My wife and I were on an eastbound train. We had been skating at an outdoor rink near our downtown apartment. We were on our way to the suburbs, to ring in the New Year with my in-laws, when a man—a big, thick guy in his early twenties—decided to pick a fight with me. He was loud and obnoxious and extremely drunk, and he was showing off in front of his two friends by prying open the sliding doors of the subway car and sticking his head out into the tunnel. I got up because he was dangerously close to dashing his brains out on the concrete pillars whizzing past his head.
Before that fateful Saturday night I had come off worse in a few spats in playground and park but this was something else. I played it over in my head a few times, coaxing a Boys fist men bolus of endorphins from my adrenal glands. These urges are crude and unacceptable. Boys fist men he was a martial artist. Violence is always ugly, brutal and senseless. I can feel my jaw Bots. He was completely self-contained.
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My wife and I were on an eastbound train. We had been skating at an outdoor rink near our downtown apartment. We were on our way to the suburbs, to ring in the New Year with my in-laws, when a man—a big, thick guy in his early twenties—decided to pick a fight with me. He was loud and obnoxious and extremely drunk, and he was showing off in front of his two friends by prying open the sliding doors of the subway car and sticking his head out into the tunnel.
I got up because he was dangerously close to dashing his brains out on the concrete pillars whizzing past his head. I told him to sit down. He exploded and challenged me to a fight. The long and the short of it is that, after he yelled at me, after he threw a bottle at me, spat on me, and then, finally, threatened to hit my wife, I stood up again and head-butted him in the face.
A brawl erupted, and at least a dozen other men jumped in and tried to pull us apart. The police came. They arrested the guy and took my statement. The police gave me a subtle nod of approval for defending myself, even as they pointed out the obvious risks. One of the cops took my statement. Directly after the fight, while I was still a little stunned, a man came up to me.
He was short and slight and wearing a well-cut suit. I apologized for ruining his night. This is generally the reaction I get. It makes me feel like a stand-up guy. I hate crowds, and Bloor station is a downright zoo. I have to push through people to get anywhere. My skates bang against my shin. We take the escalator down to the platform. It stinks. It irks me that no one has the guts to say anything, that an entire crowd of onlookers can stand by without intervening.
For a moment, I consider grabbing the kid by his jacket, pulling the can out of his pocket, and spraying his chest. I let it go.
This pisses me off further. On the train, I rant to Lyana, my wife, about the bovine complacency of crowds. I bring up the case of Kitty Genovese, the New York woman murdered in the s in front of thirtysome witnesses, none of whom intervened. He bellows like a one-man argument, all fucks and shits and bitches. It sets me further on edge.
I can feel my jaw clenching. The train lurches from stop to stop. Everyone on board has given up trying to hold their own conversations. I turn around to get a look at him. A big white kid in baggy pants and an oversized hoodie. He saunters over to a set of sliding doors and tries prying them open. He jams his fingers into the rubber seal and cracks the doors a few inches. I have a brief vision of his headless body falling back into the car.
Worse things have happened. The guy pulls his head back into the car. His friends look uneasy. One of them tells him to chill. He interprets this as a challenge. This time, he pries them apart, his back arched, chest out like Superman pulling apart prison bars. The effervescent cheer of the holiday crowd has gone flat, replaced by a nervous hush. This guy needs a talking-to. People all around me are scared, nervous. They feel threatened. Not me. A predatory hard-on. I want him on his knees. My face feels tense.
He looks up, genuinely surprised. He sizes me up and then cocks his head. His breath is hot. Time opens up like an accordion. I smell the sour tang of Gatorade and alcohol on his breath. His friends hear this and tell him to take a seat.
My ability to make sense of language is drowned in the thrum of my own pulse. The wave has crashed. Any coherent thoughts have been dashed apart. Everything is about feeling now. Waiting for a flinch or a lunge. But nothing. My inner voice returns. I walk back to my seat. The train has stopped. Someone has pushed the yellow emergency strip. The police will be here in a moment. Or the transit authority. I want to see you make me sit down. I sit down next to Lyana.
Too close to Lyana. The wave is welling up again. I look at my feet. He throws his Gatorade bottle at me. It misses and bounces off a post, spraying me. A sprite-like South Asian man in a transit uniform appears, deus ex machina , from behind the guy.
The transit man is unbelievably small next to this guy. I want this guy to make me leave! Transit man has managed to coax the guy onto the platform. The doors of the subway car are still open. They stay like this in an emergency. The transit man is blocking the nearest exit, but the guy walks down the platform and re-enters the car through another set of doors. His fist is raised over his head. He is way the fuck too close to Lyana. Throw a fucking punch. Otherwise, sit the fuck down.
I can feel the heat coming off him. The tiny transit man is behind him again. The wave crashes. Everything is suddenly clear and simple. The solution is obvious. I bring my forehead down like a hammer. I aim for the bridge of his nose, but evidently he turns his head. I see stars—literally, cartoon stars. I bob, ducking low, my chin tucked, fists up, protecting my head.
Then I realize there are people all around us, pulling us apart.
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How to be a man. Losing a punch-up is worse than being dumped or getting sacked - and winning one isn't much better either. But even pacifists can't avoid a fist fight forever. I took my first real beating when I was 16 years old. Before that fateful Saturday night I had come off worse in a few spats in playground and park but this was something else.
This was my first close encounter with violence. This was a good hiding. This was one of those undeniable, unmanning defeats where I was flat on my back and being pummelled in the face, and it did not end until someone dragged off the youth kneeling on my chest.
The violence was short, ugly and vicious - just like my opponent - and it seemed to explode out of nowhere. There was a woman involved - no, she was a girl, loving all the attention - and some hearsay, and wounded pride, and alcohol.
It wasn't much of a fight. They rarely are. When it all kicks off, what usually happens is that someone wins emphatically and immediately. But it is hard to beat someone up. Adrenaline exhausts you much faster than mere physical exertion ever could. Your fragile hands connect with hard bone and sharp teeth. Your spiked blood pressure means your punches are thrown wildly and sometimes completely miss their target. And even if you are winning - even if you are the one kneeling on someone's chest, even if you are dishing violence out rather than sucking it up - there's always the fear of what might happen to you if things go too far.
But if it is hard to win a fight, then try losing. You never understand how sickening violence is until you have been on its receiving end. I got up off the ground with what were superficial injuries. A black eye and some scuffed skin.
My Ben Sherman shirt had lost a few buttons. I had kept my front teeth. Beyond any physical injury, losing that first fight was humiliating. It was crushing. It was worse than being left by any woman.
It was worse than being sacked from any job. It took away my sense of self-worth and left it out for the bin men. When I got home, my mum wept at the state of me. But my father - a man with a PhD in violence, a scarred old soldier, a heavily decorated killer - just stared at me. And before my father turned his attention back to Match Of The Day , he uttered the truth that every man and boy must learn about violence. You would think that men would grow out of this stuff. You might reasonably hope that there would come a time in our lives when we put all violence behind us.
Scrapping over some mousey girl at some dismal party - it sounds as appealing as acne. You might think that the eternal proposition - how is a man to live in this world?
But violence, you will learn, is always out there. You kid yourself that violence is behind you now - disappearing in your rear-view mirror forever, just like drugs and promiscuity and poverty, one of those youthful phases we eventually shed like dead skin. But violence is always with us. The fight-or-flight response doesn't go away just because your hair has a smattering of grey. As growing boys and young men, the threat of violence is as all pervading as the weather.
The threat is there at the school gates and over the park, and later it is there in parties and clubs and pubs. But you grow up. You stop chasing every passing girl and start loving one woman. You are suddenly deadly serious about your career. And then - the greatest change of all - you become a father. And once you become a father, you have someone in your life that you are ready to die for.
I was recently driving with my daughter, who is 14, when one of the global rich who are buying up our neighbourhood nearly ran us off the road in his shiny new black Mercedes.
I exploded. And if the driver who nearly hurt my daughter and I had said one word to me then I would have knocked his head into the back seat.
And when it was over, my daughter was looking at me as if she was seeing me for the very first time. It was not a good moment for either of us. But it reminded me that violence is still out there. It can appear at any time. You do not have to go looking for it. Sometimes violence finds you. A real fight is also nothing like the gym. It is nothing like the dojo. Any form of fighting in a controlled environment is nothing remotely like a real fight because there is the assumption of fairness.
Any kind of sparring has a code of honour. Violence is not like that. In sparring, you do not gouge your opponent's eyes or boot him in the testicles. He does not whack you when you are down. In a real fight all of these things happen. You don't get multiple assailants in a nice karate class. Violence isn't fair. There is great value in doing any kind of combat sport - they keep you fit and remove your terror of getting hit - but they can never replicate real violence.
They can't even prepare you for it. But if someone tries to crack your skull in a bar, then he is inevitably some random stranger who hates your guts.
You can do martial arts for years without ever becoming a martial artist. I did kung fu but I was never a martial artist.
But my teacher was a martial artist in his blood and bones. I once watched him walking down the street towards some little gang. He was neither afraid nor aggressive. He was completely self-contained. And I watched as that little gang parted to let him pass, without, I suspect, even knowing that they were doing it.
But he was a martial artist. There are two types of men who find themselves drawn to combat sports. There are the wild boys who want to learn to fight because it harnesses some inner demons and there are those who have been bullied, often all the way to the hospital. My kung fu teacher was the latter - he had taken up martial arts in the first place because he had been brutally picked on as a teenager. He was a gentle-natured, quiet man who could kick me from one side of a room to the other.
And once, after getting into a fight with a passing creep who had insulted my girlfriend, I sought his advice about what I should have done differently. But what if you are not man enough to walk away? Violence can appear at any time. Hard men - true hard men - always say that violence is never worth the price you have to pay.
Because the consequences of violence are unknowable. This is the best reason to avoid violence. If it kicks off, you could lose your front teeth or your job or your life.
You could end up in hospital or prison. This is all serious, life-warping stuff. The chances are you will have no idea about your opponent's strengths. And, whatever happens, there will be nothing remotely reasonable about it. Every fight risks you killing someone or putting them in a coma - or having the same done to you. Even if you win - even if you emerge without a scratch - nothing good is going to come out of it.
And if violence happens in the work environment - as it did with me in my first job - then your career risks coming to a stop before it has begun. In my first job as a journalist, I had a fight in the office, some six years after I took that beating.
This time I was at the other end of the violence. In some ways, it was worse. My editor would have been within his rights to kick me out.