Posted: August 13, 2010 in Fighting

I fought tonight. That’s not really unusual in and of itself. The unusual part actually came later. The night started off in a normal way; I went to the Jefferson County Fairgrounds as usual. I suited up as usual. I swung my stick at the regular attendants as usual. I hit some people and missed others. The weird part happened afterward. Argyle and I went to Jose O’shea’s like we normally do, but I stopped and picked up my buddy Mike on the way. Mike doesn’t fight the way Argyle and I (and many of my friends) do. He’s a pretty normal guy, but he does like a good drink. We started off the night with our customary beers, but somebody thought it would be a good idea to do a few shots. Our usual waitress, Crystal, joined in. Soon enough, we were invited to a table filled with friends of hers and ended up five or ten drinks deep. Sure enough, 2 AM rolled around and it was time to leave.

Argyle, Mike, and I stood in the parking lot pondering what to do next. “Let’s fight,” Mike says. I’d been fighting all night. I spent the light part of the evening putting my stick into the squishy bits of my closest friends. It’s true that Mike didn’t really know how much work I put into that and the work-day I had just ground through. Being three sheets to the wind, I decided that would be a fine plan. Argyle likes a car accident as much as the next guy, so he agreed to referee. We decided on no striking on the basis that neither of us had protective gear of any kind, and we walked up the hill from the bar to an apartment complex that Mike and I used to live in. “I hope there isn’t any dog shit on the ground.” The sentiment was voiced by at least one of us. Those words exactly? Probably not.

Argyle called winner. I don’t know if he was serious, but he probably was. Mike and I circled each other like predators. Striking was out, so we grabbed at one another’s arms, trying to gain some sort of advantage. I foolishly stepped in first, thinking that perhaps I could throw him to the ground and end it quickly. Yeah, that totally didn’t happen. I’m kind of unclear what happened next, but Mike outweighs me by 65+ pounds. I was not going to throw him ANYWHERE. He bore me to the ground, and we spent a minute (or apparently 4) grappling, with him trying for an arm-bar or somesuch. Meanwhile, I was merely trying to escape and prevent the closure of my airway. He did a solid job of making sure his forearm was across my neck pretty much the whole time. Naturally, I was dismayed. We rolled around on the hill for a minute, with me desperately trying to escape his grip when he paused in his efforts to crush me. “One of us rolled in dog shit,” He said. I rolled my eyes (the only part of me that was genuinely mobile) to my leg. Sure enough, a lump of poo clung to my calf. ‘Well, stopping won’t fix it. Besides, I kind of don’t want to gain an advantage because of a hold.’ I thought. Out loud, I proclaimed, “Yeah, it was me. Game on.” Mike resumed trying to smash me into paste. I gasped for air and clutched at his hand, trying to buy my trachea precious space.

I squirmed and wiggled, and eventually broke free of Mike’s hold. Argyle asked if we wanted him to call it if one or the other of us was clearly holding an advantage. My forearms burned with an inner fire that threatened to shut them down, so naturally my mouth said, “No, I’m good.” My mouth is stupid. I couldn’t clench my fists, and I had no indication that Mike was feeling any disadvantage either, but my mouth isn’t the only part of me that’s a damn idiot. I stood with my arms hanging at my sides as Mike circled me. Ok, so the stuff I knew didn’t work on him. My brain did what it always does when I’m thoroughly boned: It checked the archives. ‘Jump on his ass and whip him into a headlock.’ Yeah right… Except, that might work. I have little brothers. I know how to do a legit headlock. I used to jump on people all the damn time. It could work. ‘Yeah, alright,’ I told my brain. Mike continued to circle. He didn’t know what it looked like when I finally came up with a plan. My chest heaved. I still needed air for my arms. Well, if he wanted to circle, I could live with that. Finally, I thought I might be able to maintain a grip. Game on. I jumped him. I threw my left arm over his head, and tried to throw him to the ground. Oh, right. He has me by almost seventy pounds. I landed hard on my back. No biggie… I whipped my right arm around his head, and squeezed my forearm under his chin. The reverse figure four. Sweet. I grabbed my left arm with my right hand and squeezed. He bore his weight onto me, but I pulled tighter. I had my arm in, and I switched my grip, trying to decide which hand had the strength I needed to hang on. The right hand won. I pulled tighter as Mike thrashed, trying to push and pull his head free of my death grip. Finally, I felt the touch I had waited twelve agonizing minutes to feel: His hand on my back, tapping out. Holy hell, that was a killer fight. I underestimated him from the beginning. Only the fact that I’m wiggly combined with my experience with my little brothers kept me from losing consciousness completely. “Damn, that was a deep hold,” Mike told me. I still have no damn idea how he didn’t kick my ass. He wants to do it again, but this time with striking allowed.


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