Many of my students are fighters, young men and young women, too, nearly all between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five, and in their required first-person narrative essays they regularly describe their involvement in street fights and wrestling matches, in beatings, in brawls, and even in shootings, all of them fueled by ignominy, failure, loneliness, depression, pride, sex, and—almost without exception—alcohol and drugs. I myself have never been in an actual physical fight. But in high school some of my friends and acquaintances fought.

I was not present when Doug Carlson fought Duane Anderson one summer day while they were working in the local nurseries, but I heard summaries and interpretations for at least a week after. Duane said Carlson had sucker punched him and that the attack was unprovoked. Duane was a friend and I believed him. I never asked Doug. He was a year older and I didn’t know him well.

I was present when Gene Rinzell broke Greg Buntz's nose in a fight out at the Old Highway one night. They'd agreed to meet and duke it out. I never knew exactly why—perhaps a taunt, a dare, a challenge.

“Do you think I can beat him, Robert?” Greg asked me confidentially before the fight.

Greg was the kindest, gentlest, most generous person I knew. There seemed a lot I had to consider. I thought for several seconds before I answered.

“No,” I said.

“You son of a bitch,” Greg said grinning.

They circled one another, boxed, punched, bumped into parked cars, staggered, fell, and then rolled and wrestled around on the hard gray pavement for several minutes. There were eight or nine cars there, maybe a few more, a fairly large circle of spectators, most of them friends of one or the other of the two contestants. I was with Greg, Knox, Voitenko, and Powell.

Someone pointed at Rinzell and yelled, "He's got something in his hand!"

It turned out to be a roll of nickels.

"How'd we know Buntz wouldn't have something, too?" Ron McLain yelled, defending Rinzell.

This evoked several seconds of booing and hooting. Witnesses from opposing sides exchanged catcalls and taunts. As I watched and listened, Wayne McLain, Ron’s younger brother, strolled up to me, his lips and his eyes narrowed in a caricature of menace.

"I hear you been lookin' for me, Robert," he said. This was code language for picking a fight.

"No," I said. "I haven't been looking for you."

I met Wayne's stare. I had no idea what he was talking about. My answer confused him. Someone else had probably put him up to it—I don't think we had even ever quarrelled—and Wayne wandered off.

The fight was over. Our small circle drove back to the funeral home where in the summer Greg lived with his grandparents. We gathered around Greg in the bathroom as he stared soulfully into the mirror at his nose and we stared soulfully at him. With a facial tissue Greg dabbed delicately at the blood trickling only slightly and slowly from his nostrils. The bridge of his nose was horribly bent and bruised—purple, blue, and an unnatural white—and clearly broken.

It was an ugly moment.

At Boldra's Barber Shop one Saturday morning with Rick Williams, Rick suddenly tackled me, wrestled me onto my back, and pinned me. He was pissed about something. I don't know why.

"You son of a bitch!" he hissed.

He was stronger than I, and he cared more. I struggled only briefly. I realized quickly that I couldn't win so I didn't really fight back. I just gave up. When I relaxed, Rick got off of me and let me up. Dennis Boldra didn't know what in the hell was going on. He looked on with a mixture of confusion, amusement, and alarm. I think Rick just needed to show me that he could whip me, and that came as no surprise to me. I think it was just ego and envy. Our daily banter was competitive and our taunts could be cruel. I'd probably made some hasty, thoughtless offhand remark that I'd practiced and rehearsed in private, imagining it witty, and struck a nerve. That was my usual modus operandi.

Playing basketball at Central Elementary one day when I was sixteen or so, frustrated with my own ineptitude, I slugged Willy as hard as I could in the side of the neck. It hardly fazed him, but it stopped the scrimmage.

"Jesus, Robert!" he said.

He and Buntz, Powell, and Knox looked at me like I had lost my mind. I felt stupid, weak, and ashamed.

"I'm sorry, Willy," I said as we walked to the car. "I don't know why I did that."

"It's okay, Robert," he smiled.

I was immensely grateful to him then for the speed and ease of his forgiveness. I still am.

In high school several good friends of mine hinted on occasion that they wanted to beat me up. Larry Martin often insinuated that he wanted to fight me. Duane did, too. Nothing ever came of it. Early in our junior year Jim Knox had heard from someone that his girlfriend Molly Nowisky had been in a new relationship her freshman year at college. I'd heard the rumor, too. It was true, I guess. Knox was jealous. He asked me if I'd heard it—if I knew.

"No," I lied. "I don't know."

"If I find out you're lying to me, I'll kill you," Jim said. He thought he meant it.

Later he learned that the rumor was true, Molly had dumped him, and he got over it. But Jim remembered his threat and he wanted to remind me. He sidled up to me one afternoon across the street from George Jay Drug.

"You knew, didn't you?" he declared. It was an accusation.

“Yes.” I nodded.

"I'll bet you were scared," he smirked.

"No, I wasn't scared," I said.

I was telling the truth, though I couldn't have beaten Jim in a fight. I wouldn't have fought back. But I wasn't afraid of Jim. He was a friend who had never said a negative word to me, really, he was a person I liked and trusted, and I'd done nothing wrong. Why would he punish me for his problem? It didn't make sense. That's why I wasn't scared—not because I thought I could successfully defend myself in a fight with him. All of this remained unspoken of course.

"So you weren't scared," he stated incredulously, disgusted.

It was important to him at the time to be thought passionate, fearless, perhaps even dangerous in matters of the heart. He tried to stare me down. I gazed back. We just stood and looked at one other for several silent seconds. I think he understood.

"Okay," he said.

Smiling ironically he shook his head and feigned incomprehension at my innocence and folly. Together we walked across the street to see if anyone we might want to see was in Jay's. I think he had a cherry Coke. I had a lime freeze. At the soda fountain there was nobody to talk to but Ed.