it’s hilarious

It must’ve been weird, being Pat Miletich before you were really Pat Miletich, if you know what I mean. Dude has been kicking ass his entire life, now he just recalls kicking asss when he isn’t talking about kicking ass.

This is a story about his life as a bounce back in the day. Read it, love it.

I go to a big house party at a buddy’s place in an upscale area of Davenport that we called “The Heights”. Really wealthy families living in big mansions, stuff like that. The house has a big pool out back and we spend the day lounging around it, drinking and swimming and whatever.

In the late afternoon, this one dummy decides he wants to start a fight. Now, even though me and my friends are not officially bouncing at this party, we still consider ourselves responsible for keeping any idiots from spoiling the fun. So one of my buddies beats the guy up pretty good, and the guy turns tail, gets in his car, and leaves. Within minutes, we’ve forgotten about the whole thing, and we continue on for a few more hours until things wind down to just me and four guys drinking beer in the garage.

It’s just starting to get dark when two cars come tearing up the street and screech to a stop in front of the house. I hear a bunch of car doors slamming, and then nine guys holding baseball bats come marching up the driveway! Right away, one of my buddies jumps up and hits the switch to close the garage door, and the rest of us start looking around for stuff to help us even the odds.

There’s a couple of those big wicker Jai-Alai paddles hanging on wall pegs, so two guys immediately grab those. Now that I think of it, that might be a world record for the first time that Jai-Alai equipment was used in a street fight! (laughs) I pick up a pitchfork out of the corner, the other guys arm up with whatever they can find, and then I say, “Okay, open the door!”

The door opens and we walk right out, and the nine guys start backing down the driveway a little. That gives us the high ground because the driveway’s on an angle, and since I’m in the front I start lunging and feinting with the pitchfork at the two guys closest to me. Those dumb bastards are standing so close together that they can’t swing their baseball bats without hitting each other, so I keep jabbing at them until I have the timing and distance right. Then I drop the pitchfork — because I’m not looking to commit murder here — launch myself at them, and clothesline them both to the ground.

I land on top and start pounding on them both, but right away I feel one guy get ripped out from underneath me and lifted up. I look up to see my buddy Wally — who’s an incredibly strong guy, around my size but a lot thicker — picking this guy up and dumping him right on his head. The guy’s knocked out immediately but Wally starts punting him anyway, while all around us it’s baseball bats and knuckles and Jai-Alai paddles flying around everywhere. CHAOS.

Wally’s still punting his guy when another dork runs up and swings a bat at Wally’s midsection. But Wally just lifts up his arm and flexes his lat muscle, and the bat bounces right off Wally’s lat! Seriously! He takes the damn thing like it’s nothing, and then hits the guy with a right hand and knocks him clean out.

By now I’ve finished my guy and moved on to another. I’ve got him down on the ground and I’m beating the shit out of him, and suddenly he starts screaming “MY LEGS! MY LEGS!” I’m kind of puzzled by this because I’ve been punching him in the face, but then I look over my shoulder and see that the smallest and craziest of my buddies, a guy named Greg Bates — we used to call him “Master” Bates — is stabbing the guy in the legs with the pitchfork. Not just poking the guy, mind you — STABBING him. I have to reach over and snatch the damn thing out of Greg’s hands to keep him from killing the guy!

A minute later, only one of their guys is still conscious. He’s crawling on his hands and knees in the middle of the street while me, Wally, and a guy named Bob Franks take turns kicking him in the head. Just as he’s finally fading away into Dreamland I notice colored lights moving over his body, and I look up to see squad cars racing up the street toward us.

The cops come skidding up and it’s like a war zone — bleeding, unconscious bodies all over the place with baseball bats, pitchforks and Jai-Alai paddles scattered everywhere. One of the cops looks around for a minute, and then looks at me and asks what happened. But at that moment all the beer in my stomach combines with the huge adrenaline dump I’m experiencing, and instead of explaining the situation I turn and vomit all over the sidewalk! (laughs)

Thankfully, the police accept our side of the story, and my friends and I all get off scott-free. So the cops call a couple of ambulances to clean up the bodies while me and my buddies call it a night and go home.

Good party. (laughs)