Fighting Words
Yesterday, I was almost in a fight. An honest-ta-goodness fist fight. An old-fashioned scuffle. A bare-knuckle brewhaha.
Almost, but not quite. Damn.
You see, yesterday I was playing a quick nine holes after work with a few buds – my regular, weekday foursome – when some young knuckleheads thought we’d purposefully hit into them. Two of our drives crossed a blind dogleg and almost hit these guys. We thought they’d moved on. Our bad. Sorry.
These guys grudgingly accepted our apologies, but thought we should have been more careful. Okay, maybe. Like I said, our bad. Sorry.
“Just do it again and we’ll see what happens,” threatened the guy with the impress-the-girls tan and tattoos as he pulled away. Oh boy. I don’t take kindly to threats, and I have a big mouth.
I laughed at him, “C’mon. Don’t threaten me; I’m a grown up. If you want to do something, do it now. I’m right here. Why do we always have to wait for later?” I was smiling because this, believe it or not, just got fun for me.
I don’t think I threatened the guy. I’m not the threatening-type — I’m middle-aging and have the spread and graying goatee to prove it; I’m not big and don’t even have a tattoo. But I think I confused him and he moved on.
That said, I wasn’t done. In my head I needed him to know three things: 1. No one in my group hit golf balls at him on purpose, 2. Threatening people outside of his normal social settings is silly and, 3. If he wants to roll, I’m game.
I rushed to catch up to him on the next tee and extended my hand, “Dude (that’s right, I use the word “Dude”), again I apologize for almost hitting you with my golf ball. We really didn’t see you. We thought you moved on.”
He shook my hand and sincerely accepted my apology, “Look, I didn’t want to start any trouble …”
“It seemed like it to me when you barreled 250 yards down the fairway, raised your voice, and then threatened us,” I answered.
One of his buddies answered, “We’re good. Just a misunderstanding.”
My friends thought they were assholes. I thought they were just goofy kids. I also think that they’re used to intimidating their way around problems. Bullies? Maybe.
“Good enough for me. But if you change your mind, I’m right behind you.”
The rest of the round was uneventful. But I think if I followed them into the bar, they would have bought me a beer.
:::
Something that I don’t think I’ve ever written about is that I’m a student of Brazilian Jiu-jitsu. By now, you’ve probably heard about it. It’s the grappling stuff all those “Mixed Martial Artists” use.
I started studying before there was “Ultimate Fighting” and before the term “Mixed Martial Arts” was even coined. My first instructor was Royce Grace; the guy who won 3 of the first 4 UFCs — this was before judges, rounds, and weight classes. In many circles, he’s a household name; when I met him, he was a skinny kid from Brazil.
Royce once told me, “You know how to fight.” Kinda cool.
My second instructor was the first American black belt in Gracie/Brazilian Jiu-jitsu, Craig Kukuk. (Craig has pissed off so many Brazilians that he’s retreated to teaching in Boise, Idaho.) Since then, I’ve studied on-and-off by myself and my brother-in-law (who is a Brazilian jiu-jitsu instructor), and another brother-in-law who has just recently started training. (There, my pedigree is complete.)
Whether I know how to fight or not is immaterial. It’s my belief that I know how to fight and defend myself that means everything. It’s this belief that allows me to laugh at people who threaten me. I mean really laugh. And that confidence is confuses them to the point of not pushing things to another level.
Several years ago, I was involved in a bit of a bench-clearing near-brawl in a softball game. There was a lot of dust and squaring off, but nothing of any import. As I walked away, a guy grabbed me around the waist.
“You got the wrong guy,” I said without looking back. “You have one shot, one punch, and that’s it. Make it good because you’ve got the wrong guy.” I already had him set up for an armlock that I’ve done a hundred times against fully resisting opponents. “You’ve got the wrong guy,” I told him one more time.
Just like the golfer above, something inside me was joyous that maybe – just maybe – I’ll get another shot to see if this shit still work. (I say “still” because I got in a real fight nine or ten years ago and it worked. But that’s another story for a different day.) It’s this little bit of joyousness and supreme confidence that is disarming.
The guy just let go of me and walked away, just like yesterday.
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