You Gotta Fight For Your Right

My dad was raised with 3 brothers and they all liked to fight. Around Deadsville there were a few other families of boys who also liked to fight. In a city, such families today might turn into street gangs. Or maybe they would have a long history of being boxers or martial artists. But my father’s generation didn’t have such options. It was just knuckles in a parking lot after dark.

Apparently they would have these epic brawls, various families teaming up with each other – one time the McCloud’s might be your ally against the Parini family, and the next time they both might team up against you. They would beat each other bloody, go have beers and do it again a few weeks later. As a kid, I grew up hearing spirited stories of these glorious fights and so did the sons of my father’s rivals. I guess the urge to fight runs in the blood because when they reached a certain age, these boys all felt it was their destiny to carry on their father’s legacy. Through high school and even after, every few months one or more of these guys would try to start a fight with me.

I was tall and fairly broad-shouldered. But I was also skinny, uncoordinated and seemed to lack the gene that makes young men want to pound each other. I had no desire or skill to fight anyone. I was one of those really smart, nerdy, geeky kids whose parents dressed funny. In other words, I was a perfect target.

For the most part, I could out-talk, outmaneuver and otherwise avoid those conflicts. But every once in a while they’d get me in a corner. Fortunately, although I personally did not have the fighting gene, one of my best friends did. Boy, did he.

Brad was like a swarthy, sneering, sarcastic cobra. He looked laid-back, but he was a tightly wound spring ready to fly into action with the slightest provocation. He wasn’t extraordinarily big or muscular. My father called him “wiry”. What he had was quickness and a fearless love of fighting. He never started one…. but he never passed one up either.

When we were 12 years old, Brad and some of his friends would steal away to the bathroom during study halls and lunch not to smoke but to fight. They would stand around and just take turns popping each other in the head. At the end of lunch, they’d all emerge, cheeks red, fists scraped and bleeding, and smiling like hell.

When it came to fighting, in some kind of strange symbiotic way – Brad and I needed each other. He kept me safe and I was the bait that lured in chances to enjoy his favorite hobby.

One night a few weeks after I had graduated from high school, a friend and I were engaging in that ever-popular Deadsville pastime of sitting in a parking lot and watching the cars go by. There were probably beers involved too.

As we sat there, two of these “family rivals” and an out-of-town guy I’d never seen before wandered over and started harassing us – getting up in our faces, giving small pushes and such. I was trying to talk my way out of it but things weren’t looking particularly hopeful. Two of the guys – a rival and the unfamiliar guy – were on me while the other rival had my friend. Just as things were looking quite dire, a familiar voice called out from behind the bullies; “is everything okay here?” The three guys whirled around and found Brad leaning casually on the roof of a car. In the dark, he didn’t look like much. Nonetheless, the two local guys started backing away…

You see, Brad had recently cemented his reputation as Bad-Ass #1. At a gravel pit party a few weeks before, someone started to give Brad crap. He, of course, gave it right back. He kinda had a gift for pissing people off when he wanted to. Before long all 20 of the guys there decided to shut him up. What they didn’t know was that 20 to 1 odds were just the kind he liked. When the first couple guys rushed him, he leapt into their midst like a madman, fists swinging and feet kicking. Ten minutes later they had had enough and called a truce. Brad was sore for a couple days (someone had slammed him into a car bumper) but he was never trifled with again.

The unfamiliar guy who had been harassing me looked like he wanted to take Brad on until one of the other guys said to him “no, you really don’t want to do that”. The two local bullies apologized for any misunderstandings and hurried away.

It’s a hard world out there – especially for a geeky, too tall, uncoordinated teenage boy. In a small town like Deadsville, people have to come together – as friends, communities, and neighbors – in order to survive, thrive and get their needs met. Brad and I had very little in common but he was one of my best friends all through high school. We were there for all of each other’s firsts: dates, being dumped, driver’s licenses, drinking, jobs, deaths, even marriages. We grew up together and always knew that we had each other’s backs. Even in a parking lot. In the dark. In Deadsville.