The Cure

"It was an attitude adjustment--it made my whole life look brand new."
Hank Williams Jr.

An Internet friend of mine in Mexico recently wrote a post about the onset of arthritis in a couple of his fingers. I wrote him back to say that since he was in his 60's that I thought he was in remarkably good shape. At 48, I have some problems with two of the fingers on my right hand. I attribute this to high school football and a large number of fist-fights in my youth. He wrote back that he was surprised to learn I was "pugnacious."

Pugnacious? Oh yes, I was a scrapper in my early teens. Almost any provocation, however slight, could lead to a beating. It could be provoked by a laugh, a word, or even a look that I interpreted to imply that some guy thought he was "better" than me.

Need examples of head-busting verbal offenses?

"Love that haircut. Somebody put a bowl over your head?"

"Where did you get those shoes, the five and dime?"

"What's with the leisure suit? This ain't no birthday party."

I attribute my short fuse to genetics. I am one generation removed from the cotton mill village, a place where poor but proud people struggled to prove they were just as good as the more affluent folks that lived across the tracts. Although my dad grew up there, he escaped that life to make a find a job and home elsewhere. Maybe something in my DNA tied me to those earlier times when you had to be tough to survive.

I certainly didn't get the tendency to fight directly from my parents. I was raised in a Christian home, where following Jesus and His command to "turn the other cheek" was the rule. My dad always advised "walk away when you can, but don't get picked on or bullied." I took the second part of his advice, but selectively ignored the first.

Most of my fighting was in junior high, and mostly in gym class. Fighting was an offense that led to an automatic suspension from school from one to three days. Since coaches supervised gym, I always got away with fighting. I was on the school teams (football, basketball, etc.), and a suspension also meant I couldn't play whatever sport was in season. So you could say I was "protected" by the coaches. It was an arrangement I took advantage of, and like James Bond I felt I had a sort of "license to kill."

Now let me state here, dear reader, that I was not a "bully." I did not go around picking on or beating up kids smaller than me. I never fought without provocation, but I will admit that it didn't take a lot to provoke me. This was, after all, junior high, when large amounts of testosterone flood the male bloodstream. I didn't ever go looking for a fight, but I didn't have too much trouble finding one.

My mistake came in the hall one day between classes. I was talking to a pretty girl when a big upperclassman came by an intentionally bumped into me. I think he was about to say "Leave my girlfriend alone" but he never got the chance. I immediately tagged him square on the jaw, then proceeded to hit him with anything I could get my hands on--text books, gym bag, etc. I think I was taking off my belt to give him a proper beating when old Ms. Bennett walked out into the hall to see what all the commotion was about.

Not good. Ms. Bennett could have cared less that I played both ways on the football team.

A short walk to the Principal's office resulted in a one day suspension.

My dad didn't say anything when he arrived to take me home. That was a bad sign. I was raised with the stated rule that if you got in trouble at school, you could expect a double portion of the punishment you got there when you got home.

I could tell dad was angry--very angry. But I got nothing but the silent treatment.

Until the next morning, that is.

At five a.m., before the sun had even risen, my bedroom light was switched on.

"Get up and get dressed. Time to go to work."

"Sir?"

"Time to get to work. Since you don't think an education is important, I'll show you what an uneducated man has to do to make a living every day."

I spent the next twelve hours in various forms of manual labor. I cut grass. I raked leaves. I split and stacked firewood. I hauled brush. I washed cars. I did every possible thing he could think of until we ran out of daylight.

Then I went home and went to bed. I was exhausted.

The message was received. My school fighting days were over. In fact, I don't know that I ever fought again, except for maybe a few scuffles on the football field.

It's amazing how much you can learn about life in one day if you have a good teacher.