Fight: Part Three

The conclusion of a tale in three parts. Though in fairness you could probably just read this one and it would make as much sense. However, if you are so compelled, here's part one, and here's part two. 

John Butcher is swaying in front of me, ready for a fight. 

He makes some kind of jeering attempt to goad me - probably an insult about my glasses, or my stupid hair, or maybe my hilarious name. In fairness to John, there are many fun reasons to bully me. Name-calling is, however, a total waste of his time. For one, he’s clearly already decided we are going to fight, so it doesn’t really matter whether I respond. And secondly, I am such a colossal coward that I can’t really image what you’d have to say to me to tempt me into fisticuffs.

So I just kind of stare at him, quite scared of the oncoming likelihood of pain and embarrassment, but without any real strategy beyond “stand there letting time pass until eventually this isn’t happening any more.” This almost accidentally works as an avoidance tactic. With no response to his insults, John seems unclear as to how best to proceed - like a computer stuck in a loop until it gets sufficient input. Clearly his algorithm has a ‘pause for response’ condition, and for a few moments I wondered if I’ve defeated the basic programming inside his head.

I have not. A crowd has gathered now, ready for the latest instalment of  ‘John Butcher - Random Punchist’. His antics are pretty routine by now and hardly the stuff of novelty. But there is a little extra excitement this morning, as John is facing up to the absolute softest kid in the school. It is quite possible that there’ll be blood, tears and maybe even a death. John registers the crowd, and remembers his purpose. 

Having never been in a fight before, I don’t know the protocol. From the outside it’s always looked like a complicated set of moves are made by both combatants, almost chess-like in their precision; fists and boots moving faster than the human eye can track. I wonder what it will look like from the inside. 

What it looks like is this. John lunges towards me with all the precision and grace of a pantomime horse. Unexpectedly to me, he chooses to lead with his face - wobbling it violently towards me as he draws his fist back. I wonder briefly if there’s some kind of protocol at work here: “You must not hit a face when it is presented so obviously and easily as a target.” It does seem unsporting. 

Luckily, this super-polite part of my brain is over-ridden by a previously unknown bit of lizard-brain survival instinct. I watch as my right arm raises to my side, as if hailing a bus. My fist clenches, and then - as John’s gormless face continues its slow motion advance towards me - my whole body pivots on its axis, my fist arcing round like a pencil on a compass. 

I watch, as surprised as everyone else, as my fist connects with John’s idiot mouth. His eyes briefly register the new, unexpected data, as shock waves ripple through what passes for his brain. Then - time speeds up. He careens off, spinning away from me and collapsing to the ground. 

I stop and behold in amazement the work of my hands. There lays my fallen foe, hurt and bewildered. The crowd of kids around explode in a cheer of surprised delight. This is amazing - they’ve got to see someone being caused pain, which is obviously brilliant regardless of context. But also, they’ve seen something totally unexpected: the kid who looks like he might blow away on a windy day has somehow murdered the kid who looks like an angry slab of meat. This is the greatest Tuesday ever!

It would be great if this story represented a new era, for me, of a self confident boy who luxuriates in the respect of his peers. Sadly, I remain the same nervous little bug, skipping about relying on jokes and weirdness to survive the horrors of my school years. Maybe that’s a good thing. 

As for John.. well I honestly can’t remember ever hearing about him again. Maybe I killed him with my amazing fist. And the teachers covered it all up, glad to have a slightly more peaceful maths class, and relieved that they lived in the 1970s where people didn’t check your paperwork so often.

Or maybe he just wandered grimly on to whoever came next in the alphabet, sleeves rolled up for more pointless pugilism. Or, maybe, he grew out of this behaviour and became a totally different person. That would be better, wouldn’t it?

I’ve changed his name, because even though that child I knew was an absolute cretin, he was just a 9 year old boy. There’s every possibility that he became a brilliant, gentle, inspirational human being. He may be out there now, changing the lives of people for the better, one day at a time. Perhaps he’s even reading this, in his office, between meetings, sipping on a coffee and marvelling at the distance between the people we were, and the people we can become. 

I hope so. All the best, John. And sorry for totally owning you, like a boss, in the most compelling victory one human has ever had over another. Please don’t find me and hit me back.