Chapter 17: Teeth Out, Fists Up — Local 172 Built Men Like My Father
- Eric J Herrholz
- 6 hours ago
- 2 min read
My father was a Teamster. Local 172. The Truckers Union—and damn if he didn’t breathe it like air.
We weren’t just a union family. We were the kind that made sure you knew it. He stood for fair wages, benefits, respect on the clock and off it. And if the picket line was up, you didn't cross it—not if my old man was there.
I remember sitting in his truck, watching. Scabs tried to sneak through the line like cowards in daylight. He stepped forward—broad-shouldered, eyes locked, jaw tight. He didn’t move. They did.
I watched fists fly. Watched him take his false teeth out before a fight—not to talk, not to yell, but to throw down. No hesitation. No fear. Just conviction with knuckles behind it.
At his body shop, I had privileges: I could swear. I could speak like the grown men did—rough, real, unfiltered. But at home? Not around the girls. Respect wasn't a concept he explained—it was something he enforced.
He taught me how to keep my mouth shut when the time called for silence. To speak when truth needed a witness. To swear only when the world had earned it.
I saw him bleed for what he believed. Not for fame. Not for fortune. But for his fellow worker. The guy hauling crates. The one clocking hours. The man who kept the engine running but rarely got heard.
My father didn’t take anyone’s crap. He was the man they called when things got dirty— A fighter. A fixer. A man’s man, forged in union grit and street-borne values.
This chapter isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about backbone. And how one man taught me that strength isn’t about power—it’s about showing up when it counts. False teeth in hand. Fists ready. And a soul that never backed down.
