We all have that one group of friends who have been with you since you were a kid. The ones who have stuck with you through everything. The ones who you have grown up with for so long that you don’t remember a time when they weren’t a part of your life. The ones that, when you’re with them, always did something stupid.
There were three guys I always hung out with throughout high school and we were always coming up with ideas to keep us entertained and if we didn’t…we just beat the hell out of each other. Like typical teenage boys, we watched professional wrestling religiously! We watched a couple different shows every week, we called each other when something cool happened, we ordered all the Pay-Per-Views and watched them together, and, of course, we beat the hell out of each other whenever we got together. We challenged each other to see if we could escape some painful submission move or to see if we could pin each other down for the three count. One of my friends had a finished basement and another had a bedroom over his garage – these two were the best places for our shenanigans because it was harder for parents to hear the debauchery ensuing under their roofs. My house didn’t have a lot of battle space. Not that we didn’t engage in a bout…or fifty…at my place, we just did so and freaked my parents out more (both of my parents have high blood pressure now, but I’m pretty sure that’s just a coincidence). I remember one epic evening when we had ordered a Pay-Per-View special event in which there was to be a main event where the two be-mulleted, speedo-ed gladiators were to face each other in battle for a solid hour; whoever had the most pins or got their opponent to submit the most within that hour would be declared the winner. Unfortunately, something went terribly wrong with the broadcast and it was blacked out. Well, when life gives you lemons…beat your friends with them! We moved Mom’s coffee table and decided we would have a four-man, 60-minute battle! I remember hearing my mother say (a few times), “Be careful. I don’t want anyone getting hurt!”
That woman is a prophet.
I don’t remember who was the champion (although one of the guys was a head taller and fifty pounds heavier than the rest of us and had a granite physique from swimming a couple miles a day – so I think my money is on him) but I know we all ended up in pretty bad shape. Lots of bumps, bruises, brush burns, and fat lips. My mom was not too pleased when she went to the grocery store (where, of course, all four of us worked) and saw one of my friends in the produce department and realized, he no longer had the ability to move his head (he pulled a muscle out of his neck and his head was cocked to the side for a couple days – Mom wasn’t amused – we thought it was freaking hilarious).
We didn’t always battle each other, though. We also had an affinity for making movies with my parents’ camcorder. But we didn’t want to make boring stuff, so we began to worry my parents by falling down the stairs, kicking open doors, and once jumping fully clothed into the lake. I think it was around the time my father came home and found one of my friends dressed in my mother’s clothes that they decided to stop complaining when we busied ourselves by beating each other up.
Now the years have passed. We’re all married. We have eight children between us with two more on the way. We have gained a lot of weight and lost a lot of hair. But some things never change…
After I had my health scare that sent me to the hospital for a few days, I started paying more attention to my health. I lost a lot of weight and I decided I wanted to take up a physical activity to keep building up my strength so I started going to karate with my older son. He left his kid’s class and joined his dojo’s all-ages, all-levels class with me. After I had been doing it for about 9 months, I got a call from one of my friends. He wanted to get back in shape too and wanted to know if he should join the class with me…
So here we are. Almost a quarter of a century later. Flipping each other onto the ground. Slapping on a chokehold. Trying to get each other to tap out from a shoulder or leg lock. We’re grunting, groaning, sweating, and taking a lot longer to stand back up than we used to, but we’re still laughing the whole time because, deep down, we’re still those stupid boys who just need to satisfy that insatiable yearning to open up a can of Whoop-Ass on their friends.
Our wives are so proud.
Bobbing for Popcorn 