A Near Folly of Youth
When I was doing my year abroad at UCC I was just twenty or twenty-one and I was becoming more confident in myself. Physically I was strong and I felt the vigor of youth. I was a very active member of the boxing club. To people who had not known me before, my actions, as well as prejudices about Americans, defined me. I had the opportunity to rewrite myself. I was far more outgoing with the college girls than I was in the States, and was shocked to find my familiarity reciprocated. I was more apt to take stances where I hadn’t in the past. I had more of the luxury of acting out of principle than ever, as well.
I had a pretty, young girlfriend with whom I was quite enamored. We both considered our relationship to be a dramatic event more than a comfortable and rewarding condition. I think everyone should have at least one such relationship in his or her life so at least a smile might cross their lips in the fleeting moments on the way to the grave. My girlfriend was not frail, but neither was she a vigorous Amazon; she lived in her head rather than in her body and was a skilled artist and an accomplished linguist, even at her young age. I valued her and cherished her, and I believe that her lack of physicality, among other things, evoked in me a protective, almost paternal, attitude.
One day we went for a pint with two of the guys I lived with, the American and the Northerner. We were all friends and we all got along famously, it was not at all out of the ordinary for all of us to while away an afternoon or evening. On this particular day we decided to go to a pub called the Loch. It was set on a pond a fair walk from our house. The pond had a swing set and a small park where families would bring their children to swing and to feed the ducks. Once in a while you could see a swan. It was a nice place. The pub was nice on the inside, but its draw was that there were tables outside, and on the nice, long summer nights you could take your pints by the “loch” and watch the fowl parade by. That is exactly what we were doing.
The four of us sat around a picnic table under a tree and discussed politics, literature, economics, and culture, and nursed our stouts so as to afford a full evening out. I was immersed in our accelerated conversation, engaged in the mental gymnastics of timing glib comments and dispatching ever worsening puns. There was quite a crowd ringing the loch, and the level of noise was high for the outdoors, but I had shut out all the rock-skipping children and impaired college kids. Our conversation met an expectant pause and the two guys said that they had to excuse themselves to the bogs. I also rose, as it was my turn to fetch the pints, and we left my girlfriend sitting outside alone.
Anyone who has been to an Irish beer garden on a summer Friday night could tell you that getting three pints of stout and a shandy is no easy task. It could be likened to trying to walk from one end of a Tokyo subway to the other, at rush hour, and then back while balancing a spinning plate on your chin. I was still insinuating myself into the crowd when I saw my girlfriend coming through the door carrying all of our coats. I caught her eye and beckoned her over, asking what was happening. She said that it had gotten a bit cold, and that she thought it might be nicer to come inside and sit by the fire for a while. She looked upset, and I asked her what had upset her. She told me that there were some boys at the next table saying some things, but that it was not worth making a fuss about. She told me to get the pints and to join her at a table that she indicated by pointing her chin, saying that it would be the best table in the place when darkness fell. I agreed and told her not to be upset, and she said that she wasn’t. I saw her walk to the table and meet our friends as they came out of the bathroom. There was a short discussion and they looked at me and I nodded. They all proceeded to the table and sat down.
As they all were in the process of settling in I took the opportunity of their distraction to slip back out the front door. I was young, as I said, and hadn’t yet completely figured out which offenses were worthy of true indignation. I walked to the table we had occupied and saw the group of young men to whom she had referred. There were six of them sitting at an adjacent table, all clearly in a heightened state of jocularity and camaraderie brought on by a powerful mix of alcohol and testosterone. They were cat-calling a couple of girls walking by as I approached.
They were at a picnic table, three on each side, and I approached from the foot of the table, if the head were pointed toward the loch. As I got nearer two of the guys pointed out my presence to the obvious ringleader, who sat at the head of the table. He took their comments and looked over at me, and in that split second that followed I learned something about myself that I would rather not have known.
There were six guys, three on each side, and I assumed that they were all right handed. If I were to fight them all I would have to take advantage of the fact that most of them were seated while I was standing. I could use my mobility to approach them on their weak side and use what martial arts I knew to incapacitate three. Then I could go over the table, assuming that the other three would have gone around it on either side, forcing them to come back around the table to confront me. This would afford me the opportunity to choose a side to advance on, and meet, and it would naturally be the side with one, rather than two, of the remaining combatants. That would buy me three seconds alone with the one before the two would factor into the melee. I felt that at that point the situation would have degraded to me facing two, standing, and that I could have taken any two of them in an even match. The thing that I would rather not have known about myself is that I was willing to do it. In order to take a man out of a fight completely you had to put him in so much pain or shock that he could not function, or to knock him completely unconscious. I knew doing that would involve eyes, throats, collar bones, and jaws, and I was unfazed. I had made the conscious decision to impair any or all of these guys, perhaps permanently, and to take any similar punishment they might be able to mete out against me. When I think back now on what drove me into that atavistic, reptilian corner of my brain I realize that it had very little to do with the girl and everything to do with my pride, and my assertion of my place in the tribe.
“Were you just out here with that girl?” he asked.
“You know I was,” I replied, “What did you say to her? Couldn’t you see she was with me?”
The ringleader was the only one speaking. He wasn’t particularly combative. He seemed confused.
“Did you come out here alone, to six men, because she was put off by what we said? My God, that’s fucking brilliant. Really, we didn’t say anything bad, just joking around a bit. If she was put off then we apologize, but you’ve got some nerve, I’ve got to tell you.”
I didn’t know what to do. I was tensed, on the balls of my feet and ready to pounce on these interlopers and to vent fury. And now it wasn’t necessary. The world came back into focus. I was completely disarmed and at a loss.
“As long as we understand each other,” I mumbled, and shuffled back into the pub, both relieved and disappointed at the same time.
As I came through the door I saw my girlfriend at the table by the fire with the Northerner. The look on her face as she saw me could be described as nothing but adulation, so ill-deserved and so misplaced. My American friend returned from looking for me and we rounded out the night. In retrospect, I am grateful for having had the opportunity to learn my lesson without having to deliver or receive a serious drubbing.
I had a pretty, young girlfriend with whom I was quite enamored. We both considered our relationship to be a dramatic event more than a comfortable and rewarding condition. I think everyone should have at least one such relationship in his or her life so at least a smile might cross their lips in the fleeting moments on the way to the grave. My girlfriend was not frail, but neither was she a vigorous Amazon; she lived in her head rather than in her body and was a skilled artist and an accomplished linguist, even at her young age. I valued her and cherished her, and I believe that her lack of physicality, among other things, evoked in me a protective, almost paternal, attitude.
One day we went for a pint with two of the guys I lived with, the American and the Northerner. We were all friends and we all got along famously, it was not at all out of the ordinary for all of us to while away an afternoon or evening. On this particular day we decided to go to a pub called the Loch. It was set on a pond a fair walk from our house. The pond had a swing set and a small park where families would bring their children to swing and to feed the ducks. Once in a while you could see a swan. It was a nice place. The pub was nice on the inside, but its draw was that there were tables outside, and on the nice, long summer nights you could take your pints by the “loch” and watch the fowl parade by. That is exactly what we were doing.
The four of us sat around a picnic table under a tree and discussed politics, literature, economics, and culture, and nursed our stouts so as to afford a full evening out. I was immersed in our accelerated conversation, engaged in the mental gymnastics of timing glib comments and dispatching ever worsening puns. There was quite a crowd ringing the loch, and the level of noise was high for the outdoors, but I had shut out all the rock-skipping children and impaired college kids. Our conversation met an expectant pause and the two guys said that they had to excuse themselves to the bogs. I also rose, as it was my turn to fetch the pints, and we left my girlfriend sitting outside alone.
Anyone who has been to an Irish beer garden on a summer Friday night could tell you that getting three pints of stout and a shandy is no easy task. It could be likened to trying to walk from one end of a Tokyo subway to the other, at rush hour, and then back while balancing a spinning plate on your chin. I was still insinuating myself into the crowd when I saw my girlfriend coming through the door carrying all of our coats. I caught her eye and beckoned her over, asking what was happening. She said that it had gotten a bit cold, and that she thought it might be nicer to come inside and sit by the fire for a while. She looked upset, and I asked her what had upset her. She told me that there were some boys at the next table saying some things, but that it was not worth making a fuss about. She told me to get the pints and to join her at a table that she indicated by pointing her chin, saying that it would be the best table in the place when darkness fell. I agreed and told her not to be upset, and she said that she wasn’t. I saw her walk to the table and meet our friends as they came out of the bathroom. There was a short discussion and they looked at me and I nodded. They all proceeded to the table and sat down.
As they all were in the process of settling in I took the opportunity of their distraction to slip back out the front door. I was young, as I said, and hadn’t yet completely figured out which offenses were worthy of true indignation. I walked to the table we had occupied and saw the group of young men to whom she had referred. There were six of them sitting at an adjacent table, all clearly in a heightened state of jocularity and camaraderie brought on by a powerful mix of alcohol and testosterone. They were cat-calling a couple of girls walking by as I approached.
They were at a picnic table, three on each side, and I approached from the foot of the table, if the head were pointed toward the loch. As I got nearer two of the guys pointed out my presence to the obvious ringleader, who sat at the head of the table. He took their comments and looked over at me, and in that split second that followed I learned something about myself that I would rather not have known.
There were six guys, three on each side, and I assumed that they were all right handed. If I were to fight them all I would have to take advantage of the fact that most of them were seated while I was standing. I could use my mobility to approach them on their weak side and use what martial arts I knew to incapacitate three. Then I could go over the table, assuming that the other three would have gone around it on either side, forcing them to come back around the table to confront me. This would afford me the opportunity to choose a side to advance on, and meet, and it would naturally be the side with one, rather than two, of the remaining combatants. That would buy me three seconds alone with the one before the two would factor into the melee. I felt that at that point the situation would have degraded to me facing two, standing, and that I could have taken any two of them in an even match. The thing that I would rather not have known about myself is that I was willing to do it. In order to take a man out of a fight completely you had to put him in so much pain or shock that he could not function, or to knock him completely unconscious. I knew doing that would involve eyes, throats, collar bones, and jaws, and I was unfazed. I had made the conscious decision to impair any or all of these guys, perhaps permanently, and to take any similar punishment they might be able to mete out against me. When I think back now on what drove me into that atavistic, reptilian corner of my brain I realize that it had very little to do with the girl and everything to do with my pride, and my assertion of my place in the tribe.
“Were you just out here with that girl?” he asked.
“You know I was,” I replied, “What did you say to her? Couldn’t you see she was with me?”
The ringleader was the only one speaking. He wasn’t particularly combative. He seemed confused.
“Did you come out here alone, to six men, because she was put off by what we said? My God, that’s fucking brilliant. Really, we didn’t say anything bad, just joking around a bit. If she was put off then we apologize, but you’ve got some nerve, I’ve got to tell you.”
I didn’t know what to do. I was tensed, on the balls of my feet and ready to pounce on these interlopers and to vent fury. And now it wasn’t necessary. The world came back into focus. I was completely disarmed and at a loss.
“As long as we understand each other,” I mumbled, and shuffled back into the pub, both relieved and disappointed at the same time.
As I came through the door I saw my girlfriend at the table by the fire with the Northerner. The look on her face as she saw me could be described as nothing but adulation, so ill-deserved and so misplaced. My American friend returned from looking for me and we rounded out the night. In retrospect, I am grateful for having had the opportunity to learn my lesson without having to deliver or receive a serious drubbing.
posted by Traveler at 12:44 PM
2 Comments:
Bravery is not the central point of this story, but it plays a role in it. For me, it is one of the few qualities in life which brings up powerful emotions, literally capable of bringing me to tears. I have vivid memories of my father standing up to groups of men because, in his mind, it was the right thing to do. Each time he managed to pull it off without allowing for the possibility of failure. I was scared to death when he did it, and maybe even a bit embarassed. Still, I dreamt of being like that. Twice in my life I have come close, and however mildly I may have done it, I was proud to have been like him for just a minute.
Thank you for sharing. It was brave of you.
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