There are days when all I want to do is kick some serious ass. Not in the pick- a- fight- with –someone-way. I am talking about a “I am going to knock this (fill in the blank), out like you would not believe, so stand back people!” The blank may be a final paper for a class, like the one I just finished on the history of foster care. Or it could be how much I lift in a weight room filled with college guys home for the summer and buffed up over-confident business men. It can even be the thrill of finding two pairs of shoes and an entire outfit on sale for a killer price.
Recently, it was trying wake boarding for the first time at a friend’s lake house and popping up out of the water on the first try! Those “fist pump” moments fuel an addictive rush of adrenaline which bounces across the masses of grey matter in my brain as my neurons scream, “I am woman, hear me roar!” Unfortunately, in regards to the wake boarding, I celebrated my feat a little too early and within moments of my successful launch, I lost focus and face planted into the water! But I digress…
When I was little, I also felt the desire to kick some ass, specifically, Jeff Huntly’s . Jeff Huntly lived up the hill from our modest tri-level home in a similar brown tri-level. I grew up in Apple Valley Minnesota. As the name depicts, we lived in a picturesque middle class neighborhood. Our street teemed with boys around my same age. While I loved to play with dolls and Barbies with my girl friends, I preferred to run around outside playing cops and robbers or practice jumping my banana seat purple Huffy off of the ramp we haphazardly threw together .
Jeff was significantly older than most of us. He was in fifth or sixth grade, had that pasty white skin of a child who spends most of their time in front of some type of screen with a greasy hand in a potato chip bag for much of the day. He sported a gut which also spoke of his love for junk food, and liked to occasionally pick on kids half his size when he emerged from the depths of his family room to join us out in the sunshine.
In our neighborbood, the classic games like dodge ball and freeze tag never get old, but it is always fun to switch it up a little bit. One of the games we loved to play for a summer or two was WWF. As I write this, I have to struggle to think exactly what those letters stand for… World Wrestling Federation? For us, it meant wrestling, a little grandstanding, showmanship, and kicking some neighborhood butt.
Our little neighborhood gang wasn’t made up of many tough characters. There was the tear prone Read and his older, slightly buck toothed sister Kirsten. Ben, a lanky, soft spoken , sandy haired boy, who seemed much more likely to charm small animals than to wrestle anything to the ground. Jason, the older brother to three sisters was the most experienced with moves such as the headlock of a full nelson, as a result of his family make up and birth order. And of course I played as well, an average sized 7 year old with white blond hair that my mother insisted on pulling into two pony tails on each side of my head constant high pitched complaints. I kept my trusty Nike sneakers tied onto my feet at all times, with the exception of Mass on Sunday mornings.
At the beginning of each WWF game, we all called our character. I called Hulk Hogan every time. How do you not like a guy with such a cool mustache? The Hulk Hogan was blond, full of bulging muscles, and from what I understood about WWF, as my mother certainly did not let us watch it on TV, he usually won. One day, Jeff rambled down the hill to Read’s front yard to check out just what we “little kids” were doing. Jason, the oldest of the group, at age 9, told Jeff we were playing WWF. Jeff hung out as Read and Ben headed into the corners of our imaginary ring for the first round of wrestling. Kirsten served as the designated referee, as she never wanted to wrestle ,yelled, “GO!”
Reed and Ben, both gentle spirits at heart sort of chased each other around the square. White clouds floated by overhead like semi-curious bystanders. Ben grabbed for Read’s waist, and in a blink, he fell to the ground with a dense thump. We all held our breath, wondering if Read would cry, knowing Ben would feel horrible if he did. The air felt heavy, it swirled around us, a mixture of the freshly cut grass, with gasoline and melting black pavement from the street. Before anyone could offer him a hand, Read simply got up, brushed himself off; and we were ready for our next match.
Jeff stood there, sweat beginning to spread out in small semi-cirlces under the armpits of his tee-shirt, smugly watching it all. “You guys are pitiful,” he spat. “I bet none of you would last a second with me.”
“I’ll wrestle you,” I offered, my voice breaking at the realization of what I had just said. Yes, Jeff could be a jerk. In the past he had taunted Read past tears into what would probably serve as material for future therapy sessions in Reed’s later years. He made fun of Kirsten’s teeth and was quick to give any of us a punch on the shoulder while passing us on the sidewalk. Jeff turned his pale blue eyes to mine and grinned with delight. “Ok, you’re on.”
Everyone looked at each other with unease. Before anyone could voice protest to such an unfair match-up I announced, “Well, just so you know, I am Hulk Hogan.” Kids do that don’t they? They swear that the person they pretend to be will make them strong, faster, or smarter than whom they really are. At that time, I still believed that new shoes possessed freshly loaded “ running power” and that when I put them on I could run like the wind. I remember many times reaching the parking lot of the shoe store and yelling, “Hey, Mom! Watch how fast I can run!” And then being so amazed by my new ability to dash about with such speed. Telling myself and Jeff that I was indeed Hulk Hogan gave me the confidence I needed. In my head I chanted, “Hulk Hogan, Hulk Hogan, Hulk Hogan….” I imagined my small body morphing into his, muscles raising out of my skin in quick succession.
Jeff and I marched to our corners and listened for Kirsten’s “GO!” And then we were off. The ground felt hard and lumpy under my white Nikes. I dung my feet in and headed straight for Jeff’s doughy gut. I went with the only move I knew and rammed my head into him in a charging bull fashion. My lack of ever viewing a WWF match was a detriment to my game plan for sure, but I knew bull, so I put my money on the ramming move. To my astonishment, he fell to the ground, his butt a heavy weight thrown off kilter naturally sank, landing in the emerald grass. My inner Hulk yelled, “Way to go!” as I threw myself on top of him. I caught Jeff’s humiliated and now angry face just before he flipped me onto my back, taking that same weighted butt and letting it fall on my back…hard. My spine cracked as the air escaped my lungs like a defective whoopee cushion.
When I caught my breath I yelled, “GET OFF OF ME!” Jeff reluctantly stood up and rolled over as Jason stepped forward to help me up. Once standing firm on my Nikes once again, we all just looked at him. Suddenly, the yard wasn’t big for the two of us. Jeff was 5 years older than me. He won the match, but he outweighed us all by at least 50 pounds. When you are seven, twelve is a lifetime away. Jeff may have won that wrestling match, but we all knew who the tough one was that day. It was Hulk Hogan. Hulk Hogan who the tough award for that day.
In my daily life, I feel like I encounter Jeff Huntly’s all the time. They think if they can knock you down one time that they have won. Let me tell you, the real victory comes in accepting the challenge. I still think of that day sometimes, and it still makes me smile. I don’t ever want to lose sight of that feisty Kate of seven. I try to tell myself, “Game on buddy”, if I can take on Jeff Huntly as a seven year old, imagine what I can do now as a 32 year old! Bring it on. I am afterall, a Brickhouse, at least that is what I am telling myself these days!
