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Neal's was the kind of bar that, by Myrtle Beach standards, didn't beckon to the tourists with decadent architecture or garish "come hither" signs in screaming neon.

A rock's throw from the ocean and the old Pavilion amusement park, it was dimly lit, barely furnished and short on amenities. The draft beers were few, but they were cold. There were no waitresses; only Neal, a balding transplant from somewhere up north who tended bar with his golden retriever. It was a locals kind of place, perfect for the night shift of the local newspaper where I worked, and we spent many wee hours shooting pool and sitting on the porch, watching the spring break kids make their way to flashier establishments or, in the winter, enjoying the off-season quiet that settled over the town.

During the summer, visitors may have stumbled into Neal's on occasion, but they never stayed long. The European kids, however, loved it -- on a hot July night, those of us from the Sun-News were often the only Americans in the place as British, Irish and French young people who came to town to work at various restaurants and theme parks for the summer packed the place.

We didn't mind them; in fact, there was something exotic about standing in line for a drink and hearing four or five different languages carrying on conversations at the same time. We shared our own little version of "Cheers" gladly, knowing that at the end of the summer, they would go back home and we'd have the place to ourselves again, keeping Neal in business through the lean winter months until spring came around again.

It was a hot Fourth of July night when my buddy Terry, a sports columnist at the time and as big of a lover of practical jokes as me, started trouble.

We were playing a game of 9-ball with some English guys, and most of us from the paper were into the beer more than the match. The English, however, took it seriously -- some of them brought their own sticks, I think, and they paused for an eternity between shots, measuring angles and lining up shots and hitting the cue with enough force that the crack of balls sounded like breaking bones.

They won, and as Terry racked up for another game, he tried his hand at some psychological warfare.

"You know," he said casually, as if discussing the weather, "we should be allowed to bomb you guys."

Puzzled looks all around. He lined up a perfect diamond of balls and placed the rack on its hook.

"You know -- every July Fourth. We should be allowed to bomb your country, just on general principle. As a reminder."

One of the British dudes lined up his stick to break. The others looked at one another.

"What's 'is? Aren't we allies, mate?" (Seriously. He called Terry "mate.")

The diamond split apart, balls careening across the table as the game began.

"Sure we are! But we kicked your (butts) in the Revolution. And it's the Fourth of July. So we should get to bomb your country."

I'm sure a dozen different protests went through their heads, and they tried everything from insults (something about "bloody Yanks") to reason ("None of us were even alive then, mate!"), but Terry pressed the mental assault. Not enough to provoke a fight, although we all expected it; not enough to earn us a beat-down on the sidewalk when we stumbled out later, bleary-eyed at 3 a.m. and headed for home.

But they got flustered. Irritated, even. Trying to reason with an inebriated American, full of entitlement and ego and calling for the carpet-bombing of the English countryside just because ... I'm sure it didn't sit well.

Which was fine with us, especially when we won the game. And the game after that. And the game after that, when the Brits bet our bar tab against theirs.

It would be a couple of weeks before the lads from London showed up at Neal's again, but that didn't matter -- it was our bar anyway, and for that particular Fourth of July, we celebrated a royal routing of Her Majesty's subjects with all the zeal of our rag-tag ancestors at Bunker Hill.

We may be allies today, but that old rivalry runs deep, and every once in a while, Terry pointed out, we need to remind others -- and ourselves -- that we're still a nation of pig-headed, obstinate upstarts who won't hesitate to start swinging when backed into a corner.

Such philosophizing was too much for 3 a.m. on a humid July 5. I only nodded, and we made our way home, pausing only to stare for a few minutes at an American flag, flapping in the ocean breeze across the street.

Steve Wildsmith is the Weekend editor for The Daily Times. Contact him at steve.wildsmith@thedailytimes.com or at 981-1144.