JimFormation

We all know Richard Simmons, right? He’s the guy who promotes fitness, sells diet cards and exercise tapes, and specializes in the really, really obese?

I heard him interviewed on the radio yesterday. He’s going to testify in front of congress about why schools need to keep their physical education programs. I agree with Richard.

Actually, whatever you think of Simmons, his weight-loss/fitness strategy is simplistic but sound: “Don’t eat too much! Small portions! Move your body!”

But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. What got me was Richard was talking about being bullied while he was in school. Almost in tears (Richard Simmons is almost always almost in tears), he recounted the events. Events, he said, that still leave scars today.

Richard went back to sixth or seventh grade. He was chubby. His first name was Milton (since changed to Richard). Every day after school, Moose would hit him in the head with a baseball bat until young Milton fell to the ground.

“Every day?” asked the interviewer.

“Every day.”

“A wooden baseball bat?”

“Yep. Wooden.”

“On the head? You’re lucky your not dead.”

“I have a hard head.”

Young Milton eventually stood up to Moose. Reasoned with him, “I’ve never done anything to you and you’re hurting me.” Not Jerry Mitchell in 3 O’Clock High, but the kids cheered him and Moose stopped using Milton’s head as a baseball.

I understand this would follow Milton Teague Simmons forever. I too was bullied one year. Seventh grade, just like Milton.

Seventh grade was the first year of Intermediate School. No longer did we pal around as a class in one classroom with one teacher as our leader.

We travelled from class to class and from teacher to teacher. We were on our own. Instead of a desk and classroom closet to keep our coats, lunches, and books, we had a lockers.

My locker was on the other side of the school. Everything I did, except for gym — my classes, the bus — was on one side of the school; my locker, the other.

After the last bell rang, I had to run all the way from class to the other side of school, drop my books off in my locker, collect my coat, and run back to catch the bus. This had to be executed with the timing of an NFL wide receiver’s out pattern; if the timing is off, incomplete pass. Or, in my case, I missed the bus.

Mike.

His name was Mike. He was twice the size of the average seventh grader. He was so large he had two satellite students orbiting around him — their names are lost in time. But, like the moon, they were always there saying things like, “Yeh. What are you going to do now? Huh? Tell him, Mike. Tell him what he’s going to do. That’s right. Tell him, Mike.” And they’d laugh. Yellow curs.

Somehow Mike, this dimwitted toad, figured out that I was on a tight schedule. The focus for his seventh grade year became, “Make Jim miss the bus.” His tools: physical blockaids, knocking books from my hands, slamming my locker closed the moment I opened it, taking something of mine and not giving it back, throwing me to the ground, verbal harrassment, and other assorted bully crap.

I didn’t go Jerry Mitchell’s route, nor even Milton Teague Simmons’ route. I didn’t stand up  to my tormentor. No, I went the weenie route. I stopped using the locker. Like a homeless middle schooler, I carried everything I had in a huge duffle bag. My books, all of them. My coat. My lunch. My gym clothes. Baseball cards. Superball. Everything.

Mike. The toad.

I’ve told my wife, and I’m serious, if we are walking down the mall and suddenly you turn toward me and I’m not there. And you look back and I’m on top of some fat, tub-of-goo of a person, flailing my fist at his head. I’m on top of Mike. Don’t try to stop me. He’s getting everything he deserved.