by Robert Braswell

Created on: July 01, 2007

Fighting With Owen

My father never taught me how to defend myself in any type of physical confrontation. Maybe he didn't think it was important enough to worry about. I wished he had thought otherwise.

Owen Schroeder and I got into a shoving match one time on the front lawn of our home as my parents stood on the porch watching. I recall this incident with an embarrassment because it showed how much of a pathetic tolerance I had for pain. Our disagreement was nothing more than childish name calling that escalated into serious sarcasm, of which him and I became very upset with each other.

When I noticed my father watching and waiting to see how the fight was going to turn out, I felt pressure to do well. However, with an extremely skinny body I felt my chances of victory were slim to none.

Owen and I began dancing around each other waving our fists in the air like a couple of boxing heavyweights. He was a thin boy like myself, but he possessed a little more muscle than I.

I began the fight by displaying a mean face to try and scare him into backing off, but the fear I was feeling eventually overwhelmed me as my mean expression melted into a fearful one.

As we continued to try and intimidate each other, Owen eventually landed a few glancing blows off my shoulders. I could hear my father getting incensed because of it.

Suddenly he began yelling louder for me to do better, distracting my concentration. I began to worry about what he was saying just as much as trying to evade Owen's fists. I was so pathetic that I don't think I even threw a punch. Having about as much muscle as a twig back in those days, I literally couldn't fight my way out of a paper bag, let alone win a one-on-one confrontation with anyone.

Suddenly Owen blind-sided me with a solid punch to the left side of my head and down I went like a sack of potatoes. When I hit the ground, I knew right then that I had had enough. My whole head began painfully throbbing like it was just split into. With my father watching, it made the shame I felt even worse.

In my peripheral vision I saw Owen turn and walk away as I remained crumpled on the ground in pain. It must've given him a good feeling to know that he had won.

After making sure he was far enough away and it was safe for me to get up, I struggled to my feet and gingerly walked toward the house with my head down from embarrassment, only to face the wrath of my father who seemed to be more embarrassed by my lack of manhood.

As soon as I got close to him, it was only then did I look up at him to give him the kind of expression that would hopefully reach his more sensitive side. My whole body was tense because I was fearful of getting punished for losing.

Instead, though, he gave me a lecture on why I shouldn't have lost the fight. His eyes told me that he knew how I was feeling by my expression, and realized that my embarrassment was doing more good for me than any beating would.

He still never taught me how to fight.

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