Fight Club
The first rule of fight club is that there are no rules. I learned this the hard way.
Back in the elementary school days, I found myself in a number of scuffles. Mostly these were the result of a few bullies not realizing that they shouldn’t pick on people bigger than themselves. Those playground scuffles never amounted to much, largely because they were on the playground. But then there was The Fight.
The Fight was unlike the other previous scuffles. The Fight was not be a spur of the moment fracas between my Arch Nemesis and myself. Instead, it was a planned brawl between me and a friend. For more than a week, The Fight was the talk of school bus.
The Opponent, Matt, had for a number of years been a childhood playmate. We had grown up a few blocks from each other and for a time were the best of childhood mates. In either case, as time went on near the end of elementary school, as the divide between the popular kids and the geeks became more apparent, we began going about our separate ways. It was during this transition period that somehow being cool meant getting into a brawl.
There were a few rules Matt and I had agreed on in the interest of having a "fair fight."
Rule #1: No Scratching
I had a bit of a reputation for using whatever means necessary to get people to leave me alone on the playground. A number of playground scuffles I was involved in ended with my leaving a nice scratch on the forearm, or in one case, I drawing blood across the face of my arch nemesis. The scratching rule was very clearly aimed at preventing me from using my weapon of choice.
Rule #2: No Ball Hitting
It seemed like a fairly straight forward rule. Only cowards sucker punch you in the bollocks anyway, so it was almost as if we didn’t need the rule. The one thing I knew would be painful was a big old sucker punch to the nuts.
Rules #3: No Strangulation
I really had no interest in dying, so I thought that a ban on strangulation was probably a good idea.
As it turned out, the only rule in The Fight was that there are no rules.
For a week or so, the much publicized fight lead to bickering and taunts from both camps. Matt’s camp was essentially the cool kids lead by my Arch Nemesis. My camp was essentially, me. And of course there was third camp who just wanted to watch a good fight.
The plan was simple. In the woods behind the bus stop was a small clearing. We’d meet there after school and have The Fight. A number of folks were in attendance including Matt’s older brother and his friends, the Arch Nemesis, and a few other folks looking for a good time. There were perhaps a dozen spectators.
Neither of us really knew how to fight. We weren’t boxers, at any rate. Matt sent his fist my way. I think he struck my arm first. Then the back of my head. I was being very careful not to scratch him, as per rule number one. But I hadn’t really ever thrown a punch, so I only really shoved him back.
He launched at me and pulled me to the ground, throwing down his fist into my back a few times. We were rolling on the ground when he kneed me in the bollocks. I called fowl.
The Fight stopped for a moment. "You hit me in the nuts" I said, or something equally ridiculous. The other folks there were chanting "fight, fight, fight" concerned their show might be over. "It’s a fight" came the retort from the crowd. They all were Matt supporters. There was little that could be done except to accept the fact that the rules had been broken, and hope that the fight could continue without any further violations.
So we went at it again, wrestling each other to the ground. I still had refrained from scratching at Matt. Somehow though, while we were wrestling on the ground, he wrapped his hands around my neck. I attempted to say something about his blatant rule breaking. But he was choking me. I finally wrestled him off with a good shove and jab to the stomach. I was finished with the fight, mostly because Matt was breaking the rules.
I started walking away from the clearing down the path. The spectators though wanted their show. Tommy Kaplan, a punk and a bully a year or two older than us—friends with Matt’s older brother—really wanted us to keep fighting. He said a few things trying to get me back in the ring. When it was clear that I was halfway out of the forest and not coming back, he came running after me, demanding I stay and fight.
Tommy threw a few punches my way, square in the shoulder insisting that I return and fight. He being a bit older and stronger, actually was able to cause some pain. I was already sore, and his punches lead to tears. The rest of the crowd had gathered now, and Tommy threw a few more punches for good measure. I slipped out of his grasp. I was bounding back down the path out of the woods.
He caught up with me a second time and pulled me to the ground. He punched me a few more times and demanded that I stay and fight Matt. Again, the crowd had come along, Matt leading them down the forest path. I was wailing in pain at this point. Tommy was after all older, and more importantly, actually knew how to throw a punch.
Finally, I concluded that I stood a better chance fighting with Matt, even though he was breaking the rules, than I did with Tommy who was simply older. Matt and I had a quick go at it before I conceded defeat. I may have cried "Uncle," which I would have done earlier if I had known that was the 'safe word.'
Anyway, as we finished up, we walked out of the woods and a police car showed up with the lights flashing. Oops.
As things turned out, a girl who lived near the forest, Anne-Marie, went ahead and alerted the police to The Fight after hearing my wailing. The police took our names and rang up our mothers. Years later, Anne-Marie and I would joke about the time she called the cops on me.
Matt had a good little story to tell his mother: 'the older kids,' meaning his brother, 'told us to fight, so we had a fight.' No, obviously, that was not what had happened. The Fight had been planned. We had rules, and Matt cheated. But his story seemed to get us both out of trouble and shift the blame to his older brother, so there was no reason to contradict him. We ended the afternoon playing Nintendo in his basement.
For a year or two after The Fight, Matt and I remained friends. In middle school, he began to drift into the crowd of cool kids, I towards the solitude of a middle school geek. By high school, we were friendly, but by no means friends. He hung out with the popular crowd that played sports, I with the dorks who played instruments and performed on stage.
Years later, then in college, I came across a young woman who knew Matt. "My friend is dating him," she said. "She's planning on dumping him next weekend," said the friend. I passed the information on to people who still spoke with Matt. He dumped her first.
Back in the elementary school days, I found myself in a number of scuffles. Mostly these were the result of a few bullies not realizing that they shouldn’t pick on people bigger than themselves. Those playground scuffles never amounted to much, largely because they were on the playground. But then there was The Fight.
The Fight was unlike the other previous scuffles. The Fight was not be a spur of the moment fracas between my Arch Nemesis and myself. Instead, it was a planned brawl between me and a friend. For more than a week, The Fight was the talk of school bus.
The Opponent, Matt, had for a number of years been a childhood playmate. We had grown up a few blocks from each other and for a time were the best of childhood mates. In either case, as time went on near the end of elementary school, as the divide between the popular kids and the geeks became more apparent, we began going about our separate ways. It was during this transition period that somehow being cool meant getting into a brawl.
There were a few rules Matt and I had agreed on in the interest of having a "fair fight."
Rule #1: No Scratching
I had a bit of a reputation for using whatever means necessary to get people to leave me alone on the playground. A number of playground scuffles I was involved in ended with my leaving a nice scratch on the forearm, or in one case, I drawing blood across the face of my arch nemesis. The scratching rule was very clearly aimed at preventing me from using my weapon of choice.
Rule #2: No Ball Hitting
It seemed like a fairly straight forward rule. Only cowards sucker punch you in the bollocks anyway, so it was almost as if we didn’t need the rule. The one thing I knew would be painful was a big old sucker punch to the nuts.
Rules #3: No Strangulation
I really had no interest in dying, so I thought that a ban on strangulation was probably a good idea.
As it turned out, the only rule in The Fight was that there are no rules.
For a week or so, the much publicized fight lead to bickering and taunts from both camps. Matt’s camp was essentially the cool kids lead by my Arch Nemesis. My camp was essentially, me. And of course there was third camp who just wanted to watch a good fight.
The plan was simple. In the woods behind the bus stop was a small clearing. We’d meet there after school and have The Fight. A number of folks were in attendance including Matt’s older brother and his friends, the Arch Nemesis, and a few other folks looking for a good time. There were perhaps a dozen spectators.
Neither of us really knew how to fight. We weren’t boxers, at any rate. Matt sent his fist my way. I think he struck my arm first. Then the back of my head. I was being very careful not to scratch him, as per rule number one. But I hadn’t really ever thrown a punch, so I only really shoved him back.
He launched at me and pulled me to the ground, throwing down his fist into my back a few times. We were rolling on the ground when he kneed me in the bollocks. I called fowl.
The Fight stopped for a moment. "You hit me in the nuts" I said, or something equally ridiculous. The other folks there were chanting "fight, fight, fight" concerned their show might be over. "It’s a fight" came the retort from the crowd. They all were Matt supporters. There was little that could be done except to accept the fact that the rules had been broken, and hope that the fight could continue without any further violations.
So we went at it again, wrestling each other to the ground. I still had refrained from scratching at Matt. Somehow though, while we were wrestling on the ground, he wrapped his hands around my neck. I attempted to say something about his blatant rule breaking. But he was choking me. I finally wrestled him off with a good shove and jab to the stomach. I was finished with the fight, mostly because Matt was breaking the rules.
I started walking away from the clearing down the path. The spectators though wanted their show. Tommy Kaplan, a punk and a bully a year or two older than us—friends with Matt’s older brother—really wanted us to keep fighting. He said a few things trying to get me back in the ring. When it was clear that I was halfway out of the forest and not coming back, he came running after me, demanding I stay and fight.
Tommy threw a few punches my way, square in the shoulder insisting that I return and fight. He being a bit older and stronger, actually was able to cause some pain. I was already sore, and his punches lead to tears. The rest of the crowd had gathered now, and Tommy threw a few more punches for good measure. I slipped out of his grasp. I was bounding back down the path out of the woods.
He caught up with me a second time and pulled me to the ground. He punched me a few more times and demanded that I stay and fight Matt. Again, the crowd had come along, Matt leading them down the forest path. I was wailing in pain at this point. Tommy was after all older, and more importantly, actually knew how to throw a punch.
Finally, I concluded that I stood a better chance fighting with Matt, even though he was breaking the rules, than I did with Tommy who was simply older. Matt and I had a quick go at it before I conceded defeat. I may have cried "Uncle," which I would have done earlier if I had known that was the 'safe word.'
Anyway, as we finished up, we walked out of the woods and a police car showed up with the lights flashing. Oops.
As things turned out, a girl who lived near the forest, Anne-Marie, went ahead and alerted the police to The Fight after hearing my wailing. The police took our names and rang up our mothers. Years later, Anne-Marie and I would joke about the time she called the cops on me.
Matt had a good little story to tell his mother: 'the older kids,' meaning his brother, 'told us to fight, so we had a fight.' No, obviously, that was not what had happened. The Fight had been planned. We had rules, and Matt cheated. But his story seemed to get us both out of trouble and shift the blame to his older brother, so there was no reason to contradict him. We ended the afternoon playing Nintendo in his basement.
For a year or two after The Fight, Matt and I remained friends. In middle school, he began to drift into the crowd of cool kids, I towards the solitude of a middle school geek. By high school, we were friendly, but by no means friends. He hung out with the popular crowd that played sports, I with the dorks who played instruments and performed on stage.
Years later, then in college, I came across a young woman who knew Matt. "My friend is dating him," she said. "She's planning on dumping him next weekend," said the friend. I passed the information on to people who still spoke with Matt. He dumped her first.
Labels: Narcissism
posted by Ian at 3:52 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment