Battle Fatigue by Mark Kurlansky

chicken.” He throws another right. To show my contempt I don’t even try to block it. It lands on the side of my head and doesn’t hurt. There is nothing in his punches. I put down both my arms and let him swing—right, left, right, right. He is breathing heavily—clouds are billowing out of his mouth. I have him. It is working. And then, disaster.
    Rocco Pizzutti impatiently shoves his way into the middle of the circle and unleashes his left, sending Brian sprawling on the frozen ground.
    â€œJeez, Rocco, why’d you do that?” Brian is almost crying.
    â€œYou want to hit someone, hit me!”
    â€œI don’t want to hit you, Rocco.”
    So why, I wonder, does he want to hit me? I am standing there in the center of the circle but no longer a part of the scene, feeling sorry for Brian Sorenstag. Also feeling sorry for me.
    Later I say to Rocco, “Why’d you have to interfere?”
    â€œI wasn’t going to stand there and let him hit you.”
    â€œWhy not? I was winning. Didn’t you see that?”
    â€œWinning,” he says, rolling his eyes. “The guy was using you for a punching bag.”
    â€œAnd he was all punched out.”
    Rocco’s face suddenly breaks into a smile. “Then you were going to nail him down?”
    â€œNo. Then I was going to walk away.”
    â€œThat’s why I hit him.”
    â€œWho asked you to interfere?”
    Thanks to Rocco, I now have a fight a day. They all want to see if it is true that I won’t fight. It is true. Once it becomes clear that Rocco Pizzutti is not going to interfere again, I start drawing kids who are looking for a safe chance to win a fight. They are no good at all. I stand there with my arms down and they swing away, timidly at first, and then more freely once they feel reassured that nothing is going to happen to them. But they don’t know how to hit and nothing hurts me and there is no glory in hitting someone who just stands there and doesn’t fight back. Soon everyone gives up on fighting me.
    That is what I wanted but now I am beginning to wonder if it is worth the price. No one wants to talk to me. Stanley avoids me. Donnie smiles pleasantly at me but seems far away. Even Rocco doesn’t have much to say. Angela Pizzutti is polite but doesn’t tell me about the Kennedy conspiracy anymore. Donna Belini doesn’t want to be seen near me. Susan Weller never looks in my direction. When Myrna Levine sees me she doesn’t even giggle. Should I tell my mother there’s no chance for Myrna anymore? I suppose they all have their reasons. No one wants to discuss it, so I don’t know exactly what their thinking is. But I kind of do.

    My little brother, Sam, comes home from school and, without saying a word, closes his fist and throws a hard punch that lands on my chest. I am getting used to being hit. Actually, he throws a better punch than most of the big kids. It turns out my brother is mad at me because now he has to fight all the time because kids are curious to see if he will fight too. I tell him that if he shows them he won’t fight, kids will stop challenging him. But his only response is to throw another punch in my direction.
    I know that once baseball season starts again, if my batting is good, the whole thing about not fighting will be forgotten. Until then I’m going to school and coming home and spending my time next door at the Panicellis’. I am living like a German exchange student.
    I am helping Dickey work on a 1957 Chrysler, two-tone, turquoise and white. We have a hard time with the push-button transmission but finally get it working, and we rebuild the huge eight-cylinder Hemi engine. It takes two of us to handle, disassemble, and clean the giant 360-cubic-inch engine block and replace the gaskets.
    Mrs. Panicelli brings us little sugary Italian cookies. Popeye comes home in the late afternoon and talks about the Communists. He