Fists of Regret

The following essay I wrote in my eight week writing class this semester. It is an expressive essay consisting of naration, description, and examples. I hope you enjoy it. I did recieve an A on the essay, and in the class.

Jason White
Writing 101
Fists of Regret
The fight was on, my adrenaline flowed at full speed and I could feel my face hot, a fiery beat red. With fists clenched, I stared at Daniel with a readiness, though with some reluctance to throw the first punch. We waited and angrily glared at each other; seconds felt like minutes and we waited.
Daniel was slender and tall with dark wavy hair. He wore glasses, and on a normal day his usual attire included wearing a pocket protector as if his BIC pens and mehanical pencils were his prized posession. Daniel was not athletic and never wore shorts, just long black straight legged jeans or corduroys, never shorts. He was a typical smart kid, who liked computers, and had smart friends. In those days, we referred to them as “nerds.” He was quiet, kept to himself, and seemingly was a little uncomfortable with most people. In class, he was a better reader than I and frequently he new answers to questions before they could even be considered questions. Personally, I didn’t have a problem with Daniel. My interest in him was for mere social status; he was my in. He was my way to look “cool”, so I could fit in with the “cool kids.” I wnted to look tough and funny, but most of all I wanted to look like I didn’t care about Daniel.
We were mere seventh graders, and I was a bully to one kid--Daniel. I was not a physically overpowering fright to anyone, and on the scales I would have been lucky to reach one hundred pounds. My style of bullying was to be more of pest on Daniels emotional well being. Harassing him and poking fun at his comments often got me a good laugh from the other students in the class. On the outside I looked confident. From time to time the emotional torment I subjected Daniel to was not enough so I would resort to throwing broken pieces of #2 pencils in his direction rarely missing my target. My plan was working and I was fitting in with the cool crowd just like I wanted. But on the inside I didn’t know who I was. The facts are that I was a seventh grader harassing someone I barely knew from my English class.
My bullying was relentless, and finally Daniel had had enough! I can remember that warm fall day as if it was yesterday. Daniel had mustered up the courage to confront me, and in as strong of a voice as I had ever heard from him he said, “We need to fight!” There we stood, school was over and on the wide open grounds of campus with kids and teachers everywhere he began to give me some options. We can do this now, or we can meet at the park in one hour and do it then. He said, “You bring a friend and I will bring a friend so we have witnesses to what really happens here.” In that moment, Daniel sounded as though he was opting for the park option. The reality of what was soon to come hit me hard, but never-the-less I obliged him and said, “I will be there!”
I peddled my KHS Mountain Bike fast that day. I raced home, called my one friend, and prepared for the fight of my life. My first fight. My only fight. I turned on my tape player and rocked out to Def Leopard to help me get pumped. I started replaying scenes from Rocky IV in my head and in my room acted those scenes out step for step as if I was Sly Stallone himself taking on Dolph Lundgren. I also thought of the Karate Kid and how I could use those moves to gain a victory in the fight at the park. Before I left home I ate a Snack Pack and drank a little water. Then I was gone. I could feel my adrenaline pumping through me, and as a result, I remember my KHS rode faster that day. Seemingly, I had arrived at the park much faster than I had anticipated and there I waited. Not far behind me arrived my friend, and Daniel and his friend behind him. Daniel and I had mountain bikes, and the two friends were riding BMXs.
Daniel didn’t fool around with pleasantries; he was ready to do this. Our eyes met, and the fight was on. My adrenaline was flowing full speed and I could feel my face hot, a fiery beat red. With fists clenched, I stared at Daniel with a readiness, and a reluctance to throw the first punch. We waited and glared at each other; seconds felt like minutes and we waited.
Suddenly I felt the first blow hit on my shoulder. I retaliated and punched back landing a good one on his cheek. He flinched, and I knew it was a good hit. The pause was only momentary. He was fighting for pride, honor, and respect. I didn’t let up either. Once I noticed he was hit I moved in on the attack. He squared straight up with, swung, and busted my nose. Seconds later I tasted blood. He looked shocked, happy, and even more scared all at once. I was not done; I would not lose. Angrily, I went for a tackle and put the kid on his back. I was now on top of him and pummeling his body relentlessley. In that moment, I saw pain in his eyes that at that age I wish I never knew. He was crying in defeat, and I had won this fight. I got off of Daniel, told him it was over, and with my friend, made my way back to my bike. Abruptly, Daniel grabbed me from behind and pulled me to the ground. I could feel blades of grass poking me in the face then followed by being smashed into the dirt on my bloody nose. He was now on top of me. Suddenly, I was dodging and moving frantically when, my friend cracked him hard in the side of the head. He went down in a fetal position, and I kicked him twice. I said “Daniel now it is over.”
I walked away, said goodbye to my friend, and wasn’t even on my bike before I started to cry! I thought to myself about how Daniel initiated wanting to fight. Did he suspect that he was going to lose the fight, or did he even care? Daniel had lost again! I mounted my KHS and rode slowly this time taking in all that had happened. My friend had stepped in; I felt sick to my stomach, and wondered to myself, what does that make me? Did I really win? Was Daniel hurt badly? Was my nose hurt badly? And my crying continued. “I was the winner!!” I said to myself, “Stop crying,” but I could not. Wishing that I could stop time, I dreaded getting home. When I finally arrived, I noticed my younger sister outside and tried to wipe away my tears but it was to no avail. Whie I was sobbing, she asked me what had happened so, I told her the story. She ran into the house to get Mom who rushed out with concern. She was inquisistve and caring as my tears were relentless. On that Fall day at home I was a seventh grade bully. As I spilled all the details about Daniel I trembeled with guilt over what I had done.
Now twenty years later and maried with two sons I look back on my fight with Daniel, and can’t help but remember the lack of self confidence I had. I played the snare in marching band and was in drum line. I was athletic, in little league baseball soccer, and basketball. I also hung around the skaters. I was a ninety-pound wuss, who was insecure, and looking to fit in anywhere. So will my son’s be like me? Will they fight to impress other kids, or stand up to the bully trying to look cool? I know that day will come when my sons will have experiences very similar to my own, and whether it is peer-preasure, fear, bullying, or self preservation I will have an ability to relate with them. I will tell my boys to stand up to bullies and never be one. I will make sure they know that bullying has no reward, only regret. When my fears are realized and my sons are telling me about their social struggles in school, I will tell them the story of how their father won a fight and felt deep regret about the pain their father caused. I will never know how long it took Daniel to get over the emotional injuries resulting from my actions. When he looks back on his seventh grade year I often wonder, what does he remember? Does he replay the fight in his mnd to or does his face sting with the memories of the embarassment he must have felt?