As a fifth grader, I was playing basketball by myself one Sunday afternoon. I was playing at Walter Stillman Elementary School, just across the street from my house.

Two kids were playing stick ball off the back of the school.

A tennis ball rolled my way.

“IF YOU DON’T GET THAT BALL TO ME BY THE TIME I COUNT TO TEN, I’M GOING TO KICK THE SHIT OUT OF YOU.”

  1. That was pretty clear. I had a decision to make. I could ignore him, then he’d come over and kick the shit out of me. I could run away, then he’d chase me and same result. Actually, there was only one option.

I handed him the ball. “You didn’t even start counting,” I said with a smile.

“I counted in my head. You’re too late.”

He rushed me.

Before I knew it this kid was straddling me on the ground. His fists flailed at my head. I grabbed each wrist and fended him off.

“HIT HIM! HIT HIM!” said his friend.

“I can’t. He’s holding my fucking arms.”

His pupils were black dots. Sweaty tassels of brown hair bounced over his forehead. His face scrunched up. “Do you say uncle?”

“Yeah,” I said.

He got off. His friend slapped him on the back as they sauntered off.  I trotted away, fetched my basketball and headed home.

I opened the garage door of my home. The car was gone. I entered and slid the door closed behind me. I stood in darkness.

Now what? The world out there was a dangerous place. But I couldn’t stay in here.

I couldn’t tell my parents. They’d call the kid’s parents. I didn’t want that. I couldn’t tell my friends. They would tease me, and I wouldn’t here the end of it. And what about going to school? What if I see him in the hallway? Which I would.

The good life was over. Now some busted balloon of a life continued. This inner voice kept goading me, telling me what a pussy I was. It was like a scruffy mongrel that adopted himself into my life. There was no way I could lose him. Occasionally, I forgot about him. But then, there he was, with a low growl, threatening, like he was going to bite the shit out of me, and sometimes he did, big time, leaving me a bloody mess. But I would get up and keep going, and he would keep following. And maybe this is a burden all men carry, some more than others. We men struggle hard to avoid being shamed about our manhood.

I thought about the kid. How far would he have gone if I hadn’t stopped him? Would he have permanently injured me, even killed me? And why was he so mad? How does someone get like that?

I yanked the garage door slightly open, peeked out and confirmed that no one was around, skipped out and ran into my house.