A small trickle of blood ran down the side of Robby's face; a second later and another bare-knuckled punch also left its’ mark. This was not a professional boxing match; this was an inner-city street corner and a group of kids had crowded around to watch what appeared to be a helpless 14-year-old boy lying on the ground getting badly beaten by a young man who is older and much stronger. However, Robby was the one who had started the fight (as usual) and he was far from helpless. While fighting is a common occurrence for Robby, it’s not often that he is the one knocked down and getting bloodied.
Most people mistakenly believe that the person who is strongest and can inflict the most pain wins the fight. But more often than not, it is the person with the most stamina and who can endure the most pain that ultimately wins. And Robby excelled at both. Whenever he finds himself in a difficult fight, Robby has the ability to put himself into a trance-like state, so that he doesn't feel the pain. While pinned to the ground, lying on his back, he analyzes his opponent's every move. Are the punches coming stronger from the right or the left? Does his opponent seem to favor or protect any one part of his body more than another? Are there signs of fatigue? Or maybe overconfident, thinking that Robby had no fight left in him. These are all weaknesses that can be exploited by a seasoned fighter, and despite his young age, Robby is seasoned.
As the fight continued, Robby carefully calculated his options and waited for the right moment. Another fist started coming down, and this time Robby smiled. He turned and shifted just enough so that the blow landed on the side of his head. He knows that the human skull is harder than the hand, and while not pleasant for Robby, it was actually more painful to the person throwing the punch. There was a slight pop and cracking sound, which Robby knew wasn't from his head, it was from the other guy's hand. His opponent was tired and in pain; this was the opportune moment that Robby had been waiting for.
The transformation was remarkable. Robby is lying on his back, with no expression on his face. His breathing had slowed down and took on a focused rhythm. He grabbed his opponent’s forearm and pulled down hard, which slammed the already swollen hand into the sidewalk. The resulting screams indicated that the hand was definitely broken. But that was just the beginning of the punishment that Robby had in mind. The roles were reversed, with Robby in charge, and he doesn’t believe in showing any mercy. Earlier in the fight, he had noticed his opponent protecting his right side, maybe due to a previous injury. So, Robby made certain that he punched hard on the right side, over and over again. Breaking a few ribs is a sure way to take the fight out of someone. And it was not long before no sounds or movement came from his opponent, who was sprawled on the sidewalk unconscious. But Robby didn’t stop right away, he continued to hit again and again. Only stopping when he was satisfied that he would be the only one walking away.
Those in the crowd who were from the neighborhood knew to quickly make room and let Robby walk through. They remember a time when someone jumped Robby, just after he had finished a tough fight, thinking that it would be easy to beat him. Unfortunately for them, that way of thinking proved to be wrong. Robby fought even stronger and more viciously during that second fight, which ended with him as the last one standing and using his steel-toed boots to continually kick his attacker. When he was done, he calmly asked who’s next. There were no other challengers.
It was a short walk down the garbage-filled street and around the block to Robby’s decaying apartment building. Once inside the hallway, he started brushing the dirt off his clothes as he climbed up the old worn stairs. At that moment, a figure appeared at the top of the landing. Robby slowly raised his head and looked up the dimly lit staircase to see a familiar image. The light shining down from behind the figure cast a dark and eerie shadow.
“Well, you no good little bastard. Where have you been?”
Robby held his head down as he spoke, “Sorry Dad. Something came up.”
His father was not a tall man, actually, he was shorter than Robby, but he was a large man. Looming at the top of the stairs, the shadowy silhouette looked even more ominous because of the crutches.
“Something came up. Is that your excuse? I don’t give a damn what happened as long as you got my cigarettes.”
Polio is a devastating disease and had taken a toll on the man physically, mentally, and emotionally. Maybe that was his excuse for being an alcoholic, but he was not just a drunk, he was what they call a mean drunk.
“Um, Dad. I um… didn’t get the cigs. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? You’re sorry? Being sorry ain’t gonna get me my smokes.”
Robby continued his climb up to the top of the stairs, accepting the inevitable. His father continued to berate him.
"A good-for-nothing loser, that’s what you are. You can't do anything right. What have you been doing? You’ve been fighting again, haven’t you? Didn't that special school straighten you out?"
The ‘special’ school was really a reformatory school for boys, which is just a polite name for a youth prison, which was situated on an old country farm. The school never really straightened out any of the boys that were sent there. Instead, they left with more anger and hatred than when they arrived. What did anyone expect would happen, when you mix boys who went in for truancy with boys who have committed armed robbery and assault? The school also taught some hard lessons about survival. For example, even though the grounds had minimum security, there was rarely a successful escape. Because the main deterrent was a policy whereby if a boy was trying to run away, other boys were sent out to track him down. And whoever caught the runner would earn a free weekend pass to go home, along with other special perks. The scene was reminiscent of a pack of wolves hunting down their prey, with almost the same fateful conclusion. One of the school hunting parties ended badly when Robby tried to escape and was confronted by a group of boys who cornered him inside a barn. The school covered up the incident, which resulted in a serious injury with one of the boys being stabbed with a pitchfork. From this environment, Robby learned quite a few lessons, none of which would make him a better person.
“So, you want a fight, well I’ll give you a good one!” shouted his father.
Just as Robby reached the top step, he was slammed against the wall. One crutch was pressed hard against his stomach, the other held across his throat. Through all the pain, Robby never said a word or even made a sound; he just stared at his father.
“All this fighting and street hoodlum crap is just a game to you, isn’t it? Well, my boy, we can play our game, can’t we?”
While his father was considered to be disabled, he was far from being weak, and his upper body was amazingly strong. He easily lifted Robby and pushed him into the living room where they stood facing each other. From behind his back, Robby’s father pulled out an old and battered revolver. He opened the cylinder and emptied the rounds onto the floor, except for one that he kept in his hand. He held it up to show Robby, then he slowly and methodically put the round into one of the empty chambers. With a flip of his wrist, the gun snapped closed. As he spun the cylinder of the .38 special, he flashed a sinister grin. He raised the gun and held it straight out. Robby felt the cold steel barrel pressed firmly against the center of his forehead. Silent and showing no sign of emotion, Robby held his ground and stared right back at his father.
As the trigger was slowly pulled, the cylinder turned, and the hammer was drawn back. The sound seemed deafening as the hammer came crashing down but was merely a click since it fell on an empty chamber. Father and son, they both stood motionless not knowing who should move first. Finally, Robby backed away. The circular indentation from the gun barrel was clearly visible on his skin.
Without a word, Robby turned around and slowly walked toward his room. He then stopped to look back at his father who was standing with a crutch under one arm, his other arm outstretched and still holding the gun. His father’s hair was damp, as sweat was dripping down his face; his breathing was heavy and labored and the hand holding the gun started to visibly shake. They stared at each other in silence with the quivering gun still pointed across the room at Robby. In a soft tender voice, Robby spoke, “Don’t worry Dad. Someday we will both get our wish.”
His father did not move nor speak as he held back the tears. Robby closed the door to his room, shut off the light, and went to bed. He welcomed the escape that sleep would bring.