Fight

 

I never knew John Butcher to speak to. We were very different kids.

I was, as you’d expect, all books and glasses and mumbles. I hung around the edges of the playground with a bunch of similarly minded geeks, giggling at the fantasy worlds we’d concocted to escape the grey reality of the 1970s in the North of England. Occasionally we’d see John, tumbling through another ill conceived fist fight in the middle of the yard, sometimes surrounded by a little crowd of excited onlookers. 

The size of the crowd varied depending on whom John had chosen as his adversary. Sometimes he’d pick on one of the big lads, and that would be guaranteed to draw the numbers. The big lads rarely fought, because they didn’t need to. They were the superstars of the middle school ecosystem - famous because they were famous, their prowess in the arts of combat often spoken of but rarely seen. No-one in our mortal sphere would be so daft as to challenge them, and they didn’t fight each other. They weren’t friends, I don’t think, but they were smart enough to know how to sustain a reputation - and that meant not scrabbling around in the dirt at playtime over a bag of crisps. 

John didn’t care about any of this. He’d fight one of them as easily as he’d fight one of us. I still remember that rainy Wednesday when John loped up behind Big Raj, bobbing up and smacking him across the back of the head. He called Raj a name that you certainly wouldn’t use now, and even then in the 70s was pretty risky behaviour for a lumpy little white lad. Raj didn’t turn round, for a second, and it was like raindrops sparkled, suspended in the air for a moment. John just kind of stood there, his gormless face excited and proud at this frankly insane thing he’d just done. 

And then time just seemed to jump; Raj’s arm pumped out and back faster than you could think, and John was on the floor. Raj turned back to his mates and carried on talking, sort of smiling I guess but also almost totally unconcerned, as if nothing had happened. Describing it now feels like he was in his 20s or something, but he must have been at most eleven. John crawled to his feet and stumbled off, grimly satisfied that he’d hit his quota. 

It seemed like John was on a mission, and that mission was as beautiful in its clarity as it was stupid in its conception. He was going to fight every other boy in the school, at least once.

One rainy Tuesday, it was my go at being his 'once'.

Go here, for part two of this thrilling tale...