“Joey? Joey, honey… It’s 6:30 in the morning. Time to get up for school.”

”Unhhhh… Jus’ ‘nother few minits…”

”No. You’ve already slept in 15 minutes. Come on, get up now.”

My mother was the most pleasant tyrant there was on the earth. Sweetly, she would relentlessly press me to get out of bed every morning at 6:15. The bus came at seven, and every single day she would do whatever was necessary to ensure that I was on it.

“Joey, it’s 6:45 in the morning. You are going to be late for the bus if you don’t get up right NOW, sweetie.”

“ZZZBLh… NO, I dun’ wanna go, ma...”

“Get up. You are GOING to school, and that is final! Let’s GO!”

After my mom’s final call, she would flip on the lights and pull the covers off of me. It was next to impossible to get me up in the morning due to the hours I kept. Even then, I was up until 3 or 4 o’clock every morning. She would constantly yell at me for staying up this late, claiming that my “hooting with the owls” would never allow me to “soar with eagles.” What she didn’t understand is that I wasn’t really “hooting with owls” as much as I was “puking my guts out” from the immense fear of attending school the next day.

Junior High is hell. That is just a plain and simple fact for every human being on the planet. If you were popular, everyone was stabbing you in the back. If you were unpopular, you were constantly stepped on and passed over. If you were good at sports, you were in the remedial classes, and if you were smart, you were an outcast. Even God himself couldn’t help you if you happened to have an outstanding physical characteristic of any sort, such as big ears or freckles. There were no winners in Junior High. It was the “Kobayashi Maru” of real-life.

In the 8th grade, I was almost literally twice the size of the other kids in my class. I had been all my life – in one form or another. I don’t believe I have weighed less than 200 lbs since I was in the 3rd grade. By that time, the weight was about the same – 215 lbs, in fact. The difference was that the summer previous to my 8th year, my body decided to make “the change”. Puberty, combined with playing Junior High football and working out all summer, transformed my body from 4-foot—6 to 6-foot-4 and shifted all of my weight from around my belly to around just about every other part of my body.

The other kids, however, just saw the same ol’ fat kid that they had beat up every day since he moved to that town in the 5th grade. Thus, I was forced to endure the “wedgie marathon” every morning on the way to the bus stop, the spitball pelting on the ride in to school, the ritual slamming of the locker on my hands before homeroom, the hallway trip-ups, the head slaps, and just about every other act used to treat me like a piñata full of spite.

You can imagine that getting up every morning to go to school was not exactly something I looked forward to.

I would finally get up, throw on whatever clothes I found in the closet, brush my teeth and run a little water over my crew-cut clad head and head into the kitchen to eat a breakfast that I knew I wouldn’t keep down. My mom would give me a huge hug and kiss and tell me that today “was the first day of the rest of my life. Make the most of it.”

Apparently, making the most of the rest of my life included running from my house to the bus stop at full speed to get to the bus-stop guard before the group of bastard motherfuckers who waited for me every morning in front of my house could catch me and yank my boxers up and over my head.

While practically everyone in my class was pretty good at it, there was one guy who excelled at making my life an absolute goddamn nightmare. His name was Tim White, and he had hounded me the day he first laid eyes on me - and every single day for the three and a half years that had transpired since. This kid was a complete and total prick. He was about 5 feet tall and wore a blonde hi-top fade that made him about 5-foot-8. He weighed all of 100 lbs soaking wet, wore all the latest styles of clothing and was a hit with all the hip chicks of the school. He literally looked like Vanilla Ice, decked out in Z. Cavaricci parachute pants and denim jackets with shoulder pads - only he wasn’t nearly as cool.

That year, he was in 5 of my 6 classes. This fucker was everywhere I was – English, Chemistry, Math – everywhere except the art room. I think culture repelled bastards of this type. While he and his cronies were learning skills in Auto Shop that would serve them VERY well in their future careers at the local gas stations and lube shops (where they still work, I might add), the freaks and geeks were hiding from them in the Art room or science labs.

He would torment me both audibly and silently during each and every class we shared. If he wasn’t making fat jokes, he was pelting me with wadded-up notebook paper or drawing on my jacket with permanent marker or squirting chlorine-filled syringes at my clothing, ruining them. He hounded me in Home Ec so much that one day that the teacher accidentally slipped and called me “Pugsley Adams”.

While these small kindnesses and courtesies were oh-so pleasant and fun, they became downright festive during Gym class. Walking up the 200-yard stairway from the school to the gym every day was a feat of pure determination on my part. Keeping my feet under me while he and his pals stepped on the back of my shoes or kicked my foot just as I was taking a step taught me balance like no football or wrestling drill ever could. Running did no good, as it merely added speed to my eventual face plant on the concrete.

Now, I know you are wondering why it was that I took so much crap from these little jerks. Sometimes, I look back and wonder why myself. Everyone knows how it is in school, though. The pecking order is something you just can’t get around. Once you are marked as a target, that’s pretty much what you are until somehow fate dictates otherwise.

In my case, fate decided that my time to change things was on a mild spring day near the end of my Junior High School career.

We were in Gym class playing yet another rousing game of soccer. The sun was shining and the dew had all but dried from of the freshly mowed grass of the soccer field. We were near the end of our 40 minute game when Tim decided he would show me what a slide tackle was.

Now, anyone who has ever played soccer or swung on the monkey bars knows that there is no pain that a person can experience more excruciating than being whacked in the shins. It doesn’t just hurt - It is one step shy of being eaten alive by army ants in terms of pure sucktitude. He kicked his feet out in front of him and plunged into my legs, slamming both of his cleats into my shins.

It was un-fun.

Several minutes of blinding lights flashing in my head and intense screaming ensued. I grit my teeth and rubbed my shin bones, trying to get rid of the ouchies as best I could. Coach Hartley, the football coach, was refereeing and red-carded Tim, ejecting him from the game. His team lost the game due to the fact that they had just lost their best player - and somehow it was my fault. The misanthropic bastard decided he would take out his frustrations on me after class.

“You made us lose the game! I’m going to beat your ass, Pugsley!”

“Come on… Leave me alone, Tim. You’re the one who tackled me. You did it to yourself.”

“Whatever! I’m going to pound your fat ass into the concrete! You better say your prayers, sucker!”

Now I was a sucker who should say my prayers. I think he stole all of his best lines from the villains on “The A-Team”.

The other kids all murmured, excited about the prospect of a fight. I dreaded it, due to the fact that I knew I had no choice but to just stand there and let Tim beat on me.

My mother, the kind and sweet woman that she is, told me long ago that I was never to hit anyone for any reason. “Always turn the other cheek, Joey”. She quoted the bible, explaining that we should accept transgressions against us not seven times, but 7 times 70. I sucked at math, but I understood the intent of her statement – should I ever partake in fisticuffs, she would be utterly disappointed. The impending doom of the upcoming fight didn’t really make me particularly gleeful.

I took as much time as I could dressing back in before Coach Hartley blew the “last call” whistle in the locker room, clearing all of the laggards out. He saw me slowly making my way to the door and stopped me, allowing the other 2 guys who were still in the room to leave. Alone, he decided it was time to have a man-to-man talk with me.

“Joe, Is Tim going to fight you after class?”

I knew that squealing on Tim would merely prolong the inevitable, and would probably just make whatever beating I was going to take worse.

”Naw, he’s just trying to scare me, Coach. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.”

”Ok, let me rephrase that then – Joe, Tim is going to fight you after class.”

My eyes met the ground. “Yeah, probably.”

”Look, son, you need to stand up for yourself. You are twice his size! There isn’t a kid in this school who is bigger than you! Why do you let him get away with this shit?”

”I dunno.”

”You dunno? Come on, Joe. You know he can’t beat you in a fight. I see you in practice every day hitting the other boys! You’re a horse! Why don’t you show him who’s boss and put an end to this shit?”

Coach didn’t really let the fact that I was 13 impair his predilection toward swear words.

”It’ll just make it worse, Coach. If I hit him, he and his friends won’t ever leave me alone!”

He paused and surveyed the situation. Before him stood a scared kid who didn’t yet realize much about the way the world works. I think he knew where I was at during that point in my life, because what he said to me then sounded like it came from experience.

“Listen to me – when he approaches you out there, don’t run. Stand up to him. Yank his shirt over his head and just start hitting and don’t stop until you hear the sounds go wet and mushy, got it? Trust me – everyone who sees or hears about it won’t ever bother you again. Just stand your ground, son. People aren’t stupid, they don’t ever want to fight something that fights back.”

I looked up and into his eyes. He didn’t look away or smile, he just stared at me with a face so cold and stern it was scary.

“You have to do this. You can’t keep running.”

In my mind, I knew he was right. The trouble is, the rest of my body wasn’t so convinced and offered it’s rebuttal in an upheaval of the contents of my stomach. I blew chunks all over Coach Hartley, soaking his flexi-fit coach shorts and MacGregor tennis shoes in the bacon and eggs my mother insisted I eat that morning.

I was scared that he would be pissed, but he just pat me on the shoulder and said “Good. At least you got that out and over with. The rest should be a piece of cake.”

Just then, the shrill clanging of the bells started up, signaling that it was time for me to face fate.

”Go on, get going.”

I reluctantly grabbed my bag and trudged forward through the gates of hell that were the double-doors of the gym. Standing directly outside the gym was the just about every kid in the school who had heard that there was going to be a severe beat-down on the main stairway. The audience for this gladiatorial spectacular was massive, and directly in the center was Tim in all his idiotic glory. As soon as I saw them all standing there yelling and taunting me I wanted to turn, sprint to the locker room and lock myself in one of the lockers – hoping the flimsy steel door would protect me from my fate at the hands of this crowd of bloodthirsty 8th graders.

For some reason, I didn’t. Something inside me lifted my right foot and put it down in front of my left. That very same thing then lifted my left foot and put it in front of my right - so on and so forth until I was standing there face to face with this cheap white rapper wannabe.

“Alright, Pugsley, you ready to get your ass beat?”

I said nothing. I just stood there, staring at him, wondering just exactly how long it would take before he grew tired of punching me and ended this thing so we could go to class.

The crowd was chanting a strange phrase that was a mix between the word “Fight!” and the grunt a pig makes when it is digging for truffles. I couldn’t really understand them as the deafening thud of my heartbeat rang in my ears, drowning out every other sound around us.

Tim circled me. I stood fast, rotating to face him everywhere he paced. He smirked, reared back his right hand and slung it forward with an open hand in an attempt to slap me across the face. Instinctively, my left hand flew up and blocked his strike.

As we stood there holding hands for a few seconds, his face grew dogmatic and his left hand stretched back. As it came forward with a tightly-gripped fist, my right arm followed the example that my left had just set and blocked that strike as well.

We stood locked in this pose for what felt like an eternity. I could literally hear every thought my brain was making, questioning what my course of action would be now that I had him standing there with his arms widespread in some weird form of interpretive dance.

Not knowing how to properly fight at all, I just did the only thing that made sense in that situation – I slung both of my fists directly down and into his nose.

His face erupted and a gigantic rainbow of blood sprayed up and out of his nostrils. It was - to this day - the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Completely confused as to what to do next, I thought back to the Coach’s advice. I reached behind his head and pulled the blood-soaked neck of his shirt up and over his face. I then proceeded to beat the absolute hell out of him.

After the initial volley of punches, I began to take my time working him over. I threw my knees into his ribs repeatedly. I tossed a few elbows to his skull. I even went so far as to hoist his puny body over my head and toss it into the brick wall beside the stairs.

I took out every ounce of the three and a half years of torment Tim and his gaudy gelled-up high top had levied upon me, then made a down-payment on at least 20 more years worth.

After I grew exhausted from punching, kicking, throwing, slamming and otherwise beating his body, Coach Hartley strolled in and broke the fight up. Slowly, I regained my senses and calmed down, and as my heart-rate decreased and my hearing returned, I began to understand that the students were now chanting my name.

That was a feeling I will never ever forget. For the first time in my entire life, everyone in the school was on my side.

“OK, OK, everyone back to class, this show is over.”

Coach Hartley looked at me and asked “Are you ok?”

I wanted to scream “YES!” I wanted to tell him how fantastic it felt to beat the tar out of that punk, that I felt liberated and strong and confident! I had a backbone! I stood strong!

Instead, I simply nodded and replied ”Yah.”

He made no facial expressions and showed no emotion. He simply looked me in the eye and nodded, signaling that he completely understood everything I meant by that one simple word. He turned to Tim and asked “How about you, flattop? You ok?”

The sound he made sounded like what you would imagine an entire sentence made up of someone slamming randomly on the home-row keys on a keyboard would sound like if read aloud. Coach picked him up and helped him to the office. I knew that we were in for it once we got there.

But I didn’t care. From that point on, no one else would dare to mess with me, and that was worth every ounce of punishment that the school or my parents would levy upon me.

Coach asked me to sit in the office and wait while he went to help Tim clean up. Vice Principal Lucas heard the door open and peeked out of his office. Upon seeing me enter, he said in an incredibly sardonic tone “Ah, Joe Adams. Nice to see YOU again.”

“Hi, Mr. Lucas.”

”What happened this time? Did someone slam your hand in the locker again?”

”Uh, no sir.”

”Hmm… Wedgie? Paper Wads? What? What did the other boys do to you?”

”Umm… I got in a fight.”

He looked me up and down through his spectacles. With a half-smirk, he uttered an indignant “Hmm,” then turned on his heel and returned to his office.

I took a seat and began contemplating just how many days I would be sent out of school for suspension. Coach Hartley soon returned to the office with a patched up but badly bruised Tim White, shirt splattered with blood and pants ripped from where I seized him up by one of his legs and slung him across the grass, splitting the inseam. He was walking on his own two feet and holding an ice pack against his left eye. He refused to look at me.

Vice Principal Lucas again peeked out of his office, and an expression of shock and concern appeared on his face. “Good LORD, what happened to this boy?”

”He was in a fight, Mr. Lucas.”

“Oh MY! With what, an angry badger?”

”No sir, with Joe right there.”

His jaw dropped. He looked at me, looked at Tim, then looked back at me. He quickly regained his composure and fixed his lips into a terse smirk. He looked me straight in the eyes and said “It’s about time.”

The Vice Principal returned to his office to begin the disciplinary paperwork. Coach Hartley sat Tim down right next to me and said “I think you two have some things to discuss.” He then exited the office and left Tim and I to sit awkwardly quiet next to one another.

After about 2 minutes of sitting there in stone-like silence staring at the floor, I mustered up the courage to address Tim.

“Hey, man… I’m, like, REALLY sorry. I didn’t want to –“

”Please, shut up and leave me alone.”

”No, seriously, I didn’t want to fight you! I am really sorry -”

”Please, just leave me alone.”

I complied. Getting beat up in front of the entire school by the person you have taken harsh and violent liberties with stings a bit, I’m sure. I don’t think that my apologizing for humiliating him in front of the whole school helped things much. I just let him sit there and sulk.

Eventually, Mr. Lucas poked his balding head out of his door once again and beckoned us to join him.

We both sat down in the chairs facing his desk. He gave us a lecture on fighting and explained that fights could lead to injury or death, that we are both very lucky to have kept from rupturing an ear drum or kidney, the standard line of garbage. I mainly drowned it out, waiting to hear what our sentence would be.

”I’m remanding both of you to 3 days of after school detention, starting tomorrow. Take these slips to your parents and have them signed for me.”

We got off EASY.

When I got home, I immediately explained the whole situation to my mother and father. Both of them congratulated me on finally ending the bullying.

“Mom… aren’t you mad at me for hitting him?”

”Joe, sometimes you have to fight back.”

”But you told me not to hit anyone. You always said –“

”Yeah, I know what I said. And I meant it. I am still very proud of you for finally standing up for yourself.”

I was confused but doubted that questioning it further would provide me with any type of clarity. I just accepted what she said and listened to the rest of the lectures about being a man and not bullying others.

Remarkably, the next day there were no wedgies on the way to the bus stop or spitwads pelting me in class. There was, however, quite a bit of murmuring about the fight and how my classmates didn’t know I had it in me. The picking and bullying stopped completely, and the entire school had a newfound respect for me. I even got a girl’s phone number that afternoon - which I never actually called because I kept throwing up each time I tried to dial it.

Fighting Tim almost completely eliminated any timidity I had about standing up for myself. Oddly enough, it’s the only fist fight I have ever had in my entire life. Since the day of that fight, I have had no issues whatsoever telling people how I feel and defending myself in any situation.

Talking to girls, however, is a much more formidable task.