I have several thoughts about bullying. The stuff about preying on the weak those without guile and lacking street smarts.
I have been told I am too skeptical, cynical and filled with conspiracy theories, and at the same time I'm too open and willing to accept certain things at face value. That's oxymoron stuff. How can that be? Especially how can that be when you're as simple-minded as I am?
I don't look for complexities in what people tell me. I want to believe, but unfortunately, if you're bamboozled too many times, you tend to build protective, skeptical, cynical walls.
I generally blame my chosen profession for these walls of skepticism. When you've been fed too much malarkey for too many years you tend to choke on the aftertaste. It's an affliction you get if you hang out too long around politicians, preachers, self-help gurus, cyber scammers, motivational speakers and combinations thereof.
Bullies aren't bullies unless you let them be bullies.
Or if you don't like that one how about this: Some bullies don't even know they're bullies.
Or, some bullies have to be bullies because they've been trained to be bullies.
There is no straight-ahead bully, just for the sake of being a bully.
In high school, I played football. I was often found on the offensive line. I got knocked down a lot because I was too small, and at that time, too light. Those who did the knocking down were by definition physical bullies.
In our league, we had no weight or age classifications. You played or you didn't.
One particular bully, Keith, who played defence for the Panthers, a team from another town we met three times each season, was the baddest of all bullies. Keith played on the defensive line, right across from me and his shortest route to our quarterback was through me. In one game, he stepped on my hand and broke one of my fingers. I figure it was on purpose. He also knocked the wind out of me three times in that same game. Three times! I was a mess of dirt and humiliation. I rose from my burial ground the third time and after about 40 seconds managed to point at the referee who was standing over me with the football, impatiently waiting for me to get up so he could reset the ball for the next play, while a trainer was slapping my face thinking I may have fainted. Trainers weren't that well trained in those days. They were usually the guys who didn't like football but liked to hang around cheerleaders.
"Don't you see what he's doing?" I gasped, fighting for the second last breath of what I thought was going to be my end-of-life moment.
"Doing what? I didn't see anything," said the referee, who also happened to be our Grade 11 social studies teacher who had just given me a 78 per cent on a mid-term paper, so I wasn't going to argue too vehemently.
"He's kneeing me big time, every time," I complained.
"So?"
That was his response.
"So?"
Kneeing, apparently, is legal in football.
Four plays later, Henry, the biggest guy on our team ran after Keith, the largest guy on the Panthers, and pretty well hammered him right smartly. The fact he did it well after the whistle was even more entertaining. They were ejected from the game, Henry with bruised ribs and knuckles, Keith with a bloody nose and mouth. I stayed in the game, windless and winless. Justice done.
Years later I met Keith at a wedding dance. We shared a few Bacardi family treats and toasted one another. He was still over 250 pounds, so any more physical revenge was far down my agenda. He swore he couldn't remember that particular game or events.
"Aw, I was in so many fights back then, hard to remember any one in particular," he laughed. "Thank God I grew out of that stuff. Hey, let me buy ya another one and we'll talk about cheerleaders."
Keith went from being a bully to being my next best friend for two more hours. But if we meet up again, he's still going to buy the first round.
