Some time in the early 80s
I don’t recall any inciting incident. I don’t even recall his name. I can just make out an outline of his face, and his scrawny frame similar to mine. A pair of pint sizes, in other words. Perhaps there was only room for one pint size in this town. Or maybe it could be traced to something territorial with him living on Western Drive and me hanging out on Eastern Drive where my best friend Lobby lived. Regardless, there was antagonism in the air, an animus leading us inexorably to the moment when we were fighting in the middle of the street. Two junior school boys grabbing and swinging and kicking on Western Drive, to the mandatory accompaniment of “Scrap! Scrap! Scrap!”.
Somehow Lobby’s Mum got wind of it and arrived on the scene, breaking it up and dragging me and Lobby back to his house. Surprisingly I didn’t cry, but she observed correctly that I was “on the verge of tears”, a phrase which stuck with me from that day on. I was not a fighter, but in spite of this I did not suffer a clear defeat. The scorecards came out even, so the score was not settled. But thankfully there was no rematch.