I spent countless hours playing Punch Out at the Cloverleaf Family Bowl ("The Hillman family welcomes you!"). I bobbed and weaved... I jabbed and swung... ahhhh, the seductive dance of that sweet, sweet science....
Of course, it paled in comparison to my one, real fight. That stand I took for my locker-mate's honor, behind the gym... on a sunny afternoon not entirely unlike this sunny afternoon... except that I had hair then. Parted.
That was cool.
But I digress.
I was sharing a locker with an unfortunate girl who had been forced to flee her own locker, on accounta' her ex-boyfriend who clung to that metal estuary of hers like Depends to Larry King's flaccid ass. She couldn't get her books between classes; she couldn't drop off her dioramas... he was always there. What's a girl to do?
"We could share a locker," I remember saying to her while she paced the hallway.
"Would that be a problem?" she replied.
"I'm sure it... I mean, it shouldn't... well no. Not really." I answered cooly.
(Cool answers are kinda' my thing. Ask anyone.)
And it wasn't a problem... 'till Captain Dickless started coming around our locker, and harassing her... and getting between me and my calculus book.
Now, history had already proven that I was a pretty easy-going guy. Even growing-up in the asphalt jungles of Fremont, CA I'd managed to keep my head, and to keep my fists of fury unclenched at my sides. It was dog eat dog in those hellish suburbs, make no mistake... and if this dog didn't always come out on top, he at least never got blood all over his PF Flyers courtesy of the bully dujour.
That was cool.
But see, easy-going as I was, even I had a limit... plus, I'd been reading a lot of Spider-Man comics that year... and I'd picked-up a few things. First, of course, was that with "great power comes great responsibility." You'd think I'd have gotten that message already from Nick Barkley or Steve Austin... but God bless his two-dimensional heart, it was Peter Parker who finally drove that point home for me.
The second, key thing I'd learned from Spider-Man? In life, you can never be dramatic enough, and there's no point in living a dramatic life that no one notices. 'till that Fall I'd been happy to be a decent -if quiet- kid. After reading countless back-issues of Spider-Man though, I started spouting phrases like "I won't be your whipping boy!" and "Be strong for those who aren't..." and, fatefully, "Not on my watch."
"Not on my watch...." The last words I uttered to that guy; the phrase that drew the ire that lead to the fight that scarred the house that Milt & Bev built.
One afternoon he was harassing her at our locker; I was almost late for AP Math. He threatened her, and in my righteous rage I stepped in and announced that no, he wouldn't touch her, "not on my watch." Next thing I remember, my knuckles were bleeding... the scar is cool.
I'd like to think I did it for her... but the truth is I was not doing well in that AP Math class, and he was between me and my math textbook. I had this idea that just appearing in public with that book scored me points with Mr Strausser (our accomplished -if slightly insane- AP Math teacher), and that -seeing my dedication- he'd blithely give me at least a "B" and I wouldn't have to run home and intercept any more progress reports to my parents in the daily mail.
Still, I wanted to look out for her... she just wanted to start over in a new locker... sometimes pathetic dreams are the most profound... she at least deserved that... right?
Thing is, if I did it for her, or for me, it amounted to two hits: me hitting him, and him hitting the ground. I may not have avoided saying "Not on my watch," but I did manage to choke back the "two hits" quote before I swung at him... another senseless Breakfast Club-inspired tragedy averted... and then? I stood over him, triumphant... and really, really late for that math class.
I don't remember much about the actual fight, but I do remember my Punch-Out training rising to guide my blows: upper-cut... swing... knock him out! I heard that synthesized "DING!" as he fell; I'm pretty sure I bobbed on my toes in victory. I was a man then... a man who wound-up with a "C" in that AP Math class, largely as a result of missing that day's surprise test... and as a result of miscalulating the importance of just carrying around a textbook I never actually opened but to scrawl Dark Side of the Moon lyrics in its inside-cover.
Punch-Out helped shape that moment... its tutelage helped me best another man on the field of battle. Dramatic? Sure. Pretentious? Perhaps... but bested he was. Punch-Out made me the man I am today, for better or worse.... It taught me how to go mano a mano with otro manos, sure... but moreso with life. Punch-Out was a metaphor for how to live... it taught me to respect the struggle, to hold my ground, and to keep my metaphorical gloves up... it helped mold me. Moreso, it helped mold a generation.
Now? Now it teaches kids to beat the shit out of a breakfast muffin.
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