Fighting
This might be a little bit of an odd topic for an essay, but just hear me out for a few minutes. When I say fighting, I'm not talking about arguing or protesting for a cause, such as animal rights, protecting the environment, legalization of marijuana, immigration, etc. I'm also not talking about boxing, which involves rules, a referee, and boxing gloves. I'm talking about putting up your fists with another to see who better fits Darwin's theory, for what are usually trivial reasons.
Fighting for a cause usually involves reason, passion, belief, for something good, regardless of how one sides with the issue. Putting up your fists with another usually involves measuring testosterone levels (estrogen for the ladies). The actions and results of fighting often have multiple consequences: pain, incarceration, embarrassment, etc. There are some who seek out opportunities to rumble with another and those that just find themselves in the middle of those situations all the time. Fortunately, I'm not one of those people.
I'm definitely a wimp; a lover, not a fighter. I've always done my best to fend off potential physical confrontations with diplomacy. It's not that I've been in many of those situations. I do my best to scan the horizon and avoid the potential situations themselves. But if the situation arises, I'll give up my lunch money 90% of the time. To hell with pride! And why? Because a punch to the face is painful! In a fight, punches to the face are likely to happen. I'll do most anything to avoid a punch to the face.
Now, I'm talking about fighting over trivial things. It's one thing to defend your family, friends (not just any friends, your good friends), and your pets from physical harm. These are important things worth exchanging punches with another if needed. However, if someone calls me four eyes, says I'm ugly, makes fun of me because I drive a minivan, or says that I suck at golf, I'm okay with it. I'm sure you can come up with other trivial situations as well. In my opinion, that's not a reason to exchange fists. It's not because I think that it's stupid to do so (although it really is). For me, it all goes back to not wanting to get hit in the face. Again, that #@*% really hurts! I learned this at a very young age, which I will share with you a little later.
Before I learned about the pain associated with a punch to the face, I thought fighting was pretty cool, tough guy stuff. I was young, 7 or 8 years old, and had never actually seen a fight between two people. Most of what I knew about fighting was from TV. I remember two Clint Eastwood movies in particular, Any Which Way You Can and Any Which Way But Loose. I don't really remember the plot of either movie. Clint's character, Philo, spends alot of time in bars and in fights. He has an orangutan named Clyde. I think Philo mainly fights for money, but then there are times where he fights because someone has messed with Clyde or his girlfriend. Philo always has his shirt off, has plenty of muscles (Clint in his younger days), and whips the ass of everyone he fights. For whatever reason, this genre was endearing to me. I wanted to have a pet orangutan and to make money bare knuckle fighting. This is what my friends and I talked about at school.
I lived in the country, about ten miles from school. I rode the bus to and from school each day. Our bus driver was a retired high school teacher and coach. He also had a boxing background, as a boxer and trainer. He talked about boxing a lot. You could tell he was a tough guy and one that you wouldn't want to mess around with. There was never a problem with discipline on the bus. If he had a problem with you, he would simply pull the bus over to the side of the road, stop, and then stare at you. Kids really liked him and vice versa. This was a rural bus route, so about a mile outside of town, he always pulled the bus over at a small store and gave us all 10 minutes to go in and buy snacks for the ride home. From what I remember about him, he was just a real neat guy.
If for some reason two kids ever had differences about something, he would stop the bus and invite the students to get out and settle their differences the right way, by fighting. 99% of the time, this offer by Coach Bennett ended whatever confrontation had existed. Coach felt this was a “Win-Win” tactic. It would either end the issue at hand or he would end up getting to watch a fight, something he probably would have enjoyed.
One year, a new family moved into the same area where we lived. This was rural Oklahoma, no neighborhoods, plenty of pasture. He lived about a half mile up the road. One of the boys in this family was about my age, 7 or 8 years old. His name was Dustin. Dustin was a little different from most of his peers. He had a little bit of a lisp when he spoke. When he said his name, it came out as “Thusthn.” Dustin didn't say a lot, but when he did, spit would fly everywhere. I also noticed that his classroom at school was in one of the portable classrooms. These were the classrooms for the students that were a little different from most of their peers. They needed the watered down version of Oklahoma elementary school curriculum.
I liked Dustin and would sit next to him on the bus rides to and from school. I would try to talk to him about things, such as school, fishing, etc.; however, the conversations were not always the most robust. We never really saw each other at school because Dustin was on a different school schedule than most other students. Our time together was mainly sitting next to each other on the bus.
One morning, Dustin and I began a rather lively discussion: professional football. I was a Dallas Cowboys fan (still am). I was a serious fan. I had all of the players' cards at the time, knew the names of all the players and their numbers. I even knew most of their statistics. My family sat together and watched their games each Sunday afternoon after church. Sunday afternoons in the fall were scheduled for watching Cowboys football. Dustin proclaimed his allegiance to the Pittsburgh Steelers. To any Cowboys fan during the late 70's, the Steelers were the enemy. Dallas was God's team. The Steelers wore black; therefore, they belonged to the Devil in Hades. Roger Staubach was Saint Peter; Terry Brashaw was Judas. In my mind, there was simply no arguing this.
It's a little hard for two 7 year old boys to kindly disagree and thus respect the other's opinion. I was actually okay with Dustin's opinion until he said the Cowboys sucked and that Danny White was gay. Then he started rambling on about how Pittsburgh had won all these Super Bowls and beat the Cowboys in each of them (he was actually presenting a reasonable argument here). Remember, Dustin had a lisp, so all of this was said loudly with spit flying in my face. Our argument got a little heated, voices began to rise, and faces were getting a little red. Our behavior caught the attention of Coach Bennett, the bus driver. Coach, looking at us both through his rear view mirror, asked Dustin and I if we wanted to “fight it out”, or in other words, settle our differences. Dustin jumped all over this opportunity, which should have been my first clue. I agreed as well. For whatever reason, I felt far more superior than Dustin. Because I felt this way, surely this meant that I could take him down.
Our response made Coach smile. Dustin and I, along with our older siblings, were always the first ones to get on the bus in the mornings and the last ones to get off in the afternoon. Coach said he would let us have it out when he dropped us off at our bus stop. Again, for whatever reason, I relished the opportunity to kick Dustin's behind and remind him that the Cowboys were superior to the Steelers because they were “God's Team” and that I was smarter and stronger than he was.
We were silent for the next 10-15 minutes until we arrived at our drop off point. Our drop off point was at the intersection of a very little traveled dirt road and highway. It's at this point where my memory of the next series of events is not very vivid. I do remember that Dustin got off the bus first. Then I got off. Then I leaned over to put my book satchel on the ground. Before I could even fully turn around to square up my target and at least spar a little, I see Dustin lunging straight at me, right arm cocked, and then nothing but four knuckles coming straight at my face. I remember the first punch. It was hard and stunned me big time. At that point, if I was even going to have a slight chance to get a lick in, I would need a moment to process what had just happened and to figure out a strategy. But rarely do these opportunities arise during the heat of battle.
Less than a second after the first blow to the face, Dustin throws a series of punches at my head. Because the first punch hurt like hell, I didn't really want to experience it again. So I use my fists and arms to protect my face. The punches to the head were relentless. I try to sneak in a punch or two to no avail, because I'm still trying to protect my face. The rest is not very vivid. I do remember eventually ending up on the ground; a lot of dirt, sweat, and spit all over me; my older sister yelling at me to get up and run away; and Coach having to get off the bus to physically pull Dustin off of me. Even as Coach pulled Dustin away, he was still like a bull seeing red. He wanted some more of me.
Finally, I got myself up off the ground and picked up my book satchel. I remember lots of dust and dirt stuck to the sweat and spit on my face and arms. Dustin picked his things up and we both headed our separate directions with our older siblings to our homes. I don't remember if Coach asked me if I was okay or not. I'm sure he did. I am almost certain that he didn't envision the outcome of allowing Dustin and I to settle our differences through manly means. Neither did I! Thank God that there were no other students on the bus to witness this ass kicking.
This was the only fight that I have ever been involved in. Dustin had humbled me at a young age. That one punch to the face was not only intended to inflict pain and to prove that the Steelers were better than the Cowboys; it was intended to make me think twice about believing that I was better and more superior than Dustin. His strategy worked.
So, from that point on, I became more of a diplomat during disagreements or tense moments when all Hell could break loose. I learned to talk my way out of “dicey” situations that might inflict the pain of a blow to the face. I learned how to make friends with the bigger guys, you know, the ones that would come to your defense if you were cornered by a pack of wolves. Most importantly, I learned not to think that I was better than someone else because they didn't quite . . . how shall I say . . . have a full carton of eggs upstairs.
Dustin and I were fairly good friends after this incident. We still sat next to each other on the bus rides to and from school. We still talked football. We even went fishing together a couple of times. I learned not to be appalled by his spit that would hit me in the face when he was trying to talk faster than he could think. I'm thankful that Dustin taught me at an early age that getting punched in the face hurts like hell. That one experience has since kept me out of trouble.
enough
Addendum:
While writing this essay, I recalled fond memories of my bus driver during my elementary years, Coach “Doc” Bennett. All the kids affectionately called him Coach. I always remember him talking about boxing and basketball. He had been a boxer and a coach; I just never knew all of the details. He was retired, and from my point of view as an elementary age student, he was old. He talked often about cows. Never grumpy, always welcomed you on the bus in the mornings with a warm “Good Morning.” One time, there was a big article in the local paper about Coach. He had been selected as a member of the Oklahoma Sports Hall of Fame. While writing this, I decided to do a little research on Coach to see if I was recalling this correctly. I researched his name on Google and sadly, I came across his obituary. Coach “Doc” Bennett died this year at the end of March, at the age of 91. I would have never dreamed that he would have lived as long as he did. He had quite an accomplished career. Click on the links to learn more about Coach and his accomplishments:
http://theadanews.com/obituaries/x2108286727/Mahlon-P-Doc-Bennett and
RIP, Coach.
