One Out of Three Ain't Bad (Or, My Fights, Round 3)

You're gonna need more pants.

I'd call this the "rubber match" post of the trilogy of posts regarding my notable pugilistic shenanigans, only to be a true rubber match, you need to have split the first two bouts with your opponent.

My first fight, in sixth grade, could at best be scored a technical draw or a no contest: though my opponent drew blood, the sight of said blood compelled him to end the fight prematurely.

My second fight, in ninth grade, was clearly a loss via technical knockout. I could argue that I was fighting well out of my weight class, but no one cares.

My third fight occurred during the following school year, and this time it happened in front of a very large audience. Does this intrigue you?


AND IN CONCLUSION, MANY OF MY BROTHER'S CLASSMATES WERE ASSHOLES
Once again we're involved with a guy, we'll call him Pat, who was in my brother's grade and had bullied in varying degrees for a number of years, particularly in elementary school.

And he was the kind of bully who wasn't that big, so he focused only on the weak and frail, and I fell into columns A and B. To be fair, he'd left me pretty much alone by the time we entered high school. But he was still an asshole. Ironically, his parents seemed, to me, very kind. I think they were off-the-boat Irish, so maybe there were some Angela's Ashes things going on, examples of which I'm unable to provide because I never read Angela's Ashes.

PUTTING THE "PEP" IN "PEP RALLY"

Kinda , but not, like this.

This memorable moment in my life took place at the end of Spirit Week, which comprised "theme" days such as Twin Day (you and a friend dress in identically). The week culminated in a competition of sorts between the grades in the gym. I showed my school spirit by painting my face half green, half yellow (the school colors) and wearing a shirt on which I scrawled:

[on the front] COMMACK SOUTH, DOING FINE

[on the back] KEEP IT OPEN IN '89

This was my rebellious way to protest the upcoming district reorganization that would turn my high school into a town-wide middle school and force me and my class into the "North" high school for senior year — a strange building full of strangers.

(My shirt did not sway the school district administration.)

BUT ANYWAY
I had just competed in a silly obstacle course where I had to run in a slalom of cones and crawl under tables and tubes, and I was sitting on the bleachers with my fellow sophomores, still as full of adrenaline as one can be. The bleachers on each side of the gym were split by that accordion-style set of doors that can be closed in a pinch to create two smaller gyms. The freshmen were on the other set of bleachers on our side; the seniors and juniors were on the other side of the gym.

(The administration coddled the next round of freshmen by sending them to the other high school so they wouldn't have to endure the trauma of going to one high school for their first year then a new one for the next three. I ask you, though, is this better than sending students to one high school for the first three years, then to a new place for their senior year? But I'm bitterly digressing about shit from more than two decades ago, so I'll get back to the main story.)

HE STARTED IT

Kinda, but not, like this.

I was sitting on the end, about a dozen rows up, and I could see, in the little alley between the juniors' and sophomores' bleachers, Pat and one of his equally weaselly friends pushing around some sophomore I kind of new but didn't really care much about.

"I oughta go down there and break that up," I said to one of my classmates. I wasn't really serious, but the guy replied, "Why don't you?" and he pushed me off the bleachers. I landed on my feet with a loud THUMP, which made Pat and Weasel (fuck him, he doesn't need a name) turned around.

They started to walk away from the guy they were picking on, and when they passed me, Pat laughed at my makeup job and said something like, "Nice makeup job," and he fired off a little tap to my jaw. I don't think he meant it as a punch, per se, but as I was still pumped with adrenaline, I reached back clocked him right in the face.

He was less hurt than shocked that I wasn't following the usual script, and he spit out "Are you fucking crazy?" as he lunged at me.

NOT THE KIND OF "UNDER THE BLEACHERS ACTION" I WAS LOOKING FOR
We were rolling around on the floor, and because he wasn't as gargantuan as my previous foe, Pat wasn't able to position himself on top of me. However, this is the thought that went through my head:

Here we go again. I'm about to get my ass kicked. Again.

I was at peace with this. Unlike my last fight, I didn't have realistic hopes of emerging as the victor.

Then I realized that there was no reason I shouldn't try to score a few points in a losing effort. Because we were wrestling around in the cramped space under the bleachers, neither of us could really throw a punch, so I decided that even if I was going to get my ass kicked, I can at least break Pat's nose.

THE NOSE IS A VERY STRONG THING INDEED

If I broke his nose, I
might have been doing
him a favor.

I don't know why "break Pat's nose" entered my head, but that was my goal. I was able to reach my arm onto Pat's nose bridge and pulled and tugged and struggled, all to no avail. I was trying to figure out what to do next before my eventual beat took place when I suddenly had a revelation worthy of those monkeys smashing the bones in 2001.

We had finally stopped rolling around and were pinned next to some part of the bleachers, the wheels or a pole or whatever, and I could feel Pat's punches flailing against the side of my body: he was unable to land any blows of consequence.

Then I realized that I had one arm — my right arm, my punching arm — free. I had a moment where I almost literally stared in wonder at my closed fist, like some nerd in a nerd-revenge movie, and I started punching.

And punching.

And punching.

Finally, we were pulled out from under the bleachers. We were stood up and separated, and some guy had Pat's arms pinned back. Unfortunately for him, no one had me immobilized, so I was able to take several clear shots at Pat's face until a couple of guys were able to hold me back.

The growing crowd of students who circled us looked at my face, unblemished except for smeared green and gold makeup, then at Pat's bruised and swelling face, and they started saying, first with surprise, then as a taunt: "Little [my last name] beat up Pat!"

Pat fled the gym in shame, just like the bad guy (portrayed by someone like Ted McGinley or post-John-Hughes-era Michael Anthony Hall) from a cheesy teen movie from that era.

I was thrown out of the event by the teachers chaperoning the event, forcing my dad to make a separate, earlier trip to the school (my brother stayed for the whole thing), and I came very close to getting suspended.

CODA
The most rewarding aftereffect of my unplanned confrontation came in my AP European History class. My teacher was Mr. Sinito, a down-to-earth guy who bore more than a passing resemblance to a less-anal-retentive and more-snobbish-in-a-Thurston-Howell-III-way Tony Randall.

Class began, but before he began his lecture on the Protestant Reformation or whatever, he said, practically down the bridge of his nose: "I understand you had a little altercation with Mister [Pat's last name, I think it was Douchebag]."

I was a bit startled to learn that word traveled so fast, so I stammered, "Uh, yeah."

Mr. Sinito paused for effect, then said, "You beat him up pretty good."