I've got a couple. I'll use real names too.

Sixth grade at Skiles Middle School in Evanston. There was a basic presumption that the black guys were faster, stronger, better athletes, and better fighters than the white guys. I even bought into the concept myself. Some idiots have never rid themselves of the silly idea. A few of them even have radio shows.

Anyway, a brother named Darryl "Lemonhead" Verner figured he could bully me. I was already dressed for gym and he came into the locker room talking smack. I wasn't having it and it was on. We slapped the shit out of each other for several minutes until the gym teachers, Mr. Fleming and Mr. Moore came in and broke it up. They sent us down to the principal's office. We had to sit on a bench waiting for Mr. DeMano or Ms. Pate to call us in and give us hell. Darryl was in his street clothes but I was wearing the Skiles gym uniform of blue shorts and a white t-shirt. I felt goddamn silly. But Darryl and I commiserated on the bench and by the time Ms. Pate called us in we were friends. She slapped us on our wrists. We never fucked with each other throughout the remainder of middle school.

The next year, this little punk named Howie Wallach started fucking with me. He was in sixth grade and I was in seventh, but I was a year ahead of myself so we were about the same age. This thing turned into one of those staged events where we agreed to meet in the woods across Dempster after school. Word spread throughout the whole school. At 3:00 p.m. a shitload of kids marched across the street to watch us.

I knew I could beat the shit out this kid. I tried to let him out gracefully, but he wouldn't take it. So I took him down and pounded him for awhile. His asshole friends were kicking me in the sides and back as I punched his face. When my friends tried to stop them, they were grabbed by the eighth grade brothers of the sixth graders who didn't like me or my friends. After a little bit, I let him up. He had refused to remove his glasses so they were fucked up. Again, I tried to let him out gracefully. I offered to shake his hand, but he slapped the gesture away and tripped me. I beat the living fuck out of him after that. His face was all bloody. He walked home with his tail between his legs. I seemed to have earned some new respect from the eighth graders too.

After I was home for an hour or so our doorbell rang. It was Howie's mom complaining that I beat up her son. I got in all kinds of trouble. I tried to explain it. I even had my friends saying how gallant I was. My mom was having none of it. I got fucking grounded.

The next day at school, though, word was out how I tried to let the kid go and he had tripped me when I wasn't looking and then snitched to his mom. One of his close friends, a kid named David Eisenberg, even came up to me and told me that he thought it was bullshit that Howie had told his mom and that I should smash his face again.