Brawling

A disclaimer right off the top: this month's column is rated R, or maybe PG-13, for graphic depictions of violence. And I doubt it will have any appeal to my female readers (who am I kidding?), or anyone else who claims to have subverted their animal urges for more civilized modes of behavior.

When you're growing up male, you have to confront the topic of brawling. This is an issue that crosses socio-economic boundaries -- city, suburbs, or rural heartland, boys fight. I'm not saying everyone has to give in and become a thug. There are higher roads to be taken. Many learn to avoid scuffle-promoting situations. Some earn such respect from their peers that no one would dare mess with them. A few truly bright ones practice passive resistance, giving their tormentors no satisfaction in administering a beating. But all of them, even those that never throw a punch or elbow a kid in the clinch, approach the issue and make a choice. The vast majority of modern American boys choose, at some time, to fight.

In today's frighteningly violent school climate, it may seem insensitive to approach brawling as a street sport. But the timelessness and universality of this phenomenon lead me to believe that we're dealing with a sociological construct here. Maybe I'm living in a fuzzy dream-version of boyhood where no one got anything worse than a black eye, but I think playground fights and scuffles illustrate a variety of truths about growing up and the place of sport.

I'll identify four varieties of fighting for analysis as manifestations of street sport:

1. Play-Wrestling: This is usually played with your smaller siblings, your close buddies, even your Dad. The goal here is to administer the most creative and surprising move on your opponent, rendering them helpless and embarrassed under your pin. The game is over when someone is accidentally kneed in the nose.

2. Dogpile: Every boy grew up with a version of this. With my friends, if one of us spotted a penny, everyone was bound to fight for that penny, no holds barred, until someone had it in their pocket. You couldn't pick it up and run, you had to handle what your compadres dished out until you had the copper. Respect was gained and lost in this manner. Other kids, less creative than my milieu, would just yell "Dogpile" and cream whoever ended up on the bottom.

3. Friend Fights: These were mercurial, unpredictable affairs. Some small issue, maybe a miscommunication, would lead to two guys who were usually chummy duking it out. This looked like a real fight, but no one ever got seriously hurt. The fight could end as soon as one of the combatants realized they were getting shamed. It might take as little as an hour for the two to make up.

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