Wanna Fight?

I watched two guys nearly come to blows in a gas station/mini-mart the other night. I don't know what they were mad about, but they both knew all the right swear words and then some. But before all the loud posturing gave way to the throwing of hands, a sheriff's car pulled into the parking lot. The two almost-combatants were relatively small. The cop tipped the scales somewhere north of 250. So it didn’t take him long to defuse the argument- probably through shear intimidation- and shoo both parties on their separate ways.

After things calmed down, I went about topping off my tank and began thinking about the two- almost three- honest to goodness bare-knuckle fights I've found myself in. As a mostly benign and non-belligerent (or bland, take your pick) person who’s managed to live a fair number of years without resorting to violence, these incidents stand out as rare and memorable indeed. Now, don't get me wrong, I do get pissed off; but seldom pissed off enough to take a swing at another human being. So what about these "alleged” two- almost three fights? I've already written about one of these battles; the hockey fight in "For the Love of the Game".  Before that, my first 'almost' fight came in the fourth grade.

I had to do an oral report on animals and chose cats as my topic. I was nervous and nearly peed my pants that day, but succeeded in giving a satisfactory presentation. Miss Lubin even gave me a "B". But out at afternoon recess, mouthy little cat-hater Michael Nylander started called me “Pussy.”  I laughed, even though it wasn't funny. Ha-ha. That was on Tuesday. However when Friday came around and he was still addressing me as "Hey Pussy", I'd had enough. In a moment of puffed up self-righteous anger that morning on the playground, I blurted out the age old challenge, "Okay, Nylander. I'm callin' you out!"

But as soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back. What was I thinking? I didn’t really want to fight him. I just wanted him to shut up. Can’t we all just get along???! By then, though, there was nothing I could do about it. Not only had I called him out, I’d done it in front of witnesses. My only hope was if Nylander declined the invitation. But again, there were witnesses; he really couldn’t. "Okay, I'll see ya at the bike rack after school." Crap. 

Fortunately, little Michael wasn’t much bigger than me and more mouth than anything else. At least I had that going for me. If I was going down, he’d probably be going down with me. But if was only 8:40 in the morning. I'd have to wait nervously for 6 more hours and twenty minutes to see if I was right.

All day long the clock ticked slowly- too slowly. I wanted 3:00 to come so I could get it over with. Then again, I prayed it’s never come. Then prayed Michael would chicken out before I did. Or think I’d been kidding (even though I wasn’t). Then I prayed, maybe, that he just merely misunderstood me. ”Hey Nyrlander, I’m calling you a trout.” Nah.  I knew what I said. And he knew what I said. All the praying wasn’t wasted, though. It did produce this epiphany- it’s easy being brave when you don’t have to back it up. It was an uncomfortable moment of clarity, though.   

Finally the 3:00 bell rang and while all the other kids broke excitedly for home or the bus to take them there, like the condemned man going to the gallows I slowly trudged to the bike rack to await my fate. When I got there, it was 3:05. Then it was 3:10, then 3:15. And little Mikey still hadn’t shown. I was still there. A group of gawkers who'd heard scuttle of fight were there, too. But Nylander wasn't.

And at 3:25, when it became clear my opponent-to-be was a no-show, the bike rack crowd declared me the winner by default. Then, anti-climatically everybody drifted off, their hopes for a good ass-whipping for somebody, denied. I breathed a sigh of relief, unlocked my Stingray and headed home. I don’t know where Michael went or what happened to him, and frankly, I don’t care. And I don't know if Nylander finally figured out he wasn't as tough as he thought he was. I had, though. I was certain he wasn’t. Oh, just kidding. Funny thing though; Michael Nylander never called me a pussy again.

But several years later I became embroiled in another heat-of-the-moment defense of my manhood, and this dust-up turned out to be the real deal.

It happened while playing JV soccer, midway through the season, in a road game against Encina High. The match produced a rare win for us, but as it progressed had turned chippy. Guys were deliberately crowding, getting or giving an elbow or a shove and there was enough trash talk to fill the county landfill. By the second half, with all the extra ‘stuff’ going on behind the play it seemed more like hockey than soccer. It didn’t help that Encina’s home jerseys were bright yellow with black horizontal stripes that made their players all look like a bunch of wingless bees or fruity-attired prisoners. It was hard to take them seriously. They looked ridiculous.

Anyway, there was this one Encina kid about my size. I played half-back and he was a forward and lining up that afternoon, he was always coming down my side of the field. So over the course of the game, he was often my man to cover- and I his- and we got to know each other pretty well. Though not in a friendly way. But if anyone asks, he started it.

He started chirping right from the kick-off. Every time he came near me he was giving me shit. I don’t know why. Maybe he always played like that. Maybe he was just having a bad day. Or maybe he was just a little prick. I ignored him at first, probably because I was too stupid to figure out the ‘game’ I’d yet to encounter such a disagreeable opponent before. But once I took the bait, we engaged in our own private little war. Exchanging crude insults and elbows, he and I carried on a running profanity-laced dialog, up and down the field for practically the entire 90 minute scrimmage. After awhile it was actually kind of fun. But all good things come to an end, even a good grudge match, and at the final whistle San Juan had prevailed over the Encina team, 5-1.

Traditionally, at the end of all games it was a league-wide policy for both teams to meet at the center line and shake hands before leaving the field. It was a nice sounding, good-sportsmanlike idea. However there weren’t a lot of good sports that day and this was one time when this cordial ritual should’ve been blown off. The match had been pretty one-sided and tempers on both sides- not just between me and my "little buddy"- were still running a little high. But both coaches insisted, and the ref was still there and, realistically, the game was over. There was nothing left to battle over.

So we grudgingly filed out to center field to slap hands with all the Encina guys. As I made my way through the parade line, I eventually met up with my obnoxious opponent. Could’ve been awkward, but was handled pretty well, all things considered. When we intersected, neither of us said anything. All he did was smirk as we lightly, and with little feeling, smacked hands in passing. It was kind of like being forced to politely kiss your ugly old Aunt Matilda, the one with halitosis and warts. But it was over, we’d done what we had to do and I thought everything was cool.

But he was no more than a step past me when, from behind, he suddenly jumped me. “What’d you call me?” he seethed into my ear while trying to wrestle me down. I knew I’d called him a lot of unpleasant things during the game but nothing since. However somebody in the handshake line had distinctly called someone else a "fag". I don’t know if it was one of their guys or one of ours, but everyone heard it. All I knew was it hadn’t come from me. And my game-long adversary knew that too; nevertheless he seized the moment as the perfect opportunity to settle the score for whatever I really had said during the game.

Fortunately he wasn’t very heavy and I was able to bend forward and quickly flip him over my back. Instead of taking a header though, he landed on his feet and directly in front of me. He looked surprised, like he hadn’t expected to land upright either. But in that split second as we sized up where we were in relation to time and space, something went off in my head- hit him. So before he could react, I cocked my fist and hard as I could, jabbed it straight into his eye. It all happened so fast. I wasn’t thinking, just reacting. But he’d been asking for it all day and he’d pissed me off so I belted him flush in the face. As he attempted to get back up, I pounced on him, ready to strike again. But my ‘attack’ had set off a chain reaction of sorts, and before I could deliver another shot a second Encina player slammed me from behind. But almost immediately, that guy was run over by someone from my team coming to my defense, followed a half beat later by two or three other guys.

And then it was on.

There was sweating, grunting and lots of cursing; guys knotted up, pulling at jerseys and trying to get at each other. Swallowed up in the mini-scrum, I lost track of how many other people were rolling around down there because I was up to my arm pits in it. I was working like a mad-man, though, trying to untangle myself from whoever I was tangled up with, still hoping to get a piece of the bastard who’d assaulted me. But in the pretzel of nearby arms and legs, I couldn't spot him or free myself from the nameless third party who still had me in a headlock.

However I quickly discovered that fighting is harder work than it looks and the tussle was forcing me to expend a great deal more effort than when it began. I was getting tired. But so was everyone else. I caught a break though, and a brief second wind, when I managed to wriggled out of the pile and come back swinging. However I only connected with air before someone else grabbed me from behind again. This time it was one of the team parents. And after I mis-connected he yanked me out of the melee and held me back. But I wasn’t going back.

The battle had just about run its course, allowing coaches, the ref and other players to wade in and begin pulling the remaining belligerents apart. Finally, without a lot of fight left in anybody- and everybody separated- the whole thing kind of just petered out. Once it did, and as the visiting team, the ref insisted we get proceed to get the hell out of there; now. Which we did, but not before I caught a final glimpse of my new ‘pal’.

I didn’t know his name but he knew mine; “Hey, Asshole!” he called at me and flashed his middle finger. I laughed and returned the salute. His coach pushed him away. But it wasn’t hard to miss the spurting flow of red running down his chin and staining his yellow uniform. He was bleeding from his lip. I knew I hadn't done it though. After getting lost in the pile I was preoccupied with survival. Whoever I got paired up with kept trying to pull the jersey over my head and tie up my arms, forcing my attention and energy into finding a counter move and causing me to lose track of the only dude out there I was truly upset with. Someone else bloodied his lip. But I didn’t mind letting him think it was me who’d given him the shiner I knew he woke up with the next day.

 So I hadn’t inflicted any damage- not that I was aware of anyway- but Coach Terwilliger knew I'd started the fight. And while it was happening, I’d swear there’d been about a hundred guys brawling in a donnybrook that seemed to go on forever. However Coach said it'd taken less than a minute to restore order and only 6 players were actually participating, 3 from each side. But as we walked up the grassy slope from the field to the parking lot he asked, with a mix of pseudo-anger and sincere-amazement, “What made you do it!?” I told him the guy had been riding my ass all game, had 'pearl harbored' me and was asking for it. “So I hit him.” Coach just grinned and shook his head. "Okay. Nice job.” He got it. “But don't do it again”, he added then smiled and walked on.

Coach then treated us to pizza and sodas on the way back to San Juan, and the three of us who fought were treated like rock stars. Teammates rallied around us with lots of loud 'way to go's'  back slaps, high fives and hog-tie hugs. I liked the attention but knew I wasn't really a fighter, and had no intention of starting a scrap that day. All I did was act on pure impulse, emotion and adrenaline. But, I’d actually stood up for myself and there was nothing wrong with that. However I didn't tell my parents anything about that game, except the final score. Dad might’ve been okay with it, but knowing I'd been brawling- and thrown the first punch, Mom would’ve probably grounded me till college.

Regardless, that day was one of the best days of my life. Actually, it was one of the few really great days that stand out in my 4 years at San Juan. And I guess not making the JV football team because I was told I was too small didn’t turn out to be such a bad thing after all. That closed door opened up another door over at the soccer field. And had I not played soccer, I'd have missed that special game and special day.

And that dude from Encina wouldn’t have got a black eye either.

Kodak Moments

Somebody showed me a real nice photo taken during a recent work-related dinner event. Everyone at the table looked pleasant, relaxed and normal- except for the ugly duckling at the bottom of the shot. Who the hell is that? Oh. It was me.

Pretty as a picture? Hardly.

But I don't get it. Every morning as I shave and brush my teeth- not generally at the same time- I look in the mirror and swear the guy looking back at me isn't all that horrible. I wouldn't call myself strikingly handsome, not by any stretch of the imagination. But I'm not walking though the world wearing a grotesque Halloween mask either. The lovely Amy even says I'm cute.

I don't know about that, but it beats being compared to the Elephant Man any day.

Yet whether posing, or unaware a camera is even pointed at me, why do I always come out looking like a mistake whose mold, after seeing the finished product, the Almighty would be happy to break? Don't want to inflict another one of those on humanity. I know we're all made in God's image, but I find it hard to believe my ugly mug is anything the Creator is rushing to grab any credit for.

I swear, in every picture ever taken of me I see a face looking back that only a mother could love; and even that's open for debate.  Am I really that hideous? Who knows? But even my baby pictures suck. They're so bad, that old joke- when you came out, the doctor slapped your mother-might actually really apply.

It's hard to explain and I don't quite understand, but every picture of me is dreadful. 

I want to blame the lighting or shadows, or the rube snapping the picture. But like they say, the camera doesn't lie. If that's true though, then honesty sucks. Even professionals can't help; my appearance in formal portraits leaves much to be desired as well. And all the touching up in the world wouldn’t make a lick of difference.

It makes me so sad, because subtly or not, everybody's judged on appearance, one way or another. So I shudder to imagine what people must think when they see me. Do mothers hide their children when I walk on their side of the street? Do members of the opposite sex look at me and feel sorry for the poor woman who married me?  Do even less not-so-good looking guys see me and talk themselves into believing they aren’t so bad after all?

Why do those things cross my mind at all? I wish I had an answer but I don't. It's just more of the moronic junk that still trickles through my pee-brain from time to time. Yet I believed this junk for a lot of years. And it's been a colossal chore to finally begin the process of chucking this crap into life's landfill and call it what it is- a lie. God does not judge me by how I look. Nor does He care.

And neither should I.

If I’m judged at all, it should only by what's on the inside. And though that's not always a thing of beauty either, I'm working on it. But someday, the torture I’ve put myself through in life over such trivial matters will at last be over. I will be made whole and perfect and if I was ever worried about the outward appearance, I won't be anymore. For at that point, God will smile at the newly finished product and say, "Well done". And the next snapshot will reveal a very pretty picture of a very pretty soul that’ll last for all eternity.

But in the meantime, I beg you: get that stupid camera outta my face!

My Cup Runneth Over

  

This past Sunday at church was Communion Sunday, a sacred rite I've participated in countless times since becoming a regular church goer. But before that, there were many years when I was in church about as often as a total eclipse of the sun. Starting in college and for about the next 15 years, I may have darkened a church’s doorstep maybe three times; once for a funeral, once for a wedding, and one memorable Sunday in Sandpoint, Idaho.

It'd been a difficult first few months living in Sandpoint and working at KSPT and KPND-FM. Not much was going well. The weather was cold, the job was a real grind, I was single with no vision of that ever changing. I just wasn't enjoying life. So as 1983 gave way to 1984, I made a New Year’s resolution to change things up. First thing I resolved to do was get myself back into a church. I wanted a fresh start and figured that was a reasonable place to start. And with New Year’s Day falling on Sunday that year, there was no good excuse to put it off. 

So instead of the usual Sunday routine-sleep till 10, head to the Laundromat, drink copious amounts of coffee, do laundry, fold laundry, read the morning paper, go home, put laundry away, go back to sleep- I rolled my butt out of bed and opened the phone book. I didn't know any churches off the top of my head, so used the Yellow Pages church directory to narrow my search. Actually, I just closed my eyes and pointed.

 

The first time I landed on a Christian Scientists listing. Though woefully un-churched, I knew enough to know I didn't want to go there. So I picked again. This time my pinkie landed on the United Methodist Church of Sandpoint. Whew! I'd never been to a Methodist church before, but it sounded mainstream enough for my limited theological tastes.

They offered two Sunday services, at 9 and 11. It was past 8:30 so I was already late for the 9:00 one. But I’d have no trouble making it in time for the 11. I showered, shaved and rummaged for my Sunday go-to-meetin duds. However, not a guy to dress up much, I didn’t have a closet of nice clothes or much to select from. But I did find one white shirt and a “just-in-case-I-need-one” tie so I wouldn't be going out dressed as the abominable radio man.

 

Yet as I drove off, I wondered why was I doing this? Church was boring and, deep down I really didn’t want to go. Plus, I wouldn’t know anybody there, it’d feel awkward, and what if they were, ya know, weird? Worse, what if they thought I was weird? The internal inquisition and thoughts of dread, crackled though my mind like mosquitoes being zapped on a bug light. And suddenly I wanted to turn around and go home.

 

There wasn’t a lot of time to argue with myself, though, because in less than ten minutes I found myself in front of the church. Located in the seven hundred block of Main Street, the building looked fairly new. The walls had a fresh coat of white paint, anyway. There was a little bell tower over the front door which I liked, because it reminded me of the church I went to as a kid. But this place had something else going for it, too- a rather encouraging street number, 711. Perhaps it was a good omen. Perhaps this was exactly where I was meant to be.

 

There were a lot of people going in and out, so as I made my way into the sanctuary it was easy getting lost in the crowd. Instinctively I sought out a seat near the back door and on an aisle, in case I needed to make a quick getaway. And at first I thought I'd made a pretty good choice and briefly felt safe and secure, and almost comfortable. But just before 11, a large family came in and asked if I’d slide over; they had an elderly grandma with a walker who preferred sitting on the end. So I got pushed into the middle, surrounded by a big family to my right and some stragglers to the left who’d filled up the rest of the row. I was now trapped.

 

Less than a minute later, though, the service began and momentarily I was able to forget how squeezed in I felt. The worship order seemed fairly routine; there were some hymns-one I even knew, “Holy, Holy, Holy”- some general announcements, a couple of prayers, an offering, a soloist and then the sermon. By then, I was ready for a nap, but the Reverend was a fairly young guy and a pretty capable speaker. So I didn’t zone out as much as I thought I might. His topic of choice was centered on new beginnings for a new year. Not real original, but what other sermon theme would you expect on a January 1^st? It wasn't half bad either.

At the conclusion of the message, they did communion. Well that’s cool. It'd been a long time since my last communion, but, I thought, what better way to kick off 1984? Yet with so much to be forgiven for since about high school, I wondered if there'd be enough juice in the cup to atone for everything. But even if there wasn’t, with the dawn of the New Year maybe there’d at least be enough for a clean start. I was stoked at the possibility, anyway.

 

Communion, of course, is a solemn ritual and the sanctuary took on a very serious tone. As the bread and juice were passed, quiet background organ music played in the otherwise still room and, except for a couple of stifled coughs, nobody uttered a sound. When the bread basket came to my row, I quietly and reverently took a small piece as it was passed to me, and held it in my lap. The juice followed. And when it was my turn, I removed one of the tiny cups and started to pass the plate on to the person next to me.

But then I dropped the silly thing.

I don’t know how or why it happened but, like an unforced error on an easy ground ball, I simply booted it; or in this case, dropped it. Maybe my palms were sweaty, but it just slipped out of my grasp. As it did, the remaining cups of juice spilled out and the brass holding plate clanked brashly on the polished hardwood floor. Even my own cup of juice sloshed onto my nice white shirt.

When the plate settled, I looked down and saw tiny puddles of commercial grade grape juice pooling at my feet and starting to run everywhere, like a bleeding-out body. The abrupt sharp and clanging racket caused an immediate murmuring and turning of heads with my face, no doubt, already turning as red as the crimson stain on my shirt. And right then and there, I wanted the ground to swallow me up, never to see the light of day again; at least not in this town or in this building.

See? I knew I shouldn’t have gone to church. I just knew it! Why hadn't I trusted my first instinct an hour earlier, to just flee on arrival.

One of the ushers rushed over to assess the mess. He shook his head disapprovingly- right at me- and I swear his face registered something like, "Nice going, ass hole". But then he gently pushed his hands out in front of him, as if to non-verbally assure me that all was okay, it'd be taken care of, don't worry. Then another guy brought another juice plate, and passed it down for the rest of the row that didn't get any the first time. But as it came my way, I kept my hands folded and let the guy on the right pass it around me to the lady on my left. I didn't even want to breathe on the thing.

 

The lady let me take a new cup of juice and smiled at me, too- though probably more out of pity than because we were sharing a funny moment. And though I'd made a mess in His house, I wondered if God kind of saw the humor in it, too.  

 

But there I was, in a new, unfamiliar situation and wishing to remain as inconspicuous as possible, and what do I do? Drop the communion plate--loudly--in the middle of the service. Had I been much of a praying man then, I'd have prayed for someone to lead me to the nearest bus and instruct the driver to kindly run over me.

 

I hung my head in shame. It was humiliating. I'd disrupted the service and made a fool of myself but there was no place to hide. I was still stuck in the middle of that long, long pew with no easy way out. And I never knew this before, but there's something dreadfully unpleasant about sitting in church drenched in grape juice, and feeling like every pair of eyes behind you is boring into the back of your head. Welcome to my world. Fortunately, I didn’t have to bare this cross much longer. After Communion and another song, the benediction and dismissal, I scrambled out of there as if my clothes were on fire.

But before I could make a final escape, the few people who dared speak to me were gracious and offered general words of comfort:

 

It could happen to anyone.

 

Some of the older folks were asleep. You just woke them up.

 

The floor needed cleaning anyway.

 

Hahaha. I plastered on the 'ol fake smile, thanked them, wished them a nice day and practically sprinted to the car like the cops were after me, never to set foot in that church, or any other Sandpoint house of worship, again. 

But eventually, a few years later- in a new state and town and far from Sandpoint, Idaho- I dipped my toes into the proverbial pool of religion once more and found sanctuary and forgiveness in God's house. And this time, I stayed and went back. And in all those Sundays since, have yet to spill the Communion juice again.

And after Sandpoint, I haven't made many more New Year’s resolutions, either.