My Beat Down (redux)

In this egotistical, pride filled, and self-righteous society of ours it is very rare to find a man that admits his own short comings. I am not one of those men: I am weak. In my defense I have always been muscled-challenge. I knew it all along. In grade school they used to make us do chin ups in front of the whole class. I never did a chin up until my 7th grade year. Every year it was zero chin ups for me. In Jr. High we used to lift weights, I was unable to participate in the bench press because the bar was 45 pounds, which was way too heavy for a boy of my size. I didn't participate in the bench press until my sophomore year of high school. But it was then and there that I found me a sport that does not need any upper body strength at all: long distance running. Here were 100 other guys who could no more fill out their tank tops than I could. Sure enough I never had to lift a heavy object again. One summer I did get to the point where I could bench 120 lbs 10 times in a row, for 3 sets. I almost looked as if I had pecks, but soccer season came and I reverted back into my weakling stage. I was merely an ugly duckling in this mean swan filled world (the swans being muscular and strong).

Why do I bring this up you ask? Well it all hit the fan the other night.

A couple years ago, a couple friends and I were setting at Cheddars restaurant. We noticed this large, behemoth of a man setting at the table next to us. Lucas Littles told me to challenge him to an arm wrestling match. As previously established my upper body strength is not something that anyone would desire. The way I see it, there is just too much time involved to make myself look anywhere near a normal weight for someone my height (plus it is embarrassing when you are straining to bench press 80 lbs down in the gym, when surrounded by guys who have no purpose in life other than to lift heavy things that don’t really need to be lifted). This guy would have killed me. I decided that it would be advantageous for me to back down from the challenge. You can call it cowardice. You can call me a panzee. I don’t care, what am I going to do fight you? I backed down. Then the idea was purposed (I believe by Josh Brown, but can’t be quoted) that I should arm wrestle the waitress.

Any guy who has been in this situation knows that it is a no win situation at this point. There is no way to gracefully beat her; because if you do you will be labeled a jerk. However; if you let her win, the five guys surrounding me will never let it go. As it was, they had all of their cell phones out recording the grudge match. Behind our table there was a table of a couple guys who had been at the restaurant the entire time we had been there. I had lost count of the number of margarita's and beers that their table had consumed, but it was well over the amount that any self respecting adult should partake of in public. One of the guys at my table turned to them and informed them that I would be arm wrestling the waitress. The leader of the group (I deduced that he was the leader by the fact that he was the first to speak, the most drunk, and the most incoherent) began to speak to me in what sounded like a Cajun accent. Sure enough it could have been simply a southwest Missouri accent, but he was so inebriated that your guess is as good as mine. This man began threatening me with embarrassment should I lose. He threatened to hang me upside down from the rafters, like a piñata, if she was to beat me. This in fact would be where my nickname from him would come from. For the rest of the night he would refer to me as piñata.

The waitress made her way over to our table and promptly informed us that she was having a rough night. She was responsible for all of the tables on the patio, which judging from the quality of the people that I had observed there, seems to have been quite the ordeal. Upon setting at our table she let me know that she had a lot of pent up rage from the night. This posed a serious problem for me. (1) She was kind of scary. (2) The rage that she was carrying was apparently at this point allocated in my direction. At this point in time no clear cut solution presented itself, so I proceeded on with the match. We grabbed hands. Just as our hands met, moron #2 from the drunken table walked over and placed his hands on top of ours. He had appointed himself referee. Suddenly this has taken a turn for the serious. We got the paparazzi made up of all of my friend’s video taping with their cell phones. We have the hecklers, meaning the drunk guy that is affectionately calling me “piñata” at the top of his lungs. Servers and bus boys are taking breaks to watch, and I wasn’t sure, but I think I heard it announced over the intercom. Plus there is the referee, who now has my hand and her hand in a death grip. There was no backing out now. Why is it that we feel it necessary to maintain our pride in front of complete strangers?

I really felt good about my odds. That is until I heard the word “go.” At that point, as opposed to letting go of our hands and allowing us to fairly arm wrestle, he slams mine and her hand in the direction that she was aiming for and declared her the winner. It was over in less than a second. Now this story is completely true, but is currently lacking the video evidence. If you look really closely at the video tape, you can see glimpses of him helping her out. But the tape hides it quite well. I am not lying to you here. I was cheated. Now without any pride, and any dignity, I stand before a broken and dejected man. For I know that I was cheated and am unable to prove it. Part of me wants a rematch. Part of me wants to forget being beaten, even if it was cheating.

I guess this does save me the embarrassment of actually losing. But I still think I could have taken her.

Why do I tell the previous story; because the other night at youth group,

I WAS ONCE AGAIN BEATEN UP BY A GIRL!

Where as the waitress was in her twenties, I was dominated at youth group by a 15 year old girl who will never be in the position to have to lie about her weight. She might go 75 pounds on a good day. I was watching the Cowboys game in the fellowship hall when she snuck up on me. She approached me on my six; while I was unaware (I would like to let all people know that this was an unprovoked attack). Her next move was to strike me with a fun noodle in the back of my head. She did this twice. I grabbed the nearest fun noodle and went to pummeling her. During the course of this epic battle (which I was winning), I knocked her weapon out of her hand. It had landed behind her on the tile floor of the fellowship hall. Understanding that upon her retrieval she would once again use the noodle to attack me, I had to win the race for retrieval. Throwing caution to the wind, I threw myself, head first, at the motionless noodle. My hand graced the foam, just as my shoulder hit her calf, throwing her off balance and into a sitting position on my head. Her landing on my head drove my orbital into the tile floor, opening a nice gash above my left eye. Blood poured down both sides of my eye. The bleeding finally stopped. It could probably use a couple stitches, but I don’t really want to deal with the hospital to get them.

Earlier in my ministry one of my sponsors broke his nose on a kids shoulder while playing a game. At the hospital he was more concerned about how Jake felt, the owner of the shoulder that broke his nose. In that same position, I thought Ramsey was going to cry. I felt bad for her because it wasn’t her fault, but she was really concerned.

Here is what my eye looked like, post bloodshed.