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.