Brothers in Arms - and Fists

I was a pretty lousy brother when I was growing up. Not that local municipalities are dueling at dawn for the right to erect a statue of me as a testament to my excellence at being a brother in my adult years, but when I think back to those days, I realize that, as far as brothers go, Satan himself was probably saying, "Wow, what a lousy kid. Make sure he goes to heaven."

My older brother was slightly less than two years older than me, and if my math is correct, he still is. Dave was a bit of a roughneck, who would go tear-assing through the neighborhood at top speed, without any regard for his safety, and generally came home with the cuts, bruises, and groundings to prove it. Me? I was a shy, skinny kid, who preferred playing with my dinosaurs, reading dictionaries, and eating spiders in the backyard. There was always an uneasy truce between us. Dave was bold and bombastic while I was the sneaky, calculating one. Many a time when something was missing, broken, or on fire, it was Dave who received the punishment, while I would shove my hands into my pockets and whistle lightly as I coasted out of the room. But, you don't look into the mouth of the lion without being mauled once in a while. When my folks were not around, Dave, who was always handy with his fists, would bombard me with a barrage of haymakers until I was a tenderized and soft lump of meat - ready for the grill. On some occasions, I would do something to upset Dave (which didn't take a lot in those days), while we played on the side of the house. Before I knew it, he was launching himself at me, fists drawn back and ready to explode. I knew my window of opportunity was short, so I would let fly a diamond-cracking scream so loud that the dogs in the neighborhood would break into a cacophonous chorus of pain and anguish, followed by the appearance of my mother or father (or both) at the side door to grab Dave in mid-flight and give him a "lesson" on why he shouldn't hit his brother. I had this down to an art form, which only made Dave madder. I could have lived out the rest of my pre-adolescent years in this fashion if not for one mistake.

I went to the well one time too many.

Same scenario: playing baseball or football on the side of the house, Dave getting mad at me for something I may or may not have done, and then, with the roar of a hurricane of pissed-off tigers, he was on top of me, giving me a near-biblical beating. I yelled for my parents while fending off the blows, but, nobody came! I yelled again, and through the blur of fists, saw both my mother and father standing there, just watching me getting smashed like a beer can at a Sturgis bike rally. They figured it was time that I took my beating. I have to admit, they were right.

Oh, the thumpings continued, but with less frequency, if not less ferocity. I finally had enough. I could understand if I was the one who started the trouble - which was most of the time - but when Dave initiated it because I happened to score a touchdown on him or netted a goal against his team, I'd had enough. I'll never forget it. We actually duked it out in our driveway. It wasn't planned, it just manifested itself out of some strange cosmic "understanding" that it had to happen some day and today was that day. Dave was both fast and strong. I was fast and agile. He landed a few punches that sent me reeling, but I wasn't going to cry out this time. I turned it into anger and threw a couple of roundhouses that hit the mark. I think this surprised Dave the most - the fact I was even fighting back. Instead of receiving the grudging respect I thought my wild punches had earned me, I was hammered with a flurry of fists so fast that gravity itself started to bend in towards the oil spot on the driveway - but I wouldn't go down. There were these two skinny metal poles that held up the roof of the driveway, and I was always putting them between Dave and me, so he couldn't take a direct charge. Then, when neither he or I was expecting it, I closed my eyes, and threw a punch so hard that it rocked the heavens. God himself later told me that he had to tell the younger angels that "the humans are bowling downstairs." I connected with some part of Dave's face. I couldn't be sure if it was his nose or his mouth, but I saw blood - and blood always meant one thing to brothers who wanted to beat each other up - the fight was over. Why? Well, because while you wanted to pound your older or younger brother into cube steak, you didn't really want to HURT him. Unless you've had typical sibling fights at that age, you might not know what I'm talking about.

But, something changed that day. The fights stopped. It's not because Dave was afraid of me now - far from it. He knew that I would fight back and there would be no more free lunch, no matter how terrified I was at age 10 of being pummeled by him again. Yet, I never felt threatened by him anymore. We could disagree, argue, even yell at each other and it would never come to fisticuffs again. I had learned a lot from Dave. I became a good defensive fighter and wound up with excellent wrestling skills (though I never went out for any teams), but I earned his respect, and when you are a pre-adolescent with an older brother, all you want is his respect and acceptance. Sometimes, I've wondered if he was waiting for me to punch him all along and then when I did, he was giving me the gift that I had to earn myself. No one was going to earn it for me, and maybe, just maybe, he was glad to have a bloody nose or lip from his little brother.

Today, I have a very good relationship with Dave. It's been through some difficult times, don't get me wrong, but the love and respect we have for each other now is worth all the effort that brought us to where we are today.

Dave, thanks for making me stand up like a man, even when I was still a boy, and teaching me a lesson even you didn't know you were teaching.

But, you have to admit, that was one heck of a punch.