My first fight
I was a ferocious lion. I lost my temper uncontrollably. Nathan was bleeding incessantly from his nose.
Blood imputed on my right knee and my left hand. The entire playground stood motionless. I could perceive each and every person looking at me with sheer admiration. They gazed at me like I was a lion and Nathan was a gazelle, regardless of Nathan being virtually twice my stature.
I can still remember the events of my first fight as if they took place yesterday. I was pushed in to taking part in such an abhorrent incident on the first day of primary school during my first six months in the country. My uncle revealed to me that the reason that I had not begun school immediately was because my family arrived to the country halfway through the academic year. My family and I had just started to settle down in the country, adapting to the weather and the environment when my parents wounded me with the news that they had found me a school to grace with my presence. Endeavouring to learn a new language was demanding enough, let alone new children, teachers and books all of whom spoke a different language.
The majority of the children in my class had all attended the nursery and infants before entering primary school. Therefore, I did not share, or relate to the experiences they shared together, like playing with the sand building castles, competing in various skipping games, riding on bicycles, drinking milk in the afternoons and having much fun with the paint. As a result, I felt disconcerted by so many questions rushing through my head. Was I going to be accepted into one of or any of these groups of eight year olds? Was I going to be the only one without a partner when doing paired work? Was I going to be the only one sitting unaccompanied in the dining hall?
Unfortunately, the events that took place aggravated me more than I expected. On the first day when the teacher was introducing me to the class, I felt so unbefitting and mortified when she publicized I had just arrived from another country. There was that split-second when some of the children looked at me like I was an outsider, an alien. Voices were whispering from each corner of the room “who is he?” I felt isolated, remote, and would never have contemplated that after two days their thoughts would be on the contrary.
After being introduced to the class by my teacher, Ms fielding introduced me to Carl, who would accompany me for the day. She then seated the pair of us on a table with two other children Nathan and David. It was time for literacy hour and everyone had to write about what they accomplished over the half-term break. As my skills were not to the standard of the other children, I decided to have a peak at what the others were writing about. To my amazement, nobody actually seemed to be doing any work apart from Carl, who later spent the majority of the morning session at the toilet. Meanwhile, David decided to smell a mixture of pens, which to this day I think is very peculiar. Nathan had written down the title “My First Fight”, but then started to doodle on a spotless new table. David brought his sniffing to a standstill and began a conversation with Nathan about football. The rest of the class were having extremely noisy conversations, in contempt of the teacher’s numerous shrieks to bring the noise to an end. It seemed that she had absolutely no control over people a third of her age.
Nevertheless, there was one person who had an immense effect on the class, Mrs Fassal, the deputy-head teacher. The second she walked in the class was so quiet a pin drop could be heard. As she walked in she had a quick glance around the classroom and she became aware of the vandalising offence Nathan had committed. She bellowed at our table asking “Who did it?” There was a slight pause. The whole class was listening as if they were an audience to a verdict. Mrs Fassal shouted again, “Who did it?”
“The new boy did it Mrs Fassal”, Nathan alleged.
“Yeah, the new boy did it Mrs Fassal”. David accused.
“And you Carl, did you see anything?”
“No Miss, I was at the toilet” Carl replied.
I felt trapped like a wild animal in a cage big enough only for a mouse. I was so infuriated with Nathan’s spitefulness, blaming me for his relentless vandalising acts. Nonetheless, I had a feeling that soon, very soon, Nathan would pay for his horrendous accusations. Mrs Fassal would not listen to any of my cries for help. However, she kept me back at morning break and yelled at me so loud, Carl later said he heard her in a playground full of screaming children.
After morning break, I remained with Mrs Fassal until lunchtime, but I was sanctioned to have my lunch break. As Carl was my escort for the day, he invited me to play a game of football with him and his friends. Nevertheless, some of Carl’s acquaintances particularly Nathan, seemed uptight on the subject of allowing me to engage in recreation. I was not perturbed in the slightest way, even so Carl managed to persuade them for me to join the game.
During the first five minutes of the game, I did not touch the ball, instead I decided to see how everyone played. It emerged that Nathan was physically the biggest in comparison to the other boys and was using this to his advantage. I noticed that all Nathan was doing was jostling anyone that came near him, or whenever he wanted the ball. None of the players seemed to confront Nathan or show any sign of discomfort. Instead, they gave out the impression they were frightened Nathan would hurt them if they showed any sign of discomposure.
Throughout my observation of the game, unexpectedly the ball arrived at my feet. Nathan was scampering towards me. We all knew what he was out to do. He had that look on his face like a tiger just about to take down his prey. Passing the ball was not an option, it was a game of knockouts, and it was everyman for himself. There were two options available to me, either to be clamped down and fall to the ground, or move out the way as soon as he lunged at me. I felt like a gazelle being run at by a lion. It was a split-second decision, so I decided to kick the ball to the left and spin around to the right as soon as he lunged at me. He fell to the ground as if he had been shot in the back. The entire playground stood in total and complete amazement.
Nathan was a raging bull. He went on his knees and tilted his head up with a fuming look, as though he was about to eradicate someone. I warned him and said “No fighting, fighting no good” however I knew he was going to take no notice. He roared like a lion and charged at me like a rampant bull. As Nathan tried to rugby tackle me I seized him in a headlock and kneed him in the face continuously. Fortunately, for Nathan we were detached by Mr Chiriste, the school keeper.
All the anger Nathan had caused me earlier, all the fury, all the upset, in addition to me being yelled at until I nearly cried was released in those few seconds. Thankfully I did not get into a great deal of trouble despite the fact I caused Nathan to bleed. The majority of the children in the playground backed me up by saying Nathan started the fight and I fought in self-defence.
The chance of me losing my temper was as likely as Mike Tyson not losing his after being slapped in the face. Even at the tender age of eight, I never lost my temper unless exceedingly provoked. It is almost impossible to imagine what it takes for such a tranquil eight year old to reach that point of anger. On that particular Wednesday, that level of anger was caused by Nathan Tyler, and he paid the price for his actions.
Looking back on my first fight, I think it is quite comical why I became so discoloured over such a minor incident. If I was in Nathan’s situation I would have almost certainly preferred to blame the new boy, rather than face a monster like Mrs Fassal. Nevertheless, the thought of eight year olds making each other bleed is quite frightening.