For a split second the world was spinning. My back hit the ground with a force that crushed my lungs pushing the air out of my mouth in one involuntary gush. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't move. Above me the sky was blue and cloudless until the shadows of five kids leaned in to look down at me. Then one of them put his shoe on my chest.
"Face it Hutch, you got what you deserved." The sad thing is, he was right.
The poetry contest affirmed a part my identity that I didn't even know existed. I spent weeks bragging about my victory with the foolish assumption that I was smarter, superior to those who didn't make the cut. Imagination swept me out of reality like a tornado fueled by the all consuming power of ego. It didn't take long for other kids to get fed up.
During that decade of macho exuberance we all looked up to the loudest voices on the screen. Reagan, Arnold, Sly and Chuck repeated the mantra of might makes right. Adults were settling disputes with violence and us kids wanted to emulated the adults so we followed suit. There were a few of whom I half expected to challenge me to a fight but it ended up being someone I did not expect.
"You and me at the High School field, today after school. Think you're the better man? Prove it!" Dale had been my best friend since I was six. We hung out, we played and we fought. Most of the time our scuffles were private but this time the chip on his shoulder was being propped up by a new group of supporters. He wanted to shut me up but they wanted to instigate the chaos of a public beating.
"Fine, see you there." I have no idea why I accepted the challenge. I really didn't know how to fight. I'd lost most of the childhood wrestling matches that spontaneously occurred in those early years. Dale was the better man. He stood a little taller than me, he was a little stronger and a lot more clever. If I was Clark Kent, Dale was Bizarro Superman.
When school let out, the nerves set in. Bravado was beginning to blister. My stomach was twisting in knots, I felt sick. I couldn't do it. I went straight home and hoped the whole thing would be forgotten.
"Alex, your friend Dale is at the door." He had the audacity to come to my home, polite as can be.
"So, are you coming to the High School?" His half smile projected pure confidence. I just wanted to stab him with a shard of Kryptonite certain it was the only thing that could crack his smile. I was also sure his new friends were waiting outside. If I walked out that door, they would all jump me.
"No. I'm not going. You win." There was no point in arguing. This was my way of admitting defeat but he wasn't accepting my bail out.
"You can't hide in your house forever." When he walked away I saw the chaos crowd standing in my front yard but how long would they wait? I locked the door and ran to the front window to peek through the curtains.
"Alex, who are you watching?" I told my mother about the fight but like most parents during the 1980s, no one took these things seriously. Her contention was that, "You guys are friends, you'll work it out."
Her words were both naive and comforting. Could it be that simple? Was this just another scuffle between buddies or had we finally graduated to the age of of blood and scars? Ten minutes later there was another knock at the door. I puffed up my chest and answered it.
"Hey Hutch, we heard you are fighting Dale today. We're here to back you up!" My friends had come to my rescue and they were ready to rumble.
"You think I can win?"
"We know you can. Let's go." So it began, the longest walk of my life. In the back of my mind I was hoping that my opponent got bored and wandered off. The four of us traveled a mere two blocks to the High School where Dale and his buddies were patiently waiting. We all met in the middle of the field.
"Good job guys, you got him to come." Dale's bizarro grin threatened to exceed the width of his face. He had gotten my own friends to betray me. I was surrounded by my peers and yet I was more alone than ever. There was no way to back out. This fight was going to happen.
We stood toe to toe, face to face in the middle of the crowd. It all became surreal as a swirling chorus broke out, "Fight, fight, fight." I imagined throwing a punch or a kick, something, anything but my limbs would not move. This moment felt like it would last forever and in my distraction he grabbed me.
My feet left the earth, my body hit the ground. The sky, the sun, the shadows looking down. A foot stepped on my chest, spit hit the grass next to my head. Vicious, degrading taunts were unleashed and then, suddenly, they were gone. As they walked away I heard a suggestion that they, "Go back and stomp him into the ground." I scrambled to my feet, every breath a painful effort but I needed to escape.
You'd think that I would have learned my lesson, that the bragging would stop, the ego reigned in. Not even close. I lacked the self-awareness to know that I was in the wrong. Instead of being humbled by my defeat, I was already planning my revenge.
