There’s more to the picture
Than meets the eye
Neil Young – Hey Hey, My My

The book of history had already turned the page on what once was a noble discipline. Can you imagine two guys fistfighting in the middle of the street, or campus: the headlines in the papers, on local and even national TV, on Yahoo, going viral over YouTube and Facebook, with ‘experts’ discussing the seriousness of the event and its political consequences in an election year. Police would probably shoot first then ask questions, claiming an assault with deadly weapon, a fist. Parents would publicly apologize, trying to avoid lawsuits and insurance claims, passerby would write a book or two about the event, and fifteen minutes later all will be forgotten. Most people are brain-dead, so they need electroshocks of this kind in order not to slip into a coma.
Yet, it was an honorable thing to do, once. I was a five-year-old when sent for a loaf of bread, some two hundred yards down the street. The very first time I took upon this adventure, barbarians were there: five of them, playing soccer in front of the gates of Navip, the biggest liquor and wine producer in Yugoslavia. They showered me with names, curses, but I kept on going – intimidated, pissed, but not scared. Then they blocked the way, interrupting my mission; so I stopped. Now what? After massaging me verbally, they left me go. Same thing of my way back: now they reached for my bread. A rush of fear shook my body as I hit the closest boy and broke his nose. He ran away weeping, others followed; I stormed home, pressing bread stained with blood. I felt free and frightened. Few days later I went again. The pressure of the unknown boiled inside: I couldn’t wait to get over with it. They looked at me, I looked at them, no one said a word.
I was plain lucky. Had I blinked, bent, or simply chickened out, my soul would’ve been impregnated for life with anxiety and subtle inferiority complex – with the shadow of self-doubt. I was fortunate my genes didn’t budge: they just drew their first line in the sand of time, circling my freedom and letting integrity fill the space. Every youngster has his or her Vietnam – I survived mine.
Since I had VIP treatment at the entrance, they got me at the exit: I developed a soft spot for the less favored, and kept on fighting their battles after they capitulated. Those were raw times, with bullies blossoming on every corner, in every schoolyard. They were victims of different Gods, of abusive parents frustrated with their own failures, of misplaced genes, or God knows what. I had no natural desire, nor any thoughts of being a white knight – I just had an allergic reaction to the acts of those bastards; I couldn’t help it.
Luckily, bullies don’t flock, so I dealt with them on one-on-one basis, where I had a slight advantage: first, I was on a mission to stop them, second, I hated them, and lastly, I was more experienced in tough fights. Now, that’s all freaking theory: when you stand in front of a scumbag who’s mean, stinks, and twice your weight, then you quickly realize where the hypothesis stops, and you begin to sweat. By that time your challenge reverberates in the air, and you can’t suck it back into your lungs: you’re exposed, skinless in the open. And the clock is ticking.
Ultimately they had enough of me and my righteousness, and called for a guy with notorious reputation and strong track record, one fight short of a legend, nicknamed Hitter. I had never crossed paths with him since he lived in the outskirts of Belgrade, but was well aware of his reputation. The moment I saw him across the street from my highschool, I knew I was in for a challenge: he wasn’t huge, tall, or anything like it; more of a regular looking fella, but stone-calm. It suddenly dawned on me: this wasn’t a bully at all, rather a pro street fighter; if that existed.
Crossing the street, pretty narrow, barely let me calm down the rush of mixed emotions. Hitter put me on the spot right away: ‘I heard you threatened to beat me up.’ That was not what I said to his protegé, a stinky bully, but I did say I’d beat him up, or anybody else, if they touch again a buddy of mine. In the meanwhile, half of the highschool boys came across the street to see the show. ‘Not exactly’, I declared, risking to sound defensive and cowardly, growing more frustrated with his slimy allegation, ‘but I will if you ever touch this guy.’ I pointed at Alex Stankovic, standing next to me. Hitter didn’t see it coming, a tiny shadow crossed his stare. ‘Listen, fucker, do you see what I’ve got here?’ He had a thick metal bar bulging inside the cheap vinyl suitcase of his. For a brief moment, I simply didn’t know where I stood: the signs of my progress seemed to be iffy at best, delusional at worst. Plus, Hitter never raised his voice – a gloomy prospect.
At that point of my fighting career he was not in my league, I don’t think anybody was: a decade packed with daily mental and physical challenges, and a noble reason behind it, made me feel invincible, almost arrogant. ‘I don’t care, Hitter, why would I.’ I could see his cool shaken, as he had enough of me already. ‘What if I pull it out…?’ His voice growled, his eyes riveted on me. I knew I got him, and turned up the heat: ‘You won’t be able to pull it out, Hitter.’
His heart snapped, his eyes moved sideways as he acknowledged defeat: ‘Why are we arguing about these suckers, anyway. They don’t deserve our attention, don’t you agree.’ I agreed wholeheartedly, and we parted ways as new-found friends.
In between these two face-offs stretched a long bildungsroman, an actuality that kept on swinging at me, kept threatening me, rooting for my defeat. As I pushed through the first blood and swallowed the first fear, there was an initial capital to work with, a dividend paying investment. I was exposed as a celebrity of a wrong kind, grew my first skin, shrugged off their stares, but I had never reached the whistling phase: the pressure was there around the clock, the standard was set too high for my taste.
Well, as Churchill said it, the chain of destiny can only be grasped one link at a time.