The Spirit Was Willing, But the Fists Were Weak

Growing up, I had two distinct personality traits that would seem to be in direct conflict with each other: a sarcastic sense of humor, and extremely poor fighting skills. Given this potentially deadly combination, it's pretty amazing that I survived my teenage years. In fact, I can only remember being in two fights in my entire life.

Coincidentally, or maybe not, they both involved meat-headed football players.

"Fights" might be a generous term, actually. Despite what you'd think to see me now, what, with my ripped physique and six-pack abs and all, I was a scrawny teenager. So, in both of these "fights-but-not-really" it kinda looked like the referee tossed a coin and I'd elected to receive.

The first incident occurred when I was in tenth grade. One of our classmates, a girl named Wendy Byrne, had been killed in an automobile accident over the weekend. Come Monday morning everyone was pretty shaken up, and seeing her empty seat in our third period geometry class was emotional for all of us. Well, all of us except Frank Watkins, linebacker.

Watkins entered the classroom, noticed the sad faces and the empty chair, and offered these words of condolence:

"Hey, looks like Wendy Byrne GOT burned!"

I happened to be the closest one to Watkins when he said it. I stood up and looked him square in the chest and shouted, "That's a pretty fucked up thing to say, you asshole! She's dead, and you think that's funny?"

The next thing I remember I was lying on the floor, looking up at Watkins' teammates who, having set aside for a moment their team camraderie, were beating the living shit out of him. Seems that I wasn't the only one offended by Watkins' insensitivity.

The Wendy Byrne incident did involve me getting whacked for opening my big mouth, but it wasn't sarcasm that time. Frank Watkins was a four-star douchebag, and someone needed to speak up.

It just happened to be me.

The same can not be said of the other "fight".

Kevin Mills was a six-foot four, two hundred and eighty pound offensive lineman with the intellectual capacity of a brain-damaged slug. We'd never spoken, and I'm sure he had no idea who the hell I was, since it was my first year attending high school in California. I only knew him as "the big dumbass over at the football players' table".

Anyway, one Friday afternoon, the usual thundering herd of students was stampeding out of the cafeteria after lunch. In a hurry to get to my algebra class, I swung the door open, and continued on my way. All of a sudden, someone grabbed me by the back of my jacket and spun me around.

It was Mills. Apparently, when I swung the door open, it hit him in the arm, spilling his soda all over the front of his NHS football jersey.

He was not happy.

"What the fuck, you asshole! Lookit what ya did to my jersey!"

I'll admit it. I was terrified. "Oh, man, I'm sorry about that. I didn't even see you there."

All I was saying, was give peace a chance.

Unfortunately, all Mills was saying was, "I'm gonna kick your ass."

"Now wait a minute, dude. It was an accident. I'd be happy to buy you another soda, and let me know how much the cleaning . . . "

Mills, however, wasn't in the mood to negotiate. He shoved me hard against the lockers. A crowd had gathered. There was no doubt in my mind that I was about to get pummelled. That being the case, why not go for the laugh? Maybe a witty remark that they could emblazon on my tombstone.

"Hey, Kevin, that's the first time I've ever seen that."

This caught him off guard. "What're you talkin' about? First time you seen what?"

"Well, a guy with his IQ stitched on his shirt."

A somewhat funny line, which became hilarious when Mills actually looked down at the front of his shirt at the big, white "52". Apparently, he hadn't yet memorized his own number.

The crowd went wild.

When I regained consciousness in the nurse's office, my back hurt and the left side of my face was throbbing. There was a large knot on the back of my head from, according to eye-witnesses, my head hitting the concrete when I fell.

Mrs. Greene, the nurse, asked me what happened. I told her what I could remember.

"Jesus, that's funny," she said. "But was it worth getting beaten up over?"

I considered the question.

"You know what, it kinda was," I said.

And I meant it. If you're going to get a beating, you may as well take it in style.