So there I was, just minding my own business, when the baddest dude in school walked up and called me a p---y.
Now, some of you might wonder why I'm telling you this story. Hang on, I'll get to that in a minute. But first, I need to get something off my chest.
Today, I was supposed to do a recap of my most recent email series. However, I've received some weird messages on Facebook lately, so I decided to write this email instead to address them.
But I digress. Allow me to finish my story, and then I'll get around to the point of this entire rambling email.
So, I was just minding my own business, hanging out in the hall trying to look cool when I knew I wasn't. I'd just gotten my ear pierced, because when you're fourteen and you're trying to rebel and you can't afford a tattoo you pierce your ear. At least, back in the eighties that's what you did.
Well, Steve Jacobs apparently found this to be an affront to his manhood. Or perhaps it was an affront to the general manhood of men and boys who desperately wanted to be seen as being manly. Something to that effect. All I know is that I became the object of his ire that day, simply because I had pierced my ear.
Steve was what is commonly known as "the toughest kid in school." At fourteen, he stood about 5'10" and weighed about 180 pounds. Yeah, he was a bit of a freak.
And besides that, he was captain of the eighth grade wrestling team, and a silver gloves boxer. But me? I was nobody, just some skinny little kid trying to fit in whilst I navigated puberty.
Moreover, I was smart enough to ignore Steve's jibes. I didn't know who he was, because I was new to the school. But I knew that he was a lot bigger than me, and that he was absolutely unimpressed with my attempts to look unimpressed by how big he was.
So I ignored him when he came around and said it to me a second time. "P---y," he sneered as he walked by my locker. I feigned temporary blindness and hearing loss, and let him keep walking.
Unfortunately, my "friend" Doug didn't think that was too cool. "Mike, are you going to let him talk to you like that?" he exclaimed after the third time Steve challenged the veracity of my prepubescent manhood.
Well, hell. Now that Doug called me out, I obviously couldn't keep pretending I didn't hear Steve's taunting insults.
"Why, of course not!" I said, secretly wishing that Doug hadn't also questioned my masculinity by bringing attention to Steve's repeated jibes. Because now I had to defend my honor, damn it.
Doug and all the guys were looking at me, waiting to see what I would do. So, I followed Steve down the hall and did exactly what I was supposed to do.
"Hey, did you call me a p---sy?" I asked. Which was a dumb question, because he'd done it three times in the last fifteen minutes.
Steve turned around and said, "Yeah, I called you a p---y." He looked bored, like his heart wasn't even in it.
Now I had to take it a step further, because I couldn't just walk away at this point and say, "Oh, okay then. Just wanted to make sure. Have a nice day!"
So instead I said, "Alright then, let's fight!" Or something similarly foolish.
And Steve looked at me—rather, he looked down at me—and said, "Look kid, I just got off in-school suspension for fighting, so I'm not going to throw down here in the hall. Meet me across the street after school and we'll settle this."
"I'll be there!" I said. Or something equally stupid.
Now, what I didn't know was that Doug knew exactly who Steve Jacobs was. Everyone did. Except me of course, because I was the new kid. But as the day progressed, I found out a lot about Steve Jacobs.
"Are you seriously going to fight Steve after school? Holy crap, are you nuts?"
"Hey, I heard you're fighting Steve Jacobs after school. Nice knowing you."
"Mike, you know he's the toughest guy in school, right? Are you sure you want to do this?"
No matter what they told me about what a bad dude Steve was, I just shrugged. Yet, inside I was thinking, "Hell no, I don't want to do this!"
But Doug had lifted the first few shovels of dirt from that grave, and I had decided to keep digging it. Now, everyone in the school knew about the fight, and if I didn't follow through with it the whole school would know I really was a "p---y."
As the day went on, my feelings of dread increased. By the time 2:55 rolled around, I just wanted it to be over. And walking down the front steps of the school, and then crossing the street where Steve was waiting—with a crowd of kids, no less—felt like walking to my own execution.
Now, I know there are those of you reading this who are expecting some miraculous Karate Kid ending. Like, that I somehow pulled a miracle out of my ass and kicked Steve's butt.
Yeah, that's not how it ended.
What happened was this: Steve dropped me with one punch that I never even saw coming. I was incredibly nearsighted back then, and I had to take off my thick glasses to fight him (they were Coke-bottle-bottom thick). So I hardly even saw him throw it—all I saw was a blur coming at my face. It was a solid cross, right on the jaw, or so I was told.
I came to on one knee, blood dripping from my mouth in the dirt, and with a ringing in my ears that made it hard to hear.
"You had enough?" he asked. It sounded like his voice was coming from the other end of a very long tunnel.
"Yeah, I think I have," I mumbled, and spat blood in the dirt.
"Okay." And he walked off.
I got to my feet as kids dispersed. As I stumbled onto the bus, one of the neighborhood girls freaked out on me. Apparently, my mouth was split wide open, I was bleeding like a stuck pig, and the whole side of my face was swelling like a puffer fish with an eating disorder.
"Oh my God! You actually fought Steve Jacobs?" she exclaimed. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Um, I'm not a pussy?" I mumbled unintelligibly. Or at least, I wish I had. But it hurt to talk, so I just shrugged. I was getting good at shrugging.
Incidentally, this happened the day before Christmas break. I had a concussion, of course, and no one in my house had the sense to take me to the hospital. So I went home, laid down on the couch, and slept it off, which is the worst thing you can do with a concussion.
I think I woke up the next day, but I'm not really sure because I don't remember a thing about that Christmas. Not. A. Thing.
Two weeks later, I showed back up to school, dreading the ribbing I would face. As it turned out, everyone had forgotten about it. Except, of course, me and Steve.
See, Steve's hand was in a cast. He actually hit me that hard. Broke his hand in a couple of places, was what I heard.
Anyway, we'd pass each other in the hall, and he'd just kind of smirk and shake his head. Never messed with me again, though. Guess he figured I had enough spunk to stand up to him, so I wasn't a—whatever.
Or maybe he just felt guilty.
And that's the story about how Steve Jacobs broke his hand on my jaw.
So what's my point in telling you all this? It's this...
That little experience taught me something about allowing other people to pull you into their drama.
Turns out, Doug had his own issues with Steve that had nothing to do with me. And Steve had his own problems as well, trouble at home, or with a girl, or something. I just happened to be there that day when he was feeling pissed off and angry at the world.
So, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people.
And by letting two knuckleheads like Steve and Doug pull me into their own little personal drama, I ended up getting a really nasty concussion, a four-inch gash inside my lip (my family never took me to the doctor for that, either), and a stupid cautionary tale to share with you some three decades later.
But at least I learned an important lesson:
Only a fool allows other people to pull them into their personal petty squabbles and drama.
Which brings me back to people friending me on Facebook.
Folks, if you've friended me on Facebook for the purpose of being "friends," I welcome the connection. But if you think you're going to pull me into your silly little dramas and political squabbles within the martial arts world, don't waste your time.
I don't do drama. Period. So please, don't send me private messages about how I should watch out for this person, or about how that person is saying nasty things about you.
I. Don't. Care.
And for those of you who haven't sent me such messages (thanks, by the way), I advise you to steer clear of that craziness as well. Dealing with politics in the martial arts world is a lot like walking through a field of cow patties with your eyes closed.
Eventually, you're going to step in it. And then you're going to smell like shit, even though you weren't the one who made the mess in the first place.
Until next time,
Mike Massie
MartialArtsBusinessDaily.com
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P.S. - One good thing came out of that very short and one-sided altercation I had with Steve. I started karate lessons a few months later, with the intention of learning how to fight so I could get revenge or something. But, after a couple of months in karate, I lost my desire for vengeance—seems I'd been bitten by the martial arts bug. I've been training ever since. So, it wasn't a complete cock-up.
P.S.S. - After high school, I never did run into Steve again. But if I did I'd probably have to thank him, because if it wasn't for him I'd never have gotten into the martial arts in the first place.
