The Fight of a Lifetime
It was a remarkably unremarkable day, without any prior incident or hiccup to distract from the normalcy of life. Rather, all of the elementary school children were outside, enjoying the 30 minutes of freedom they received every day, trying to make the most out of their haven from the boringness and drudgery of their classes. Being that all of the swings were taken and had waiting lines that seemingly stretched out for miles, a group gathered by the painted, yellow lines that formed the “foursquare ring” at the bottom of the school’s sloped parking lot. As the crowd of spectators grew, the waiting line began to also pile up. I had managed to “cherry bomb” and “black magic” my way to the coveted King’s Square. Now I had complete power and control. It was finally starting to get interesting.

And then he walked up. We all knew who he was, because he was one of our classmates. But he was more than that; his personality and emotional disposition preceded him, and made him somewhat of a legend on our tiny campus. While most kids wore clothing from the GAP or Old Navy, dressed up in khakis and a green, white or blue polo according to the hated “code,” Cameron chose to wear black pants and the darkest, practically-black navy blue polo he could find. His shaggy, greasy hair partially covered the glasses that rested eternally-crooked on the top of his nose, showing either a complete lack of care for his own looks, or—more likely—a lack of consistent parental involvement in his life. He was too tall and lanky for his age, but somehow had a small-but-stubborn layer of fat over his belly.

As Cameron approached our game of foursquare, in which I was still proudly the King, the spectators parted, making sure he had plenty of room to move. Whenever he walked, he always looked down at the ground, as if his head was in an eternal, losing battle with some enormous, invisible force. As I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye—I still had to stay focused on the game, of course—I thought “I wonder what he wants. The waiting line is obviously long, and all of us playing right now are pretty good. We’ll see.” Lo and behold, he sauntered over towards my King’s square and said “Hey, man, can I play?”

Time froze. It’s the moment I had been dreading. Even the other kids in the foursquare court seemed anxious. If I say yes, I’m letting him cut all the other kids in line and kick one of the current players out. But if I say no…

It was a miniature crisis. Everyone felt bad for him. He tried to be nice, but his moodiness and anger often got in the way of his usually-good intentions. He didn’t really fit in, even though I tried to accept him and let him hang out with my friends and me. But there are rules, and game etiquette, and he can’t just cut everyone else in line. I had made my decision. “Just be friendly, Nathan,” I told myself.

“Sure, Cameron. Jump in line! But just so you know, recess is almost over, and there’s tons of kids already in line. All of us in the square are pretty good, so you probably won’t get to play.” I tried to appear friendly but firm, making sure he knew that he was welcome, but was aware of what would probably happen if he got in line. I swallowed a few times, with each gulp sounding to me like I was desperately gasping for air, a surefire way of telling I was nervous and not-so-confident.

“Are you saying you don’t want me to play?” Cameron questioned.

“No, that’s not it at all, dude. I’m just saying we might not have enough time to get through the line.”

“Why does this only happen to me? You guys hate me, you never let me play anything. I’m so SICK of this!”

“Dude, calm down. It’s cool man, we can play again tomorrow, and you can be in the front of the line! I promise.”

“No. It’s because you guys hate me. Give me the damn ball!”

Everyone froze. Not only had the situation intensely escalated, this kid just swore. At a Christian elementary school, that did not happen. I was already nervous enough, and now the other kids were starting to whisper and back away. My best friend, Micah, was clearly worried, judging by the way his eyes opened to the size of golf balls and his hands were shaking. We had always stuck close together and relied on one another for help in times of need. He looked at me, briefly, and then went back to staring at Cameron.

“Cameron, why don’t we settle this with the recess monitors?” I pleaded.

“You give me that damn ball, or else…”

With that, he started running my way, clearly on a mission for more than just a playground ball. I chucked the rubbery play-thing at him and ran up the hilly parking lot, trying to reach the top where I knew I could find a recess monitor. But he was already expecting it.

After throwing the ball aside, Cameron darted after me, overtaking me with his long strides and determined steps. He shoved me up against a nearby minivan, and stretched back his arm as if he was about to punch me. I didn’t know what to do; I was a lover, not a fighter, even if I was only 11 years old. But I was not about to get beat up over a stupid game when I was the one trying to be friendly in the first place! So I punched him. Right in the gut.

“Oof,” Cameron let out a gasp of air. In his infuriation, his fists clenched and he blindly flailed about, as if a group of bees were swarming near his head. I ducked under his throws and waited until he gathered himself and actually tried to swing, then I struck him in the arm. His left arm. Not many kids were left-handed in our grade, what with it being a class of 25, so everyone knew the two “lefties.” Cameron was one of them, and I knew that if I could somehow incapacitate his left arm, he would probably stop.

“I hate you!” He screamed in retaliation, clutching his arm and sobbing a river into our campus geography. Clearly, his steam was starting to fade, and it seemed he was getting too tired to continue. I tried to reach out and grab his shoulder, and right as I was saying “Dude, let’s stop thi—” he socked me in the chest, hard. At the time I didn’t know what happened, but I now realize I had the wind knocked out of me. Thankfully, Micah ran up just in time.

“Leave him alone, jerk!” Micah pushed Cameron to the rough pavement, causing him to scrape his elbows while trying to brace the fall. “Let’s get out of here, Nathan!”

Micah and I ran to the top of the hill and wildly looked around for a recess monitor, finally resting our gazes on an elderly woman over at the playground beyond the parking lot. After sprinting over to her, we told her what happened, and waited for her to bring Cameron over. Seeing that he had calmed down since our fiasco, the recess monitor grabbed us all and marched us—much to our embarrassment—back across the parking lot, right in front of the spectating kids who had been at the foursquare court when the whole thing started. “Move along, children, move along.”

The bewildered grade-schoolers ran off, excitedly re-telling all the events that had transpired not but five minutes ago. On the other hand, Cameron, Micah and I were dragged to the principal’s office, where we were all seated and given a stern talking to. And that was the end of that.
*****

I sat in the bleachers, contemplating whether I should approach him or not. It had been more than five years since we had talked, and that was for a reason. How could I just forget what he did to me; how I felt scared for years afterward to give someone an answer they didn’t want to hear? It took a long time to realize that I wouldn’t be attacked—physically or, more often, emotionally—if I disagreed with someone or told them the sometimes-painful truth. But that’s water under the bridge, now. I’ve learned how to live life without much confrontation; how to avoid conflict with others. It’s time to get this over with.
“Wow, bro! Good game. That was a sick dunk you had late in the fourth quarter dude!”

Cameron embraced me and said “Thanks, man. I appreciate you coming out and seeing the game. Long time no see, huh! What’s it been, like five years?”

“Yea, something like that,” I smiled. “So what’ve you guys been up to since I left? Nothing, good, I presume?”

He smirked and said, “You know it, man! Hey, this might sound a little weird, but just the other day I was thinking about that one time, you know, in fourth grade, when we got in a fight? I don’t even remember what it was about, it’s been so long!”

“Yea, me neither,” I lied. “It doesn’t really matter anyway.”