Pillow Fight!

My brother Marc and I were discussing this episode during a post-Thanksgiving dinner belly scratch, so I thought I would tackle the topic.  I've told this story many times, but this is the first attempt at putting it to paper.

One summer Saturday afternoon when I was eleven, and we were living on Yokota AFB, Japan, my parents figured I was responsible enough to watch my two younger brothers by myself.  Marc was nine, and David had just turned seven.  Mom and Dad went to the bowling alley for some kind of church social.

As I have mentioned previously, the three of us used to wrestle for fun on Sunday afternoons.  After that fad had subsided, we moved on to pillow fighting.  And here there were no holds barred.  Any pillow, any stuffed animal was fair game.  The only rule was that you couldn't stuff anything hard inside the pillowcase during the fight.  (We all know why rules have to be made.)  The fight ended when the other two surrendered.  We usually never got that far but had to stop when Mom discovered what we were doing.

But back to this particular a Saturday afternoon with no parental supervision.  I, as the eldest and biggest and strongest (I didn't even exercise), was beating the living crap out of Marc and David.  I stood atop Marc’s Superman bedspread in the far corner of the room as he and David attacked one at a time.  As soon as I would bludgeon one, the other would attack.  I would pummel him, and the process would repeat.  To this day I still wonder that they never attacked me together.  For about half an hour the cycle would repeat.  Smash.  Stagger. Smash. Stagger.

Whether I had administered the world’s first pillow concussion, or whether he finally got smart, I don’t know (and neither does he; I asked him the other day as we were reminiscing the scene), but as I would up for another plush kill shot, Marc ducked.

Definitely thrown off balance by his modified game plan, I slipped off the bed, my momentum spinning me three times in the air in one of those slower-than-life-speech-blurring- scenes where you are aware of what is about to happen but can’t do anything about it.  I crashed my head hard on the corner of a metal wall heater then collapsed to the floor.

Dazed for a few seconds, I shook it off and hauled myself to my feet.  My head didn't hurt too much, just a good knock to the noggin—not even concussion-consideration-worthy.   Then I noticed the large indentation my head had created in the metal.  Wow! I wondered how long it would be before anyone else (with authority) noticed.

And then David started shrieking like a little girl.  “You’re bleeding.  You’re gonna die!”

I reached back to feel the point of impact, and sure enough, it came back bathed in bright crimson.

I went to the bathroom mirror and noticed that the back of my neck was now red, as was my T-shirt.  It was dripping pretty quickly.  For some reason, I did not panic.  I got a spare towel (made sure it was an old one, Mom) and stuck it to my head, applying pressure because that’s what scouts who have their First Aid merit badge do.  See, kids.  Paying attention at Scout meetings pays off.

I sent Marc to fetch our neighbor Mrs. Brown, who knew how to contact Mom and Dad.  They returned swiftly, and the next thing I knew I was in the ER getting one stitch in my head.  Not too shabby.  Mom thought I would need to be numbed, but the doc said it would be easier to stitch it up right away.  And so I discovered that I have a high tolerance for sharp things in my head.  It didn't hurt a bit.

What did hurt was when I returned to have the stitch removed by the flight surgeon (or whoever was on call).  He cut the stitch, but then pulled the wrong end.  So the ginormous non-boy scout knot went first back through my scalp and into my head, and then came back out the other hole, which promptly bled into my hair for a minute or two.  Ouch!

And within a day or two my brothers and I were back at it again.

Sunday Afternoon Wrestling

This was written (with my students) after reading Eoin Colfer’s “Artemis Begins” from Guys Read: Funny Business.

Unlike most brothers, we didn’t beat the crap out of each other out of anger.  No, the abuse was voluntary and most of the time encouraged by the recipients.  I don’t think I did too much damage without their consent—just an occasional dead-arm punch.

Back when there were just the three of us boys, we established a weekly tradition when we lived in Japan.  For some reason Sunday afternoons were sacredly observed as Mom’s nap time.  We’d come home from church, have a large dinner—usually chicken and rice, lasagna, or something else loaded with carbs, and then Mom would disappear for a few hours.  Sometimes, when Dad was home, we’d wrestle with him, and then settle down for a movie.

Every once in a while, Dad would have an extra meeting, or would be gone on a TDY for the Air Force, and we’d have to entertain ourselves while Mom slumbered.  Of course, it was only natural to carry on our tradition of Sunday afternoon wrestling.  However, without Dad to supervise, it would get out of control and heads would get busted, eyes poked, feelings hurt; but we kept fighting for the fun of it.  And without fail, we’d wake up Mom, and that would be the end—the rest of Sunday spent in our rooms, apart from each other.

One Saturday we watched WrestleMania III where Hulk Hogan defeated Andre the Giant.  By the next day Marc had perfected his impersonation of Randy “Macho Man” Savage, and was in rare (annoying) form.  I decided to try a new move on my brothers.  I was getting tired of using the same techniques that kept them at bay; I needed to inflict a new type of pain.  You see, as I was the oldest, they usually tag-teamed against me when Dad wasn't there to keep things even.  Sometimes, they would attack at once and try to pin me.  They never could.  Ever.  Still can’t.

A few months before, my parents purchased new blue-gray couches for the living room.  They were tired of the ugly basic brown base furniture the military supplied.  The back stood about three or four feet off the ground: the perfect height, or so I thought, to be the “top rope” of our wrestling ring.

After I had knocked both Marc and David to the floor, I climbed to the top rope, and jumped at them with my arms stretched out for a double clothesline as they staggered to their feet.  It worked a little too well.

Unfortunately, I fell faster than I had anticipated, and when I caught both of them, sending them thudding back to the floor, their resistance didn’t slow me down at all.  My head smacked into the thinly carpeted floor.  All three of us lay there for what seemed like forever.  No one cried.  No one tattled.  But our wrestling careers seriously calmed down after that.  When we half-heartedly started back up, David tried the same aerial tactic multiple times, but I would just catch him mid-air and set him on the couch.  Somehow, wrestling my brothers lost its luster for me.  It was never the same again.  I would never lose.

Just a few summers ago, Marc, David, Nicole, and Dad all ganged up on me to try and throw me in the inflatable kiddie pool set up for the grandkids.  Guess who the only one who didn't get wet was?