Originally Posted by WEG Cory
When I was around 11 years old, my parents took my sister and I to a karate tournament (tae kwon do) in Little Rock, Arkansas. I was a green belt and I competed in the tournament.
I did pretty good. After the tournament, my parents took us to McDonalds. I used the restroom upon arrival. I heard some teenagers coming and they were cursing and being very loud. I got nervous and went into the stall. When they came in, one of the kids dropped a switch blade and it landed slightly under the stall, right at where my feet should have been.
I had my feet slightly elevated so that the kids would not notice me. Unfortunately, the kid that picked up the knife saw my elevated feet and told me to come out. I walked out and he pinned me against the wall. I was terrified. He made fun of me in my karate outfit. Then the group walked out.
I walked out shortly after, trying to regain my composure. As I made way down the aisle, I noticed that same kid (the group leader) was standing outside his booth with his dad. When I walked through, the kid once again stopped me. His dad looked at me and said,
"Pussy kid should learn to fight the real way. Son, you don't need karate, look at that scared piece of shit."
I edged my way by him slightly, feeling like the rule of masses applied. If he did anything to me, a group would surely break it up.
I went back to my table and sat down with my family. My dad took my cheeseburgers away and said,
"You don't eat until you settle that problem. I want you to walk over to that kid and I want you to knock him out in line."
By this time, the kid was in line with his dad. I began to shake and requested that I not perform the task. My mom lobbied for my request. The request was denied.
So I got up from my seat. I approached the kid. I made my way through groups of people, some of which accused me of cutting, and I tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned, he laughed and he pointed, alerting his dad of my presence.
"Hey Dad, look, the karate kid is back for more. He looks like he is going to cry."
That may well have been true. But what he didn't know was that I grew up rough. My dad often made me fight kids that picked on me. I was injured all the time.
So I used a closed fist and I punched him in his mouth, knocking him back into the crowd, drawing a massive and predictable group intervention. I was shoved back and the kid was screaming wiping the slight blood smears from his busted lower lip.
I went back to the table. I sat down and picked up my cheeseburger and began to nervously eating.
"You never let anyone push you around."
About two bites into my cheeseburger, the kids dad approached with his injured son in tow. The son was behind him, rejecting all ideas that he had been taken, yet not stepping in front of his dad.
"I should let my son beat your son's fucking ass."
My dad took another bite of his big mac. And then he glared up.
"Deal. I will send my son outside, I will let your older and stronger son beat my son up. But my son will not quit. But understand, at the same time, I am going beat the shit out of your scrawny ass."
The dad looked at him with confusion. I sat still, feeling the nervous energy a chicken must feel before being released in a chicken pin with 50 thai men waiving bills.
The dad mustered something under his breath, and then walked away.
Funny, today, I am not afraid of much. I love being challenged. The things I was scared of as a kid, I am not afraid of as an adult.
Not sure if that story is a good thing or a bad thing, but it is probably like anything, if you take the good from it and you understand the bad, it makes it a good thing.
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