I was driving by and saw the melee. I’d say the boys were about 10 years old, maybe a little younger. Maybe a little older. Just as I came even with them, one grabbed the other in a headlock and bulldogged him right down into the sidewalk. Then they were both swinging wildly.

I stopped, stepped out of the car and walked toward the two. When I got about 10 feet away, I yelled out, “Knock it off.” Believe it or not, they did. They stood up, facing each other as I walked over.

Then it got a little weird. Several other boys, a couple as old as 13, circled the two combatants. One swung a wooden stick widely, a little too close for comfort. Another, the alpha male of this pack, carried what looked like an elongated metal cane.

And then there was the mouth. He kept saying over and over again: “He ain’t the boss. Keep fighting. You ain’t the boss.”

The two younger boys, still within an arm’s reach of each other – and perhaps more significantly my arm’s reach – ignored his taunts. The boys had been fighting over a game of ball gone bad, but I got the impression it was actually more for the other boys’ entertainment than a real grievance between the two.

We were in a stalemate. The juvenile fight club wanted things to start up again, while I was talking to the boys, trying to defuse the situation.

But the mouth wanted more of it: “He ain’t the boss. What’s he going to do? He ain’t the boss,” he chanted over and over like some kind of demented monk who had lost any sense of peace.

I was no match for his rhetorical skills and deft display of verbal agility. But he was right. What would I do if the kids starting swinging away again?

It occurred to me that I couldn’t touch the two. Lay a finger on them, even if they’re pummeling each other, and it’s civil suit city. I couldn’t threaten to throttle them – although the thought crossed my mind. What type of message would that send?

“He ain’t the boss. He’s no boss.”

I dropped the only card I had to play. “What’s your name? Where do you live? Where are your parents? Let’s give the cops a call and let them sort it out,” I said, pulling my cell phone out of my pocket.

That did it. The triumph of reason over “you ain’t the boss.”

Alpha stepped in. He declared the fight was over and the boys moved on. Maybe the fight started up again as soon as I left, or the boys were joined up against a new enemy. Me.

The whole time, a woman stood across the street yakking on a cordless phone. A man leaned against his car, talking on a cell phone. And another man walked right by on the sidewalk. All while the kids were fighting. They were no help. They couldn’t have cared any less.

Checking the options

I called the Lewiston Police Department when I got home, not to turn the kids in, just to find out what I should have done.

Sgt. David St. Pierre took my call. “Today, kids don’t have respect for adults, not even for the police. They’re not born with that attitude, they have to learn it somewhere.”

His advice, “Just call the police. You don’t want to put yourself in a situation where you could get hurt.”

It makes sense, but calling the cops on two 10-year-olds in a fight is messed up.

Kids are going to get into fights, I suppose. Adults, like the three who stood by and let these two go at it, are supposed to stop them. Parents are supposed to teach their kids respect. Too often, they just keep talking on the phone.

“It’s what we face every day,” St. Pierre said. “People see things every day, and they don’t want to get involved, even if it’s pretty heinous.”

They don’t want to file a report, go to court or do the right thing. They just keep talking on the phone.

And when and if you do get involved, trouble could be waiting. “I’m sorry to say it, but some people are sue happy,” he said.

Touch a kid, and you could find yourself facing a civil suit. Then you have to prove you were acting in good faith to keep the two kids from hurting each other.

“The best option is to call the police,” St. Pierre said. “It’s our job.”

It shouldn’t be. But too often it is.