I have always been a large man. I am 6' 3" and somewhere around 250 to 275 depending on the time of year and the number of donuts I am allotting myself. In addition, at age twelve I was roughly the same size I am now, which could be frightening when put in the wrong hands. Although, in my case it's not, I am a huge but harmless little fuzzball in every manner of the word. This is to say that I have never given a second thought about holding my own in a fight when I had to. But I was no bully, and I never started a fight in my life. Except once, and I'd rather not talk about that. My poor dad was all of 5'5" a buck-fifteen on his best day, with hands like a little girl. When we went places together it was obvious from our like facial features, we were blood related but because of our size difference people would always inquire just HOW we were related. When I would tell people he was my father I heard a lot of "NO WAY!"
On a grade school playground there are usually two individuals with the biggest axes to grind. The first is the smallest child, although they usually end up relenting out of fear. The second kid most likely to make waves is the next to the biggest kid. I was always the biggest kid on the playground, so the other kids usually felt like it was me they needed to either impress or pacify. The truth is I didn't really care. The next to the biggest kid (we will call him Todd) loved to play a game we grade schoolers called mercy. This is where you would stand toe to toe with your opponent, lock hands, someone would yell GO, and then you would try your best to inflict pain on your opponent's fingers, hands, and wrists. The first one to yell MERCY loses the game. Todd had a lot to lose that day but neither he nor I were aware of just how much at that moment. In addition, Todd was NEVER going to leave me alone until I relented.
Now consider for a moment your hands, have you ever thought of them as formable weapons? I sure never did. Every man, at one time or another has stood in front of the bathroom mirror and admired their own biceps. But the muscles in our hands are a non-starter and I sure never considered them dangerous or enviable. However, I had been helping granny milk cows by hand twice per day for better than two years by that point. Let's just say these hands could have been register as lethal weapons, but I wasn't aware of it. Todd and I locked hands, someone said go, and everything that happened after that was a blur. The next thing I heard was the sound of something breaking vaguely reminiscent of a large twig. It seems I had compound fractured poor Todd's pinky finger and to add insult to injury the bone was now protruding though the skin and it was bleeding like a stuck hog. Who ever thought that all that milking could make a young man's hands so strong? I sure didn't.
I was right away rushed to the principal's office and Todd went directly to the ER to have his pinky reset and the skin stitched. The principal told me "Okay Mr. Lightcap, today two things are going to happen, #1) you have now been crowned undisputed mercy champion, and #2) I am asking you to NEVER play again. I sensed the man almost felt sorry for me as he knew the only reason I agreed to the contest to begin with was to keep from getting hassled. Most women don't know this fact about men but getting hassled is about the only things that drives a man to drink.
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