The Innocent Bystander

Occasionally, the world underestimates me. Or maybe I overestimate myself. Whatever! Consider the following event.

Why the three of us spent time together that evening or how we ever broached the following topic or engaged in the following series of events, I cannot fully explain. All I can say is, “this really happened.” At the moment, it felt a bit like watching a valuable vase falling. You watch paralyzed, realizing its fate chiseled in stone long ago. Now nothing can change its future.

It’s late.

It’s a cool Arizona night.

For the moment, all was calm as the three of us sat engaged in small-talk while watching boxing on the only available TV set in the house. It was an unlikely trio to be sharing the same time and the same space. Apparently, this was the best we could do on a Saturday night.

We have my mom, her legs pulled underneath her; all comfy, sitting in her spot drinking an ice tea, no sugar.

At the other end of the couch, we have me.

We have a ‘visitor in the room.’ We will call him ‘visitor.’ I know not why we will call him ‘visitor’, perhaps to protect everyone’s identity, or, in this case, dignity?

Our conversation reflected the events taking place in the 20 by 20 foot boxing ring covered with an inch of padding, held in place by stretched canvas, decorated with splashes of dried blood, we wondered why two grown men choose to spend their Saturday night beating the stuffing out of each other while the audience, including us, appreciated the blows landing on the opponent’s face, kidneys and other unguarded body parts. “Just stay about the belt,” the announcer reminded no one in particular, and quit, “hugging and dancing and get to boxing.”

They pulled the boxing trunks up above the waist and snug, elastic band imprinted with EVERLAST, the letters three inches tall, clearly mark the highest line of demarcation separating above and below the belt.

Of course, mom is not a boxer, but wooden spoon in hand she certainly could leave an impression, and has. Nor was I boxer. My fight record would be underwhelming. But, our ‘visitor’ was a self-proclaimed amateur boxer; and I had no reason to doubt his word.

This side bar offers a touch of relevant information. I was taller by an inch. But, by all appearances, our ‘visitor’ had a boxer’s built - solid. While I had muscle, it wasn’t as clear as our visitors. It was not a part of my genetic code.

“So who is tougher, a boxer or wrestler?” the ‘visitor,’ inquired.

What should have been a clue. I should have disappeared, gone to bed, But…

A “scholarly” conversation now ensued.

Just use your imagination how the conversation progressed and ultimately arrived at. “Have you ever wrestled before?” he asked me.

(macho, macho, macho man… echoed in my head)

I mean, I was taller. And…

“Well, in junior high school PE class, we learned how to grapple a bit,” I answered.

“Let’s box!” he suggested.

Unfortunately, I swallowed the bait.

Replying, “No way! You are a professional boxer. I would never have a chance.”

“No, I am only an amateur boxer.” But…

“Let’s wrestle!” he goads.

I was betting on the fact that mom would step in and announce, “Not in the house.” She did not object. Was that a smirk I spied? I was not sure at this point who she was rooting for. Could she be in a neutral corner, a spectator as the vase continued to fall?

It’s complicated.

“Sure,” said the idiot. Hoping something would happen. Anything, any chance? I have none.

Okay, there are only two positions from which to start, or continue a match. The first is a neutral position, with both wrestlers standing and facing each other. Not enough space. The other is the referee's position, where one wrestler starts on his hands and knees down on the mat, and the other starts on top to the side, behind and in control. Not an impressive look for the underdog.

“I’ll take the down position,” I offered. That way, I was already closer to the floor with less chance of a painful tumble.

The visitor agrees. “It’s your house.”

Mom interjects, “shoes off.” Was that really the only objection she was going to have?

I, down on all fours. He sidles up on my left side. His left hand grabs my left elbow. His right arm wraps around my body, my waist snuggly. Both looking forward, waiting for mom to give the “Go” command.

We are now center stage, waiting. In the house, in the living room, because…? What else does one do on a Saturday night in Tucson?

“GO!”

I have two things going for me. First, he has underestimated my quickness, my cat like speed, and disguised strength.

Follow along…

On all fours, with his right arm around my belly,…

I lift my right arm and before he can move his right arm hook my elbow behind his elbow, locking his arm in placed against my mid section.

Next, I quickly drop my right shoulder, lift on the left side. He is still holding my left elbow, sweep his body and flip him over my back, through the air, directly into the television. His butt destroying my mom’s only source of entertainment. Mother, still on the couch, stunned. Is that disappointment I see? The ‘visitor’ laying on top of the flattened TV clearly stunned, and I, sitting up on my knees pleasantly surprised, the victor.

For several beats, everyone frozen in the moment, speechless.

The television toppled, totaled, and obviously unrepairable.

Not a word articulated, silence… the air now heavy and silent..

Only three witnesses. Oh, I if only someone filmed this action. This occurred long before everyone had a camera in their back pocket.