The Last Time I Got Into A Fist Fight

Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Ritchie Odak. This is the story of the last time I got into a fist fight.

Regulars to this blog know how we like to start – to the back-story!

You know how in the movies people say they go/went to college to find themselves? Well, I did just the opposite: I went to campus to lose myself. Everything I was and believed went out the window; not totally thrown out, but hanging over the ledge in a bag tied to a rope.
For most of the 4 years I was there, I had very few rules - if any.

Think of it like this: in the first season of the TV show The Vampire Diaries one of the premises of the show was that the vampires could "turn off" their humanity (consciences), and just be decadent, submitting to their every carnal desire. My campus years were something similar; though I didn't go around snapping people's necks and drinking their blood, I basically indulged my every fleshly desire and lived a very 'young, wild & free' life.

I just wanted to put that out there because the version of me you're about to read about is very dissimilar to who I am today.
Just FYI.
Side note: I no longer watch VD. The show lost me in season 2 as soon as they gave Damien 'feelings'. Bleurgh.
While we're talking about the Salvatore brothers: how do you pick the ugly one over Damien? Is it because I'm a guy that I don't see it?

Anyhu, back to our story: the time was 2006, late 2006. I think. It may have been early 2007. I'm not very sure. There's several semesters worth of memories that have kind of melded together in my memory.
Side note: Don’t do recreational drugs kids. Seriously, please don’t!
What I do remember with some semblance of clarity is the events of this fateful day.

It was a warm and sunny Saturday. My roommates and I were randomly struck by the impulse to do a much needed thorough clean of our room. We spent several hours of that day scrubbing from top to bottom. Beds were made, floors were mopped, windows.

were wiped, dishes were cleaned, clothes were folded and put away, trash was emptied. It was one of those once-a-semester events.
We were very proud of our work at the end of it. And rightly so!
For lunch we prepared a feast worthy of our great work, i.e, an unnecessarily large quantity of meat accompanied by an obscenely large amount ugali.
Suffice it to say we were as happy as pigs in fresh mud that afternoon.

Even though we were not in the strongest of monetary positions - I remember it being the week before the end of the month and all purse strings were well and truly tight - we decided to treat ourselves for our very productive day by going out on the town later that night, rather than just hitting the on-campus bar for cheap drinks as would inevitably been our plan for that day.
Plans were made, clothes and shoes were prepared.
Solely based on the enthusiasm the 3 of us had were able to convince several of our friends to join us in painting the town red that night.
Realistically, more like paint the town a dark shade of pink. We didn’t have paint-the-town-red money. But you get my point.
Suddenly, we had the makings of an epic night on our hands. This day just kept getting better!

Fast forward to what I approximate was around 11 p.m. or so later that night. As was our custom, the guys were in some back alley pub, while the girls were in the much nicer club where we were eventually to meet up. This was for practicality: we (the guys) had much higher alcohol tolerance than our feminine compatriots. Therefore, for us to be able to go all night while sufficiently

inebriated, it required us to first down as many dirt-cheap shots in the back alley pub as we could keep down, before proceeding to the club that sold the same drinks for orders of magnitude more than the recommended retail price. Once there, we would then make one or two drinks last the remainder of the night as we danced to night away. Or entertained our significant others. Or, for those that were in need, sought to acquire new significant others. Or, if you were the type, sought acquire a secondary significant other (henceforth referred to as S.O) should your primary S.O not be within close proximity of your physical location.
Different strokes for different folks.

The night was going swimmingly. We were having a blast. Stories were being told, laughter was being laughed, bonding was being bonded?
Yes, I know that that isn’t grammatically correct, but it’s dramatically correct. Therefore, it’s staying.
We were outside, sitting on the kerb, because we didn’t want the pub noise and music drowning out our conversations.
A good time was being had by all.

One of my roommates, let’s call him The Dynamo, had left the back alley to go use the nicer club's restroom. The 2 locations were across the street from each other.
The Dynamo’s return to our location was a lot more dramatic than we were prepared for! He burst back into view in full sprint, partially out of breath, beads of sweat rolling down his shiny baldhead. Though not a long distance apart, there were a number of quite long staircases between where we were and where he had come from (remember that, as they’ll reappear later in this story). The Dynamo had ran all the way.

After he’d caught his breath, he proceeds to tell me, “Ritchie, your girlfriend has been beaten up.”

My significant other at that time was about as far from a dramatic person as a bacon cheeseburger with deep fried chicken for buns is from healthy.
I'll give you all a minute: please Google images of "bacon double down burger". You're welcome.

I was obviously surprised to hear that she had been in any kind of physical altercation. She was clearly never going to be the one to instigate one, so I was curious to find out what exactly had happened.

Having followed his statement a sufficiently long, dramatic pause, The Dynamo repeats himself, "Ritchie, your girlfriend has been beaten up.”
"How?" I asked.
"Big Bird beat her up."

The person I have given the alias Big Bird was – up until this night – a very good friend of ours. We were in the same class, for some time shared the same hostel room, we had a pretty identical circle of friends. Most importantly: our girlfriends were 'best friends' (whatever that means to women. This is a deeply complex concept with females).

I was naturally confused.

The Dynamo having predicted my obvious reaction to this news did not come without additional information; a.k.a, some back-story!
Apparently, Big Bird – as was in his nature – had recently acquired himself a secondary S.O to complement his primary S.O. (significant other).
In simpler terms: Big Bird was cheating on his girlfriend. My girlfriend at the time either saw or caught him. She obviously gave her best friend the heads up about her boyfriend being a cheating scumbag.

When confronted with such an accusation, men will often (not always) react in one of two ways:
1. Man up, admit their mistake, ask for forgiveness, promise never to do it again. (They probably will do it again)
2. Deny, deny, deny!

Big Bird chose the before unavailable option 2-and-a-half: deny, and physically assault a female.

If you're asking yourself how and where this was all happening, given that I said earlier in this piece that the guys were in one location while the girls were in another, you have stumbled upon a key piece of evidence, Watson!
That statement remains to be true.
However, Big Bird was the only 'male' drinking with the females. What that says about him and his character I will to your imagination to interpret.
It is also the only way he would be able (and have the courage) to hit a woman.

Understandably irate, I made my way across the street to where Big Bird and the girls where.
Let me preface what happened next with this: on the Michael scale of people, I am nearer Jackson than Tyson. Meaning, I'm more a lover than a fighter. The primary reason for this is I don’t like being hit in the face. I am not ashamed to say I have run away from my fair share of fights, even those I would probably have won, because in the process of winning I would have to take some hits. If it wasn’t that serious, I was often out of there like I'd stolen something.
As a result, I didn’t really have a reputation for being able to handle myself in a fight; I never got into any!

It was with this same mindset that I confronted Big Bird as he staggered out of the club with girlfriend in tow (they seemed to have patched things up pretty quickly – more on that to come in part 2 of this story). My intention was to give him a thorough tongue lashing about his inability to handle his liquor, and to very sternly warn him that I was only giving him a pass because he was my friend, but if he ever so much as raised his voice to my S.O again, I'd stomp a mud hole through him (for meaning, click here). The plan was to then repeat the same in the counsel of our friends, because all the guys felt the same way and it was more than likely going to turn into an intervention.

Our confrontation goes roughly as follows:

Me:" Dude, what the hell man?"
Big Bird: "What? What will you do? What?!"
Me: "I don’t care how drunk you were, what the hell?"
Big Bird: "What? **** off! ***** *****! Get out of my face!"

OK.

I had wanted to settle this amicably, but I am just a man. There's only so much I can take.

Big Bird continues to talk smack, and I'm just laughing to myself.
Big Bird went out a lot with my other roommate Roger. Roger is about 6 foot 2 inches tall, and pretty jacked (muscular). On top of that, he has a stiff jab and a short fuse when under the influence. What that means is Roger got into his fair share of fist (and sometimes bottle) fights. And from what Roger had told me, Big Bird was about as useful in a fight as a fork in draining a flooded boat.

Therefore, watching Big Bird put on this show of bravado was laughable. He clearly felt that the Bro Code precluded him from an ass whooping because we were 'close'/'bros', no matter what he had done, or subsequently said to me.
Or, he thought Roger would (as he always did) have his back.
Neither was the case.

For his insults alone, he deserved a beating. That along with the fact that we were only here because he physically assaulted a woman immediately excluded him from enjoying any benefits associated with the Bro Code.

By this point, The Dynamo had tired both of my patience and Big Bird's foolish talk. The Dynamo steps in front of me and squares up to Big Bird and in no uncertain terms explains to him that he is going to get his ass kicked. Big Bird scoffs. Big Bird is a towering 6 foot 3, but with the kind of frame that would be blown over by a strong breeze. The Dynamo is about 5 foot 7, but dense!That’s the best word to describe him: dense! Strong, muscular, compact!

He was our campus rugby team's captain and scrum half. He didn’t get to be that with his good looks and charm; he was that good. There are scores of wingers much larger than him that saw him as the last line of defence as they came sprinting down the pitch and foolishly started to count themselves having scored a try, only to find themselves tackled or dragged to the ground by this 'little' guy, with new bruises and scars as a take home gift!

Big Bird foolishly mocked him, and attempted to physically threaten him.
The Dynamo is deceptively quick and strong. Therefore, he likes to give potential opponents the chance at a 'fair fight' by always giving them the first shot.
"If you think you can, punch me right here," The Dynamo says as he turns his face and points to his cheek, "Go ahead ******, hit me right here!" He then drops his hands to his sides so that he cannot defend himself.
I've seen this dance before, and I love watching it happen every time! Poor unsuspecting sap tries to sucker punch The Dynamo, but because of his rock hard head, he doesn’t pass out. That’s always their mistake! Because if you don’t knock him out, he will beat on you until you're totally laid out!

I was about to get lost in the show before I remembered why we were here. I let Big Bird get his one shot in, and like a coiled spring The Dynamo burst into a flurry of punches before I could grab Big Bird and drag him away. This was my fight; it's my girlfriend's honour we're defending here.

"Stop being stupid," I said, "I don’t want to hurt you!"
"You ***** *** *****, what can you do to me! You're a *punk (word replaced) just like that ***** *punk girlfriend of yours." He replies.

Side note: I don’t like to curse, so use your imagination for what was actually said. Or don’t. It does not particularly enrich the narrative anyway.

I'd had it. I'd tried to be reasonable. I tried to be merciful. He was basically begging me to bludgeon his face in. All the self control I'd mustered had ran out; I was seeing red. I was shaking with rage. I wanted to hurt him as much as physically possible.

We were standing about 2 paces away from a flight of stairs. This was a very steep flight of stairs. I'd guess at least 15 steps; maybe even more. Vertically, it was definitely more than 6 feet because I'm 5 foot 11 and a half, and while standing at the bottom of these stairs I could not see over them.

I'll give you a minute to imagine what happens next.

Yes ladies and gentlemen, I grabbed this wafer thin clown and hurled him into the air, and subsequently sent him tumbling down the stairs.
In such a situation in the movies, people fly through the air for what feels like forever before slowly tumbling down. That wasn’t my experience. It all happened so fast! One second he's flying through the air, the next there's a sickening thud as skull and bones meets concrete.

At this point, I hoped he'd do what I would have done were I in his shoes: gotten up and ran off. But no, the guy had jokes!
He gets up gingerly and yells, "Is that all you've got!?"
I couldn’t believe it. He's clearly hurt. He's clearly out of his depth. Why are you asking for more?

In the present day, I am quite the fight fan. I watch dozens of mixed martial arts fights every month, and have taken a great interest in boxing and muay thai. If I got into a fight today, I'd be very smart about it; integrating principles of head and foot movement, punch and kick variations, and strike combinations to outwit and defeat my opponent. In 2006/2007 however, all I knew was hit and don’t get hit! So if you're a fight fan, please bear with what follows. It isn't the prettiest.

I hurdle down the stairs and straight thrust kick him (#ThisIsSparta!) in the stomach, so that he was gasping for air. He bent over slightly to try to catch his breath, and I went to town! Right hook to the face, right hook to the face, right hook to the face, duck a wild swinging right, right hook to the face, right hook to the face, right hook to the face, duck a wild swinging right, right hook to the face, right hook to the face…
This went on for a while.

I don’t know how aesthetically pleasing the fight fan I am today

would find my 'technique', but at the time, it was effective. Though my memory of events is a little foggy, I do remember I had a lopsided speed advantage. I would get off two or three punches in at a time before he threw one of his own. He never caught me with a single one. I battered this poor chump with countless unanswered punches to the face. No body shots, no left crosses, jabs or uppercuts. Just swinging the same right hand over and over and over. My hand quickly tired and my knuckles were incredibly sore. Were it not for the fact that he had such a soft face, I'm certain I'd have broken my hand!

I eventually just stopped. I was tired. I inquired later as to why no one broke us up, I'm told my roommates The Dynamo and Roger, as well as the cabbies in the area (we were right in front of a taxi rank) were running interference for us so that we settled things uninterrupted. Apparently, when people would ask why that one guy is beating up that second guy, they'd be told it's because the second guy beat up the first guy's girlfriend, at which point they'd join the crowd in cheering me on. There was an audience, but I had no knowledge of it. I couldn’t see them, I couldn’t hear them. I was singularly focussed.

I felt I had done enough to make my point, so I turned around to walk away.

As I'm scanning the now visible-to-me crowd to find my friends, I hear some familiar – yet very unexpected – words:

"Is that all you've got!?"
*cough*

You've got to be kidding me?!
I felt like Apollo Creed in the opening rounds of his first bout with Rocky Balboa: how is this guy still standing, let alone wanting more?

Side note: if you did not get that reference, please do yourself a favour and go look for the 1976 film classic Rocky I. It just might be the greatest movie you see this year.
Thank me later.

I blame myself really. I wasn't the strongest guy in the world. Had I had slightly more upper body strength, all those blows to the head should have knocked him out, or at least incapacitated his valve-less mouth!
I didn’t trust my ability to throw punches with my left hand, and my right hand hurt too much to get involved again. But he was begging for more, perhaps he wanted to go out on his shield.
I had to oblige!

Like the pro wrestling fan that I am, I went to plan B: use the environment to your advantage! He was reaching for a rock to even the scales, so I had to act quickly! I cut him off, grabbed him, lifted him up and dropped him back and head first in a modified Rock Bottom (see what it looks like here) onto the hood of one of the cars parked next to us. I picked him up and dropped him again. I picked him up and dropped him a third time. The cabbie on whose vehicle I was slamming him finally protested: "Ay! Please stop getting blood on my car!"

At this point, I finally noticed how battered the guy looked. He was a swollen bloody mess. I felt my point had been made, so I went to walk away again.

Again, I hear, " Is that all you've got!?"
*cough* *cough* *cough*

This guy was certainly proud. He just wouldn’t stay down. Finally, his girlfriend had seen enough, and came over to drag him into a waiting cab. He kept yelling at me as they drove away. She saved me more than him. I was exhausted, I had no more beating to give!

My last memory of the night was being mobbed by my friends, getting a very tight hug from my girlfriend, and being ushered into the club feeling like a million bucks. I was promptly flooded with drinks, and next thing I knew it's noon the next day and I'm lying in my bed back in the hostel.
I'm told that I spent the rest of the night walking on clouds and shoving every male I did not know and telling them not to mess with me. The club's bouncers, though initially quite pleased with me when I walked in, eventually got tired of my obnoxious behaviour and I was ultimately violently ejected.
I was socked in the eye for good measure, and woke up with a BEAUTIFUL black eye. It was incredibly painful, I'd never gotten one before, but it looked so beautiful. Considering my 'fight' – I'm hesitant to call it a fight – hadn’t left me with any battle scars, I was quite pleased that my first fight in years had ended so well: a resounding win, and a lovely shiner as a souvenir.

EPILOGUE:

When I started writing this article my intention was to tell the story of the time I got arrested.
Yes ladies and gentlemen, the day after the events I just chronicled I did get arrested!
In the process of writing the story of the fight, I realised it's a story on its own that needed telling.
Plus, this article is already long enough!

So, as I had alluded to earlier, this is just part one of the story!
Next time: the dramatic story of my subsequent arrest (and incarceration)!


Today I'm not proud of having resorted to physical violence. Two wrongs don't make a right.
And so even though I have no regrets about sending a woman-beater to the hospital, still, that is not OK.