Fight

It was a nice day out. One of those where you could wear jeans or shorts and feel comfortable in either. There was a cool breeze and warm sunlight over the field that day. The trees were full of leaves and the green of the grass was begging to be taken home on the knee of someone's good pants or at the very least on somebody's elbow.

I have been fairly open so far about my hesitation to play team sports. On Sunday afternoons, my family would watch the videos we rented on Friday night from the supermarket so we could get our money's worth from them. My father and I never discussed the big game that week or stayed up late together to see the end of the playoffs. Besides not having been introduced to team sports before I was out of diapers like my fellow schoolmates, I was always a loner. I preferred hanging out on the monkey bars at recess and running the four square game in the corner of the playground. But on this one day, for whatever reason, I found myself playing football in the side yard.

It was a classic game of two hand touch. End zones at the tree on that end of the field and that other tree over there. You know. You've been there. We played touch because the teachers thought we couldn't handle the roughness of a solid game of tackle. Either that, or they didn't want to deal with the aftermath. So to appease those that told us "two hand touch or nothing", we accepted the limitation. However, anyone who has ever played touch football knows there will always be disputes on whether or not one was actually touched.

I was picked close to last but not very last and felt I had been given a rare opportunity to prove what I was capable of. I executed each play to perfection and although I didn't know how to button hook right, I figured it out pretty quick and soon they began to realize how fast on my feet I really was. Soon I was running play after play and gaining yards like no other.

My team was not the team expected to do very well in this twenty minute battle royal. You see, the other team had Terry as QB. He was the kid that grew up studying the game. He knew players and stats, and had an arm like a cannon. His long ball was the only thing keeping them in the game. He was a tough kid too and if we had been keeping stats, he would be at the top for the most, uh, touches? Needless to say, we felt defeated going in, but with some quick thinking we adjusted our strategy to one involving me running right past him.

I was pitched the football and I began to run. Faster and faster. Dodging every player that came after me and soon it was down to me and him; Terry. He spread his stance as he realized they were all watching him work his magic. His face scrunched up and his eyes widened as I dug into the grass as hard as I could. He lunged. I twisted. He stretched and I curved. As he reached forward, I could tell, it was everything he had. But it wasn't enough. I flew past him and a few feet later, I had scored my first touchdown! Sweet glory! I had done it! The elation was soon over as the debate began. Did touching one hand on the edge of my shirt count. No. Of course it does! Why should that count if we're playing two hand touch?

While all this was going on, I headed back to the group and made my case. I had almost made it to the middle of the huddled mass of bickering adolescents when a fist came into view. Like all men who tell their story, I saw it coming. I could see his face behind it; scared, shaken up, and angry. I crouched on one knee to recover and realized I hadn't been hit too hard to stand back up. Once on my feet again, I went for it. What did I have to loose? I was already in the fight, might as well get my shot in too. I make eye contact with him and I stare him down for what feel like ages but in a split second, I began to move forward with my fist already clinched. I took a step forward and wound up. I could feel my hand prepare itself to make it's way to his face. I reached back and my arm was snatched back by one of my team members. (another reason to avoid team sports, your battles are not your own to fight)

We realized we had been spotted by the recess warden and as she made her way to us I stood my ground more firm than ever. She asked us what was going on. Everyone looked down to the ground wishing to have the ability to sick their heads into the dirt. Everyone that is but Terry and I. We looked at each other and we knew it wasn't worth loosing the privilege to play over. I spoke up and told her I had slipped and scrapped my eye on a rock. She hustled me off to the office and reminded everyone else to play safe so no one else gets hurt.

I returned to class once recess was over with my ice pack wrapped in brown paper towel, not really hurt but passing it off. When I walked in the room, the class went silent. I sat in my assigned seat. Next to Terry. Not another word was spoken about it. Not by us and not by anyone else. I didn't go back to play football the next day, but I walked a little taller. Terry never grew taller than that and soon we were in high school and he was the little guy. We were on the wrestling team together but were never matched up. There was never a round two or a showdown in the hall. Terry never played QB for the school and I ended up making my mark in track and cross country.

That was my first punch to the face and the last time I was close to punching back. I have never hit someone in the face, and even when friends throw on the gloves in the backyard, I can't keep a straight face. It is such a childish thing for me but I will never forget the day of my first fight.