Saturday, February 11, 2012

Them's Fightin' Words

From all points of view, I’ve heard that fighting is a terrible human conflict to be apart of: the uncertainties of the situation, the fading of adrenalin as you feel the pain and stretch of strained muscles. From all accounts, it’s an ugly and unwinnable encounter to endour. But for some messed up, deeply male reason, I sort of want to be apart of it.

I’m guessing it’s some primeval feeling that deep down you want to be the best. You want to know you can protect, to procreate without any competition. However, I’m very far away from being any sort of Alpha Male. I’m the generous helper, quick to deal easy smiles and compliments.

Basically, I encourage like a mother fucker.
Sambo Splice... 
I have a really strong head cold at the moment, 
this is why this exists

But part of me, when walking alone at night with my girlfriend, both fear and secretly hanker for a nightly scuffle. The idea to be confronted and then land that perfect right hook and say something witty as I continue along (weirdly it’s always mostly “Goodnight Sweetheart” when I play this scenario in my head) burns deep.

I’ve maybe had a couple of chances to fight, but I’ve always known that any conflict can be talked out of. When I was 12 I had a run in with a ruffian that probably set a steep president for the ability and desire to avoid fisticuffs at any cost. Our lunchtime footy matches were getting larger and wilder until I said something that didn’t agree with Shawn, a twitchy kid who swang widely from scary bully to hilarious classmate as they often do. He walked up to me, looked me in the eye and said “Bike sheds. 3:30. You and me”. For a brief moment I thought he’d just asked me on an after school hang in a weirdly intense way. Then I realized – them’s fightin’ words.

My friend Chris marched along side me as we made our way back to class, providing me with some useful techniques, mostly revolving around “Sweeping the leg”. This did not prove useful, as I’d hated the Karate Kid ever since my friend Jordan tapped over my copy of The Never Ending Story with this far less whimsical tale.
Sitting in the classroom, I thought out all the possibilities of the ensuing fight. Would it be the three-punch affair similar to Sega’s Double Dragon? Or would it be an early Jackie Chan film, a la Police Story, a series of diving through windows and perfectly timed chair movements. Would I know what to do? Would I clench my fists and feel my ancestors, from war hero’s to hungry cavemen, surge through my blood? 

Unfortunately my version of a concentrated inward look into the history of violence was also closely resembled being on the brink of cryingx. As Mrs Allen took me outside I blurted the whole thing out in a mess of tears and snot. However, any sense of shame was immediately covered by an equally innate human feeling we hunger for – safety. Plus, I’m pretty Shawn is now in prison. So…

Also, 1if anyone else is interested, check out my Craig list ad for similar minded generous individuals looking to avoid conflict. We meet Wednesdays, as long as the Judo guys don’t go over their allotted time. 

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