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For some inexplicable reason, Valerie G. had a beef with me in sixth grade. Who knows what I did to set her off, but the time (after school) and the place (by the cafeteria) for a fistfight to settle the matter was set.
The dread and nausea that blossomed as the day progressed was unspeakable. Val was not the sort of girl who pulled hair or bitch-slapped - she kicked serious ass and the entire school, boys included, was scared of her.
Val glared at me with her fists cocked as we mouthed off at each other in the middle of a scrum of elementary school children. I scanned the faces around me, watching erstwhile friends shoving each other to get a better spot from which to see the fight, feeding off the tension like a bunch of Dementors in training.
Suddenly, and wholly unexpected, the absurdity of it all hit me.
The flimsiness of the offense; the baiting of the crowd; being swept up in a drama not of my making - it was beyond stupid. Even at 11 years old, I realized I didn't have to play my part. And I said so, before walking away slowly with my head held high, not looking back. No one ever bothered me again (if anything, I got props for being a maverick).
So it's ironic that today, some 35 years later, I'm now learning how to box from WIBA World Flyweight Champion, Eileen Miyoko (a.k.a., "The Hawaiian Mongoose").
Initially, it wasn't the boxing itself that attracted me. It was knowing that as someone whose physiology doesn't generate enough endorphins to get hooked on sweat or elevated heart rates, I needed two things to get my middle-aged body in shape: Convenience (the gym is around the corner) and Motivation (The Hawaiian Mongoose doesn't tolerate slackers).
So I signed on. To my surprise, I love it.
