Violence is Not The Answer . . .

I have only been in two fights in my entire life . . . both when I was about 7 years old . . .

Up the street from me lived the Cibulski family. If memory serves, there were 4 boys. Their garage had a shelf lined with their father's boxing trophy's and they had the best climbing tree in the whole neighborhood in their backyard. I saw my first horror movie there . . . the original "Frankenstein" in black and white.

It was in their steeply-sloping driveway that I rode a BMX bike with hand-brakes for the first time and consequently plowed into the side of a passing car.

At one point my mom forbid me to hang out with the Cibulski's as they were "red-necks". A term which made no sense to me as their necks didn't seem any redder than anyone elses . . . .

Every now and again during summer break, the Cibulski's would bust out 4 or 5 sets of boxing gloves. All the neighborhood kids would gather and challenge each other to pre-pubescent bouts of pugilism. We are talking a scene right out of "Stand By Me" or "Sand Lot"- neighborhood boys goofing around like a gang of dopes.

I always attended these "tournaments" but never participated. I had never been in a fight in my life. I didn't understand it. I didn't even enjoy watching it. I just wanted to be with my friends . . .

One day another boy challenged me . . . . I think the other boy was Michael Amadore but I could be wrong. A standing rule was whenever challenged, you had to fight - or forever be known as a wimp and risk utter isolation. I, naturally, declined. That's how terrified I was of boxing (and how certain I was that I would get whupped).

After much argument and protest, the neighborhood boys grabbed me, shoved gloves on my hands and advised me to start swinging, otherwise I would get pulverized . . .

And I did . . . get pulverized . . . that is . . .

It got to the point that I would run around the tree to escape my assailant until the jeers reached a crescendo and then I would stop, take a couple whacks to the kisser (my kisser, that is) and take off running again . . . as the jeers mixed with laughter I started to get humiliated and, as often follows humiliation, I started to get mad . . .

I searched my brain for the one lesson my LAPD dad had taught me . . . was it fake to the face and punch to the gut or was it fake to the gut and punch to the face? . . . *Bang* . . . I couldn't . . *Bam* . . . remember . . . *Kapow* . . .

In desperation, I faked to the other boy's gut - his hands dropped down to block and I aimed for his head with the other glove - throwing my entire 75 lbs-or-so behind the punch to the point that I think my feet were actually off the ground . . .

I knocked him clear into the bushes.

And then I went in after him . . .

The neighborhood boys had to pull me off and by the time they did, I was crying in frustration and rage and the humiliation of it all . . .

I have only really been in one fight since . . . about a month later . . . same guy . . . about the same results . . .

Weekend America had a great story about a "first fight" only this time it was between brothers . . . over an ex-girlfriend . . .

Its worth a listen . . . (language warning - but it is *bleeped* out as they broadcast the article on NPR . . .)