I was never afraid to fight.  And I was even less afraid to take the pain instead of giving up.

My Father instilled this in me.  He is the reason I love professional wrestling so much because he showed me the fun of it, and at a very basic and very hilariously bad level he showed me the skill.  He would don a pair of shorts and we'd drag a mattress into the living room for the big show.  My Dad always wrestled on his knees to give me a more even chance of getting him in a move.  For the first few years this was me jumping at his chest to try to get him in a headlock.   All the matches I watched on TV started with headlocks, why shouldn't ours?

He would let me get some shots in but almost all of our matches ended with me in a submission hold and my Dad holding it until I gave up or cried.   The camel clutch was a favorite, or rudimentary Nagata Locks.  Sometimes it was the screwdriver, a knuckle to the temple that his father had used against him.   He never tried to hurt me, but he usually did.  He wouldn't let go if I cried; he'd only let go if I cried enough for my Mom to hear me.  Then she'd come in and stop things.  Even when I was crying and I hated him for holding me down I loved it, and I loved this, and I loved him.  It was fun.  It hurt.  But I didn't give up.  And eventually I figured out the mechanics of that headlock.

So I could defend myself.  I was getting rounder but I was strong.  Alongside that physical confidence I got a message:  DON'T PICK FIGHTS WITH PEOPLE.  Ever.  Even if they deserve it.  My Mom and Dad didn't want me fighting and neither did Jesus.  So I said "okay, I won't fight."  And I didn't.  Ever.  Even when they deserved it.

The first time we moved (for real) was to Kernersville, North Carolina, a city with lumpy mashed potatoes and flea markets for miles.  I liked it a lot.  It's where I discovered Marvel Super Hero trading cards.  I got two holograms in the first pack I ever opened.  There is, or was, a restaurant there called The Kerner House, and we all thought it was so apropos and funny that we ate there regularly.  We moved in the summer time and I loved it, and like all good stories end I started going to school.

School was great!  I met lots of friends.  I am studying English and Math and Science.  There is a Portuguese man here who teaches the children Spanish.  My favorite subjects are recess and lunch!  That was just a joke.  Wish you were here!  Brandon.

It was all right.  School is just always all right.  The good and the bad, the happy and the sad.  Boring stretches of information and girls before girls were girls.  And, occasionally, boys.

I don't remember his name and I remember him like Opie.   He was short and thin with as many freckles as me but with redder hair and a hateful face.  I was nine years old and he was eight.  A grade below me.  I was wearing my favorite new Simpsons T-shirt (the one with the family portrait on the front and the disheveled version on the back) that day.  I remember it for a good reason.

He asked me if I wanted to fight him.  He had something to prove to someone, somewhere.  I said no.  I don't fight.  I don't even know you.  He began to shove and pinch.  Pandering little taunts that achieved nothing.  I didn't want to fight.  Mom and Dad and Jesus.  On the bus ride home it continued with hair pulling and name calling, and nothing was resolved.   The bus driver didn't even pay attention.  She only paid attention if we had gum.

Then, like a lightning bolt, he punched me.  Right in my nose.  And blood followed him.

He turned back in his seat and started laughing.   The bus driver was notified that I was bleeding all over myself and stopped the bus a few blocks from my stop.  When she found me I was still in my seat bleeding, and crying.  Crying so hard.  Not from the pain or from the situation, but because of how fucking harsh it was to do the right thing.  I had blood all over my favorite shirt.  He was laughing, and I didn't do anything about it.  I wanted to.   I wanted to grab him by his big mouth and rip his head in half.  I wanted to stomp his brains and gut him.  I wanted him to die.  I wanted him to burn in Hell and die.  And all I could do was sit and cry, because of Mom, and because of Dad, and because of Jesus.

I watched the bus pull away through reddened, tear-soaked eyes.  I lowered my head and stood there, motionless yet again, waiting for some kind of revelation to swoop down and carry me home.  With my chin on my chest I turned and started to walk home.  I thought about how good it felt to my heart that I hadn't hurt someone who had tried so hard to hurt me.  I thought about how my rewards were for later, not for right now.  I thought about how it wasn't my fault that he wanted to fight and it wasn't my fault that he'd punched me.  And then I walked face first into a mailbox.

So there I am, laying on the ground with my head vibrating, blood pouring down my throat, and the emotion just falling out of me.   Happiness was in the street.  Appreciation and self-worth were hanging in the bushes and misery was sitting right on top of me.  It was the first time I ever thought about killing myself. 

I was nine years old and I thought about killing myself.  Over that.

I stopped crying after that.  Completely.  I didn't cry for sad reasons, I didn't cry for happiness.  The theologians were finally found out.  I had done what needed to be done and my vindication was a life of positivity and spiritual evenness. 

Then, a month later, I saw the boy in the woods, hitting the trees with a baseball bat.  When I turned away he was screaming "Oh God" repeatedly, like it was on purpose.  Like what I'd done to him hadn't been part of the agreement.  I tossed the bat into the creek and walked that same few blocks home.

And I cried for two weeks straight.  And I became afraid.

Next.