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Bit of a story for all...
Me and a buddy (sorta) were joking around, and like most big boys playing like youngens, it escalates and becomes serious. Eventually, it becomes a pushing contest and every frustration we've ever had with each other boils out and next thing I know, I'm popped in the eye wth a nice firm knuckle.
This is where my maritime roots reveal themselves. I had my sweater ripped off and had him down plugging away at him before he got a 2nd punch out. It's very hard to set me off, but when I go I leave a nice trail of destruction behind me. (not something to be proud of).
So there I am, looking down at this fella, with that dazed half asleep expression looking past me as I repay the favour with bold, well aimed shots. Then it hits me, is this what makes anyone 'big' or 'tough'? Cause I sure in hell wasnt feeling that, in fact I was having an opposite effect.
Some may be reading this thinking, good go. After all, he threw the first punch...right?
So now it was all over, I had won the fight by a long shot ( if we can even call that bludgeoning a fight), or had I?
On my way home, I realized I had lost the strength in my right hand. I gave up trying to light my smoke to inspect my hand, only to find my knuckles in the back of my hand. I went home, called a ride and headed to the hospital.
Turns out, I shattered the bones connecting my wrist to my knuckles (commonly known as boxers fracture, only this was a very serious case). I had it looked at, and after a series of nurses helping the reconstructive surgeon set the bones manually, I was casted and given more news. I will now, more than likely need a steel plate and pins put in my hand to help the bones heal.
So, who really won? The other guy, who went home with a bruised ego and busted up face, or myself?
I'm now in for a long haul of pain (already 5 days into it and still cringe at the thought of moving my hand to stand up), a cocktail of painkillers daily, and a lot of time to reflect. I may now need to drop off my DP2 course, and miss out on going to Op Southern Drive to Fort Knox.
Am I complaining, no. Hell, I deserve everything I got and more. For anybody who thinks fighting is the way to go, think again. I've lived up to date using violence as my way to establish my own position in my world, and look where i am. I've lived in North Sydney, Sydney, Baddeck, Mountianview N.S and Toronto using my fists and mouth as a way to distinguish myself as "tough".
My father never said he was proud for winning, nor that he was upset that I was hurt. He simply left me with a simple statement as I left the car to go into North York General, "Most often winning can hurt alot more than losing, but that doesnt matter. Real men dont need to hit, learn something from this".
By jesus have I ever, in case anyone is too daft to clue in, neither of us emerged victors. In the end, we have met and are no longer bitter, but refllective and, well...dissapointed that we resorted to such a pathetic scene.
Some tough guy huh? Sitting in a cold basement, trying to piece together this upcoming year, as my plans have been shattered in parallel with my hand. My eyes well up at the slightest movement of my right arm. All the while, listening to "Lost for words" by Pink Floyd (the lyrics suddenly make more sense to me than ever before). They go as follows:
I was spending my time in the doldrums
I was caught in the cauldron of hate
I felt persecuted and paralyzed
I thought that everything else would just wait
While you are wasting your time on your enemies
Engulfed in a fever of spite
Beyond your tunnel vision reality fades
Like shadows into the night
To martyr yourself to caution
Is not going to help at all
Because there'll be no safety in numbers
When the Right One walks out of the door
Can you see your eyes blighted by darkness?
Is it true you beat your fists on the floor?
Stuck in a world of isolation
While the ivy grows over the door
So I open my door to my enemies
And I ask could we wipe the slate clean
But they tell me to please go f*ck myself
You know you just can't win
Remember, in the end. Tough isnt measured by how many fights you've been in, but by how many you resolved without fighting.
Me and a buddy (sorta) were joking around, and like most big boys playing like youngens, it escalates and becomes serious. Eventually, it becomes a pushing contest and every frustration we've ever had with each other boils out and next thing I know, I'm popped in the eye wth a nice firm knuckle.
This is where my maritime roots reveal themselves. I had my sweater ripped off and had him down plugging away at him before he got a 2nd punch out. It's very hard to set me off, but when I go I leave a nice trail of destruction behind me. (not something to be proud of).
So there I am, looking down at this fella, with that dazed half asleep expression looking past me as I repay the favour with bold, well aimed shots. Then it hits me, is this what makes anyone 'big' or 'tough'? Cause I sure in hell wasnt feeling that, in fact I was having an opposite effect.
Some may be reading this thinking, good go. After all, he threw the first punch...right?
So now it was all over, I had won the fight by a long shot ( if we can even call that bludgeoning a fight), or had I?
On my way home, I realized I had lost the strength in my right hand. I gave up trying to light my smoke to inspect my hand, only to find my knuckles in the back of my hand. I went home, called a ride and headed to the hospital.
Turns out, I shattered the bones connecting my wrist to my knuckles (commonly known as boxers fracture, only this was a very serious case). I had it looked at, and after a series of nurses helping the reconstructive surgeon set the bones manually, I was casted and given more news. I will now, more than likely need a steel plate and pins put in my hand to help the bones heal.
So, who really won? The other guy, who went home with a bruised ego and busted up face, or myself?
I'm now in for a long haul of pain (already 5 days into it and still cringe at the thought of moving my hand to stand up), a cocktail of painkillers daily, and a lot of time to reflect. I may now need to drop off my DP2 course, and miss out on going to Op Southern Drive to Fort Knox.
Am I complaining, no. Hell, I deserve everything I got and more. For anybody who thinks fighting is the way to go, think again. I've lived up to date using violence as my way to establish my own position in my world, and look where i am. I've lived in North Sydney, Sydney, Baddeck, Mountianview N.S and Toronto using my fists and mouth as a way to distinguish myself as "tough".
My father never said he was proud for winning, nor that he was upset that I was hurt. He simply left me with a simple statement as I left the car to go into North York General, "Most often winning can hurt alot more than losing, but that doesnt matter. Real men dont need to hit, learn something from this".
By jesus have I ever, in case anyone is too daft to clue in, neither of us emerged victors. In the end, we have met and are no longer bitter, but refllective and, well...dissapointed that we resorted to such a pathetic scene.
Some tough guy huh? Sitting in a cold basement, trying to piece together this upcoming year, as my plans have been shattered in parallel with my hand. My eyes well up at the slightest movement of my right arm. All the while, listening to "Lost for words" by Pink Floyd (the lyrics suddenly make more sense to me than ever before). They go as follows:
I was spending my time in the doldrums
I was caught in the cauldron of hate
I felt persecuted and paralyzed
I thought that everything else would just wait
While you are wasting your time on your enemies
Engulfed in a fever of spite
Beyond your tunnel vision reality fades
Like shadows into the night
To martyr yourself to caution
Is not going to help at all
Because there'll be no safety in numbers
When the Right One walks out of the door
Can you see your eyes blighted by darkness?
Is it true you beat your fists on the floor?
Stuck in a world of isolation
While the ivy grows over the door
So I open my door to my enemies
And I ask could we wipe the slate clean
But they tell me to please go f*ck myself
You know you just can't win
Remember, in the end. Tough isnt measured by how many fights you've been in, but by how many you resolved without fighting.
