Chapter 23: The Day Justice Had Muscles
- Eric J Herrholz
- 11 hours ago
- 2 min read
Chris Weean had a name no one said with ease. A reputation coated in filth. He was the reason parents in the neighborhood watched shadows longer than sunsets.
He’d been arrested. He’d been warned. But still—he wandered into our yard, chasing trouble like he thought he was owed it.
My dad didn’t hesitate.
A Teamster. Scab buster. Father of three daughters and one son built on fire. He saw Chris step where he didn’t belong and snapped into motion.
Chris ran—right into the driveway of the Petroni family. Bad choice.
Joe, the father, wasn’t just another Southside man. He raised Dominick, and JOEY—Mr. Arizona, competitive bodybuilder, a brick wall with blood flow.
My dad and Joe didn’t raise fists. They raised Joey.
The garage door dropped like a curtain. Neighborhood justice was about to be served—and it wasn’t subtle.
Chris’s face at that moment? Like someone just told him the devil did house calls.
Inside that garage, Joey didn’t just fight. He earned the respect of every Southside block, coached by two legends who knew how to handle things when the law lagged behind decency.
Me? I watched from outside. Not afraid. Not confused. Just learning.
What I saw was the heartbeat of old Chicago: Men who protected their own, who didn’t wait for courts, who knew that sometimes the best security system was a locked garage and a son built like granite.
Chris was never seen again. Not on our block. Not near our sisters.
That day, the lesson was clear: Respect isn’t asked for. It’s earned—and when it’s violated, Southside remembers.
Last name Change To Protect All others.
