Change Your Shirt

Adam and I were lying on the floor watching GI Joe after getting home from middle school.

There was a knock at the door and Mom answered, “Yes, he’s here.”

“Oh really.”

“OK.”

“Jake you need to go change your shirt.”

“How come?” I asked.

And Mom replied, “Some kid wants to fight.”

-----

There were probably eight of us playing baseball at the park. I was playing shortstop and had let at least two balls skip right past me. And by skip right past me, I mean, I threw my arms over my head and turned around like I was scared of being hit by the ball. I did it because...I was scared of being hit by the ball. I never learned to catch.

Adam was at bat for the last debacle. And he let me know.

Adam: “What are you, a girl? No, you can’t be a girl. Girls can actually catch. Do we have any ladies in the park? We need a sub who can play.”

Little brothers don’t get to talk trash to big brothers. I charged the plate. When I got close he swung the bat at me. Not a little swing -- a full powered, only one hand left on the bat swing. He missed and started to run around the ball field, randomly swinging the bat as I stalked after him.

In a last ditch effort, Adam threw the bat. I turned slightly to let it bounce off my shoulder. Now I could charge.

Reaching out, I almost had my fingertips on him and some kid came flying out of nowhere with a movie style flying karate kick and leveled me. I came up swinging at the air out of instinct. We moved around, with neither of us hitting the other. He finally walked off and said he was going home to get his big brother.

I said, “Great. Go get your big brother. When I’m done with him I’m coming back after you.”

He ran home and I grabbed my bike and went the opposite direction to my house.

-----

Well, what do you know. The big brother showed up. And at my house. Strong move.

I came outside in my changed shirt. The older brother, David, was there with about ten of his buddies and his little brother. They were all standing around laughing. David was in the 8th grade. Technically one grade my senior. But he had been held back at least once. I was basically a bag of bones and he was a young man.

My dad came out in his three piece suit and sat down on the porch with his newspaper. All the kids stopped laughing and joking. He looked at them and said, “I’m just here to watch a fight,” and tilted his head back to look down his bifocals to read the paper.

David: “Are we going to do this?”

Me: “You came all this way. And you brought an audience.”

David: “Your parents aren't going to stop us?”

I slowly shook my head.

I guess he was planning a show of force without actually having to fight. Oops.

Me: “You ready?”

David: “Yeah. I guess.”

Me: “OK. You gonna pick your hands up?”

I was only allowed to fight under three circumstances:

1. My dad required three clear warnings of impending violence.
2. To protect someone else, no warning was required.
3. I was told to fight.

My dad looked up from his paper and quietly gave the command, “Fight.”

I lunged forward twice with my hands up. David flinched. I giggled. He took a big haymaker of a swing. The arrogance of size. He thought I was just going to stand there and let him hit me. Nope. I slipped back and then came forward at the same speed of his arm as it passed me. I hit him, taptaptaptap, four times. The punches were as quick as a woodpecker’s tap and about as powerful, but my hands were bony and the blows still sting.

David jumped back. He came forward with another big looping haymaker. In the end, habits are fate and no one adjusts under pressure. I followed the punch and, taptaptaptap, four more crisp punches.

I was following Dad’s number one rule of fighting: Don’t get hit.

David looked angrier. His friends weren’t laughing anymore.

Haymaker, taptaptaptap.

Haymaker, taptaptaptap.

His friends were now silent. My dad had picked the newspaper back up. He would be able to tell if anything changed by the sound of footwork.

David: “You had enough.”

Me: “I got all day.”

David: “I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

Me: “I did?”

Turning to his friends, he said, “OK guys, I think he’s had enough.”

Me: “Sure. I’ve had enough. Psych.”

He turned around with new anger.

Me: “I won’t stop the next time you swing.”

He walked back to his friends and they left.

Dad: “Well I guess that didn’t go according to plan.”

Me: “Almost never does.”