Being tough was more a state of mind that an actual fact. I was small for my age until I was in eleventh grade, when I finally shot up six inches. Up til then, I was picked on a lot. Usually, I was the new kid, so I was tested to see what I was made of. I never backed down from a fight, but rarely did I win. There were times when I had the upper hand and felt confident I had it made, when one or more friends of my opponent would get involved; tripping me or sucker punching me. That usually turned the tables and I lost. The worst part was the jeers the next day. “You got your ass kicked, Monto.”
Or, “You pussy. You ran away like a girl.” It's true. I did run from a fight. It was my second fight in two days. I was walking to the designated area to meet my opponent who was standing amid a crowd of supporters. As I approached, fearing the worst not because I was afraid of the guy I had to fight, but because he had a lot of friends and I had none. When someone yelled, “Get Him,” I turned and ran with a half dozen boys chasing me. I got away, but the whole next day all I heard was what a coward I was for running. So, being tough was a state of mind for me. Just facing it every day required a certain defiant attitude and I developed one out of necessity.
Being always outsized and out numbered was demoralizing and humiliating, but not defeating. I soon figured out that if you strike first, with enough force to incapacitate your opponent quickly, the rest of the group loses there nerve. My older brother bought a heavy bag and hung it from the joists in my basement ceiling. I spent many hours alone with that bag. I imagined a scene that I had been a part of all too many times. I was facing off with a much larger opponent, who was extremely over confident, one, because he knew me and no one had ever seen me win a fight, and two, because I had never punched anyone first. It had always been defensive. I usually tried to talk my way out of fights because I knew I would be outnumbered. Alone in my basement, I worked on punching the bag with four punch combinations. I practiced stepping into the blows so that my full weight would be behind each blow. My thought was, If I strike the guy standing before me with four punches to the face before he can raise his hands in defense, it doesn't matter how big he is. And even if he kicks my ass afterward, he will look like he had been in a fight. That alone would be a victory. So after years of always losing, I had finally had enough. But this strategy was not mean to make me a good fighter. I have never learned to fight properly. But when being confronted by someone who is determined to kick my ass, I still assume the passive posture; hand at my sides, looking my opponent in the face. I inquire about the nature of his grievance and suggest that it's really not worth fighting about. I don't apologize or anything. Inevitably the guy will push me or slap me or make some insulting bullying jab to try and provoke me.
It was a Saturday afternoon and I was riding around with John Turchi and Bob Dugans. All of us in the front seat of my sixty eight Ford Galaxy. As I turned into our housing development, there was a station wagon at the stop sign waiting to pull out. A couple construction workers were just leaving for the day. As I made the turn, someone yelled from the station wagon, “Fuck you fagot.” I stopped and looked back. The driver, a big bearded fellow, was smiling at me. “Pardon me?” I said. “I said, Fuck you fagot.” I turned and looked at John and Bob. They both shrugged. I knew that Bob would be worthless in a fight, but I knew John would step up if thing got bad. The two guys in the wagon were bigger and older than we were, but I just felt like I'd taken enough. And for once, the odds were on my side.
“Well, fuck you too, and suck my dick,” I said right back. He backed his car to the side ofthe road and got out. He swung his arm to wave me over. I backed up and pulled over to the side of the road on my side, but before I could get out he was standing by my door. I put the car in reverse and gunned it backwards, jammed it in park and jumped out before he could react. If I hadn't done that move he would have slammed my door on my face while I was getting out and worked me over with the door. I had seen it done before and it was not something I wanted to experience.
We faced off in the street. I was standing with my back to my car door. A good spot to be in.
“Look,” I said, “You said fuck you and I said fuck you back. The way I see it we're even.”
The asshole, and I knew nothing about this guy, but I knew he was an asshole, had a superior sneer on his face that really pissed me off. His pretty teeth were showing white through his heavy black beard. He punched me in the chest, not hard, more of a push punch meant to challenge and humiliate. I fell back against my car door, brought my foot up into his balls, and just like I had practiced, delivered four straight jabs directly into his nose and mouth. Then I jumped clear of the car and readied myself to deliver another combo if needed. He had his hands up in a fighting stance but his mouth was bleeding badly, his eyes were glazed. He staggered forward and took a wild swing that I easily dodged. I reached inside the car and grabbed can of beer from a six pack on the seat and handed it to him. “You rinse you mouth out with this man. You need to get some stitches.” I said. He reached out and punched me in the mouth. Not very hard. A last defiant jab. He still had that cocky grin as though he wouldn't allow himself to be humbled. I wasn't trying to humble him though. It was the first time I had really successfully defended myself and once again, I wasn't really in a fight. In a fight, the guy would have kicked my asshole clean through my belly button. No. This was me making sure there was no fight. I had mixed feelings about it. I knew I only did what I had to do and no more, but I was horrified by the damage I had done. I have been in many fights sense that first one and most of them were exactly like the first one. I tried to talk my way out of each one, but the moment I was touched, it was all over.
The reason I tell about this fighting business is not because I mean to impress anyone with my skills. I'm just a guy who figured out how to defend himself and stop taking crap. It was very liberating after getting my ass kicked on a regular basis by my old man and any number of punks at school.
The lesson I learned from this is that when threatened, act decisively, and don't hold back. Surprise and force together are a powerful weapon, but it takes commitment.