Day 157: The Fight Club of Zachy Colston

I’ve never been in an actual fight. A girl in second grade said that she wanted to fight me on the playground. I think it was for no other reason than to show me and herself that she could take down a boy if she wanted to. (I was small). I told her no. She was persistent. She sought me out during recess to “fight.” Neither of us knew how to start a fight. I think she started pushing me. All I wanted to do is to get away from her. Or her away from me. I was just annoyed at this point. I figured the easiest way to show her that I was dominant and get her away was to swing her away. So I held onto her arm, swung her around in a circle, and let go. My hope was that she would fall back onto the grass, realize her blunder and leave me alone, but she ended up falling on the edge of the wooden jungle gym. She started crying. The “recess lady” rushed over to help her, along with a few other students. I felt like a fool. Luckily, the girl told everyone that she started the “fight”, so I didn’t get in trouble.

Later that year, some boys were playing kick ball in the same wide area of the playground. I happened to be walking by when a medium sized red ball came to a rolling stop in front of me. For no other reason than my brain had not developed any long-term repercussion skills, I saw a red ball and decided to kick it. Unfortunately, I kicked the ball being used by a much larger 4th grader, whose family had a history of anger issues (his brother was in my grade). Think of the O’Doyles in Billy Madison. This was the high school brother. He blotted out the sun as I looked up at his disgusted face. He looked at me, looked at the ball as it sailed away across the playground, looked back at me, and decided that I needed to suffer some consequences. He picked me up like Andre the Giant, held me over his head with two hands, spun around a couple times, and threw me to the ground. My wind was immediately knocked out of me and my lip started bleeding. I was lucky he didn’t kick me a couple times for good measure.

In high school, I joined the wrestling team because the other boys said that I would barely have to wrestle because I was in the lightest weight class. I weighed 86 pounds as a freshman. I actually had to put on extra layers of clothes when I weighed in before a competition. They were right though; I didn’t have to wrestle much. But when I did have to wrestle a stranger I lost. The only time I won was when the other team didn’t have a wrestler in that weight class. Happy days! The closest I ever came to legitimately winning was against a girl. I was doing great the whole match with takedowns, escapes, etc. I was ahead in points and just had to last till the bell. But towards the end of the match, she pinned me. In hindsight, I hope I built her self-esteem a few notches. Because mine was shot.

In my fighting career, I have been better at breaking up potential fights than actually helping out with any. At a birthday party in the boonies of Chesaning, I talked a kid down from getting his ass kicked by a group of other kids that didn’t want him at the birthday party. They were teenagers, but kids to me. I was 19. It was one of the weirdest and proudest moments of my life: listening to a drunk, shirtless, kid rant and rave about his “friends” while pacing a dirt road at one in the morning. He made-up with the birthday boy and went home without a fuss.

As a bartender, I don’t know how many actual fights that I helped prevent, or avoided because I was the gatekeeper to alcohol. One time, I contacted all the other bars in town about a group of people that were doing a bar crawl. They were extremely drunk and obnoxious, swearing loudly in the middle of our dining room at four in the afternoon while families were trying to have a snack. They saw me leave one of the bars in the street and decided to confront me. The man, shirtless again and looked like he was doing shots of steroids in between beers, ran up to me and proceeded to tell me how I ruined their vacation while pointing a finger in my face, threatening to beat the living shit out of me. He easily could have killed me with one hand. Luckily, his brother, a much skinner and mild tempered man decided to intervene and talk some sense into the whole conversation. That was his logic. His plan was to convince me to revoke my statements about how their group should not be served in our sister-bar. While we conducted our conversation in which I listened and then repeatedly told him no, his girlfriend started to bawl like a child in the middle of the street and reiterate how I ruined their vacation. Then the boyfriend/brother figured out that he wasn’t going to change my mind and told me that he should have let his brother kick my ass. I shrugged.

Besides having fights with invisible enemies on a trampoline, along with mild scruffles with friends, I have never been in a real fight. I am slightly disappointed and almost want to start my own Fight Club like Tyler Durden. How much can I know about myself if I’ve never been in a fight? It’ll all be for fun anyway. There’s nothing else to do in this pandemic. Plus, we will be training for when the real shit hits the fan. Who’s with me?!

Just kidding. I’d probably break a bone anyway.

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Author's Note #1: We could start a chess club instead.

Author's Note #2: Ooo! Or a Settlers of Catan club!

Author's Note #3: I'm a nerd.

Author's Note #4: Damn it.