The Bully

My son has recently been experiencing a right of passage reserved for many a middle school student, ie,  “The Bully.”  In his case it has been more annoying than alarming, but something we are working through to help him navigate the rough waters of transitioning from being a child to being an adult.  In human development terms middle school is an incredibly dynamic time both physically and mentally with changes occurring at a bewildering rate.  In a strictly physical sense, there are simultaneously boys and men mingling in classrooms and locker rooms with an imbalance of power that is a set up for the larger boys-cum-men to use their size in inappropriate ways.

Which takes me back to this time period in my own life in a small town in Southern Indiana.  I experienced the traditional bully in a boy who I’ll call “K.”  We were on the junior high basketball team together and he had it out for me for God-knows-what reason.  I was one of the shortest kids in my class until mid-high school and also exceedingly skinny.  K would probe at times with his figurative jabs, but there were factors that mitigated his ability to do any real harm.  It never devolved into a full on physical altercation, but he did what he could to make my life as unpleasant as possible. 

One example of the many little offenses was during a basketball practice.  Our small school had a disproportionately large basketball gymnasium with concrete tiers and wooden bleachers encircling the court, a space that was difficult to heat.  As a result, we oftentimes wore sweats during practice in the winter.  That particular day I was sporting a new Adidas-type athletic outfit  that I had found at K-mart and convinced my parents to get me for my birthday despite the expense.  It was our school colors and comprised of a shiny black zip-up jacket and pants with red stripes running down the arms and legs.  In my mind it looked a lot like what NBA teams wore for their pre-game warm ups.

We were in a scrimmage and K and I had been split up as we were the two main guards on our team to handle the ball.  At some point I got a break away lay up, but K caught up to me when I thought I was all alone.  I went up for the shot a little lackadaisically and he came down hard on my back sending me crashing down to the wooden floor with his full weight on my back.  Ostensibly it was a defensive maneuver to swat the ball, but obviously it was so much more than that.  In today’s rules it would have been a flagrant foul and gotten him ejected from a game due to its malicious intent.   I remember being down on all fours feeling shook up and hearing him laugh.  My knees were throbbing in pain and I expected the coach to do or say something to K, but he didn’t.  When I finally got up there was a hole in the knee of my suit which hurt so much more than the actual physical pain or even my pride at having had my shot blocked.  In one fell swoop he had completely deflated any joy I might of had at having something so cool.

But these encounters with K were not what came to mind when I heard about a boy putting my son in a headlock.  What came to mind was an incident that involved a different boy who would better be described as a boy-man.  I’ll call him “T.”  He was a relatively new addition to our class and was built like a linebacker.  He had curly blonde hair and loved to go shirtless during gym to show off his muscular and well-developed body.  He towered over me and I had little reason to be around him unless forced to do so in gym class.  Needless to say we did not run in the same circles.

The day in question we were all out in the field next to the gym playing organized Two Hand Touch football.  An upperclassman from my sister’s grade was in charge of us and, like the coach, did not seem to be looking out for our safety.  I imagine he didn’t think it was part of his responsibilities or he was too intimidated by T to do anything.  What shirtless T was doing was whenever someone on our team had the football he would run us down and knock us violently to the ground by slamming his two hands down on our backs.  So much for Two Hand “Touch.”  

The first time he did it to me I ate some grass and it made me so mad that the next time he had the ball on a play I closed in quickly and two hand touched him so hard on his bare back that the slapping sound echoed off the school walls.  I walked away without looking at him but then suddenly something hit my hand so hard that my whole arm jerked forward.  My hand was stinging and I saw the football rolling on the ground.  I turned to see T huffing and puffing in anger.  He’d thrown the football at my back as hard as he could and it had simply clipped my hand.  If it had hit my head or back it could have done some more serious harm to include a concussion.  He loudly complained about the hit to the upperclassman in charge and I told him he couldn’t just go around knocking everyone to the ground in Two Hand Touch football.  The upperclassman, who had not intervened when T was knocking the snot out of everyone, told me not to do it again.  As far as I was concerned he was a ball-less chicken.

The period ended and we all jogged back to the locker room to change back into our clothes.  As I sat on the bench in front of my locker and rubbed my hand, my fellow classmates filed past behind me, but one of them stopped briefly and leaned over my shoulder and said in a low voice, “Don’t back down to T.  If he tries anything we’ve got your back.”  I never had to utilize that help, but it was nice to know it was there.


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