The Match

When you are a kid, personal qualities like physical bravery and skill at sports are much esteemed, and are regarded with pride by their owner, his peers, and his parents. Contrariwise, qualities of the opposite ilk are looked upon with scorn, and their possessor may be ignored (as in not being picked to participate in team games) or mocked, or bullied, and otherwise harshly judged. Sometimes even by otherwise caring parents.

As a boy, I was not good at sports. While I did not consider myself a coward, I avoided violent confrontations as much as possible. Having worn thick glasses from an early age, and being fond of reading, I was considered the archetypal nerd, and on more than a few occasions, I had to suffer the consequences of my pacifist and bookish temperament. Nothing very severe. Just an occasional reminder that there were tougher guys in the neighborhood than one's self. So long as there was no personal damage that might be noticed by one's parents, one tended to keep such matters private.

I had an epiphany of a sort when I was nine years old. A neighbor kid had been harassing me for some time, and eventually it became clear that avoidance of confrontation was no longer an option. Tough and wiry, this kid was the sort who would make trouble simply for the sake of making trouble, and then delight in the pain it caused to others.

In the neighborhood there also lived an older boy, the Organizer, who possessed definite qualities of leadership and organization. It was this individual who, seeing the possibilities of a spectacle that might entertain himself and his comrades, arranged one evening for a supervised showdown between my harasser and myself. The Organizer would act as referee. He had a whistle instead of a gong.

The venue was our street. The crowd gathered at the appointed hour. Rudimentary rules were established, and a makeshift boxing ring was made by four boys holding ropes to form a square. There were no gloves. No kicking or blows below the belt. Not exactly according to the Marquis of Queensbury rules, this event nevertheless had all the aspects, to my nine-year-old eyes, of the Real Thing.

We danced around, my opponent and I, sizing each other up. With my glasses off, he had the advantage. I saw him only as a blur in the twilight. I think he struck the first glancing blow at me. He was skinny, determined, fast on his feet. I was just as skinny, and a bit bewildered, but I had a slightly longer reach. Somehow I hit him in the face, and the fight was over. He ran crying home.

I think the spectators were disappointed, including my younger brother, who was one of the rope holders. I think they were expecting at least a nosebleed or some evidence that it had been the Real Thing. But the Organizer came over and held up my hand. I had triumphed over my harasser. Once and for all.

Maybe it had been just one lucky punch. But, boy, did I feel good after that!