I've never been a fan of sports, not since I was small. I was uncoordinated, tiny, and had much more of an interest in reading and writing than I ever did in kicking a damn ball down the field. I blame my dislike of sports on how ridiculously competitive they got by the age of 8. My classmates took sports outside of school, winning, even at recess, mattered. I am not such a person, and it began to annoy me. Being the kind of asshole I was at 8, which, to be frank, is not that different from the kind of asshole I am now, I took the attitude of: You can't fire me, I quit. Instead of begging for the other kids to pick me, to want me on their team, I grabbed a book and refused to play the game. Or I went to the swings or the sandbox. I didn't need them if they didn't want me. I was not a popular kid, awkward and bookish. But I was smart. And I had a few friends.  And I did have a temper. Which leads me to my next story.

Kyle was destined to become one of those jockish types that lived based on the fact that they could run with a ball. My 3rd grade teacher, in all of her wisdom, decided that I should learn to get along with the other kids and play sports. So I got thrown into the blackboard jungle, away from the safety of the pirates in my novel. Marooned on the island with me were my friends, Ben and Daniel. Both of whom became hot later in life, along with me. That's another story for a different day, I suppose.

On this particular day, the torture of choice was kickball, delight of awkward kids everywhere. Kyle was pitching, and Daniel was up to kick. Kyle, being one of the jock types, derived no greater pleasure under God than torturing us. He pitched fast and hard, the red ball flying down the blacktop like a comet. Daniel kicked at it with great vigor, and of course, missed entirely. Kyle was delighted, and laughed as hard as he could. He threw it again, and again, Daniel missed. As kids often do, Kyle began to make fun of Daniel. A litany of not-all-that-clever-but-emotionally-shattering-at-the-time insults came. I'm better at taking crap than letting my friends take it.  I have no trouble getting made fun of, because I'd rather not play with them anyhow. But Daniel cared, and so I cared.

 I'd read enough books to know that if you lie down and take that kind of crap, it keeps happening to you over and over again. I'd lived in the world long enough to know that telling an adult gets you nothing but teased OUTSIDE of school. Clearly, violence was the answer. I walked up to the mound, yelling something at Kyle that I'm sure I thought was very witty at the time. Then, as he got into my face, I broke a nerd commandment. I hit the bully. I was tiny, and so am sure that the initial punch didn't hurt, but the shock registered immediately. The world had turned upside down, the peasants were attacking the nobles!!! The 1812 overture ran through my head as I wailed on this kid, and his shock turned to pain, as he punched at the air, and landed a few good smacks. My adrenaline was too much for him, and before I knew it, I was standing victorious over the enemy.

Getting hauled into the Principal's office did nothing to abate my self-satisfaction. As my parents were called in, I defended that I had 'mitgating circumstances'. This is when Mom decided I wasn't allowed to read crime novels anymore. Nothing ended up happening to me, outside of having to write a letter of apology. I wrote that I was sorry he got hurt, because I wasn't sorry that I hit him. Kyle ended up transferring after Christmas break, because nothing hurts your street cred more than getting beat up by a nerd.

Things didn't really change for me. People still made fun of me, and I still just wanted them to leave me the hell alone. But that's not the point of the story. The point is, I did something because I felt I had to do it. Wisdom be damned. And I'm glad I did, because for once, I won.