The Fight That Wasn't

I don't remember ever getting into a fight. Not on the playground as a kid, not in high school or college and, certainly, not later in my life. I think of myself as fairly athletic. I wrestled on my high school varsity team and was a noticeably aggressive (although fairly short) pick-up basketball and squash player until I got too old. I instigated and enjoyed free-for-all random mashups on the lawn in college and graduate school, with beer flowing and multi-student pileups designed to relieve stress. I enjoy physical activity even now, but I never fought. Not once.

An incident when I was in high school stands out in my memory and I really don't know what to make of it. It seems now to be one of those defining moments, but I have no clue about how it defines me. If I think about it too much, I'm not sure I like what it helps me understand about myself.

In my high school freshman year, I was sitting in the football stands one afternoon, with a small group of boys and girls, watching the junior varsity football game. The stands were almost empty except for us and for a group of about ten of the toughest kids in school, who were gathered at the top row of the stands, smoking, swearing loudly and making crude suggestions of various kinds.

After hearing this for a while, I stood and told them to shut up, that there were girls present and they were being offensive to me and to them. One of the smallest and toughest of the group strode down the steps to our row, with a cigarette dangling from his sneering lips. I met him a few feet away from my friends.

We eyed at each other for a few moments, not saying anything, then he slapped me hard across the face. I stood and stared at him, thinking that I could pick him up and toss him over the railing if I wanted to. I really believe, even to this day, that it would have been easy for me to do. I was pretty strong and quick. But I didn't do it.

He slapped me again and I remained fixed in my position, glaring at him and wondering why I didn't act. He must have been wondering the same thing, because my behavior seemed to confuse him. He looked like he didn't know how to handle the situation, so he turned and trudged back up the stairs to his friends.

I have never been more furious with myself than I was at that moment and could not countenance staying at the game or being around other people. I stalked off, feeling a mixture of shame, confusion and other less definable emotions.

Later that same year, this tough kid and I met each other on the wrestling mat frequently during practice. I almost always got the better of our encounters, taking him down and pinning him fairly regularly.

Once, after practice, he approached me and asked why I hadn't fought him when we stood face-to-face in the football stands. I had no reply then, just as I have no answer now. I smiled at him and, again, he looked confused and walked away.