Thump!

Thump!
That hurt!
Thwamp!

Man, that was below the belt. Flipping cheater. What happened to a fair, clean fight? Take a breath, Dylan. Breathe! Pants. Bending over and clutching my stomach doesn’t help. Maybe if I stood up again. Oh no! Here comes his fist again. Ugh!

Phew, I can breathe again. Why has it gone all dark? Never mind, at least I’m not in pain, now. You know what? I hate bullies. OK, as a statement, that isn’t exactly earth shattering. Everyone hates bullies. Apart from, probably, bullies. Unless they’re bullied. As if. Anyway, my point is this - bullies are unbeatable. I have tried to do everything my mum, dad, mates told me … oh but, by the way, not teachers. It’s pointless going to them for advice. No matter how well meaning, the teacher only lets the bully know that you grassed him (or her) up, then the bully gets real mad and then the bully takes it out on you even more. Mum and Dad’s advice? Ignore the bully. Hard to ignore someone who is constantly on your case. Take yesterday, for example …

The bully - I won’t name him (that would be conceding fact that he is a human being, with intelligent thoughts and feelings like the rest of us). It’s Dave by the way. Dave! What a rubbish name for a bully. I would feel less inadequate if he had a more menacing name. Dracula or something like that. I call him Snotforbrains. SFB for short. Getting picked on by a Dave just doesn’t seem right somehow. Anyway, SFB and his gang spotted me in the canteen. I was sitting with my mates chatting about the usual stuff that begins with X, X-Factor, X-Box and X-Men: specifically, who would win a fight between Jedward, our avatars from Call of Duty and Wolverine, when I heard the words that made my vegetable ragu (thank you Jamie Oliver, NOT!) turn in my stomach.
‘Look here everyone! It’s Girls Aloud! Give us a tune then, Cheryl.’ SFB licked his grubby index finger and stuck it in my ear.

And this brings me to the reason I’m picked on. I play the violin. I’m quite good, honest, but what playing the violin has to do with Girls Aloud, I have no idea. I suppose it’s just the warped mind of a bully struggling for new insults to come up with. SFB picked up my bowl of veggie mush and held it above my head.
‘I said play something, dweeboid!’ He tilted the bowl, the contents splooshing agonisingly towards its edge. A small piece of broccoli landed on my cheek.
Everyone was looking at me. Everyone! I reached out tentatively, touched my violin case and then looked up at the bowl. It’s hard to describe how I felt, but I was mostly angry. So angry, not just with SFB, but with everything in my life. Why me? But I decided to take Mum and Dad’s advice. I ignored what was happening and continued my conversation.
‘Yeah, Wolverine probably would win, but only if he could stop laughing at Jedward’s hair before …’
Everyone was laughing at me, everyone.
Lukewarm tomato sauce oozed down my forehead. A dollop of cauliflower came to rest on the end of my nose. To add insult to injury, SFB jammed the empty bowl on my head. If I was angry before, this made me angrier than an angry thing winning first prize in an angry competition on Planet Angry. Incredible Hulkish green-turning angry. In a moment of madness, I took my mates’ advice. Did I tell you what that was? No? Er, fight him.

Ding! Ding!

What was that? A bell. Not the school bell. That kinda goes, “drrrrank”. It hadn’t always gone “drrrrank”. That was only after SFB’s older brother had covered the bell with papier mache. It runs in the family. Nonetheless this was a vaguely familiar ding-ding.
‘Open your eyes, son. Open your eyes,’ a strange, gruff voice rasped. I suppose I better do as the man ordered. Aagh, bright lights. Close your eyes, Dylan!
Someone grabbed me by the armpits and dragged me to my feet.
‘Come on lad. Only one round to go and you’ve got him! Just stay on your feet.’
What? One round to go? I’m shoved down on a seat, which is a good thing as my legs feel very wobbly. Two hard slaps to my face and I open my eyes again. It took a few seconds, but the craggy features of an old man come into focus. He looks very serious.
‘Dylan, can you hear me? How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Er, two, no three. Who are you? Where am I?’ My voice sounds weird! Is this me speaking?
‘I think he’s concussed,’ the old man whispers to a young boy, who’s holding a bucket of foul smelling gunk under my nose.
‘It’s me, Dixie, your trainer for the last 5 years, you dunderhead. Dylan, you’ve got to pull yourself together!’
A couple of more slaps. I instinctively put my hands to my face. But, I don’t see my hands. I see two big, thick, red, leather gloves. Where are my hands? I look down at my legs. They’re bare and they’re hairy! That is totally gross. My thighs are massive, like my Dad’s. So much for “where am I?”; who the heck am I? I think I’d better rewind.

After I challenged SFB, it had been agreed that the fight should take place behind the sports hall at lunchtime the next day. I had a whole twenty-four hours to think about what was to come. It was not a good twenty-four hours thinking. Several things are available to an 11 year old boy to keep his mind occupied: TV, video games, the latest Darren Shan book, annoying little sister, etc. Nothing I tried seemed to work. Every two or three minutes, my subconscious reminded me that SFB was going to mush me to a pulp. I am not exactly small for my age, but compared to the orc-like SFB I’m a hobbit. I’ve never been in a fight, but I knew my part would involve a lot of ducking as opposed to hitting. I’m ashamed to admit I ended up helping Mum make chocolate muffins. It did help, a bit. I even washed the dishes.

The hour of the fight came all too quickly. I thought of feigning illness to avoid school, but that would just have postponed things, and make me look like a coward. So, at 12:30 I found myself facing SFB, surrounded by a screaming mob of bloodthirsty spectators. Even a few from Year 2.
OK, I remember things seem to go well, for a few moments. SFB and myself just stood there, hurling insults at each other. It seemed SFB was as reluctant to fight as I was. I had a few seconds of blissful relief, thinking that I wouldn’t have to go through with it, until, egged on by the crowd, he thumped me in the stomach. Then he punched me on the nose and then it went dark and then I opened my eyes and now I have hairy legs and seem to be a professional boxer. “Weird” doesn’t really cover it. Have I been in a coma for ten years? Am I dead and is this some sort of hellish afterlife punishing me for my earthly sins? (Note to self: never annoy little sister again). Am I dreaming? Have I travelled in time?

‘Spit!’ the old man tells me. I dutifully release a large globule of blood and saliva into the smelly bucket.
Ding! Ding!
‘Get up there and fight. You can do it Dylan!’ The old man hoists me to my feet and shoves me into the ring.
Well, this is flipping typical, I escape one fight against a raving nutter to find myself facing another. Best put my fists up near my face, like they do on the telly. Now, let’s have a look at my opponent, surely he couldn’t be worse than SFB. Anyway I’m grown-up, I’m bigger.
‘You’re going down dweeboid!’
Nope. Not worse than SFB - it is SFB. Older, uglier and, unfortunately, even bigger but, unmistakably, him. Funny though, I don’t feel afraid any more. Wow, what are my arms doing? I think they call this jabbing. I’m jabbing at grown-up SFB!. I can’t quite hit him, dang. Hang on, I’ve got an idea. If I can just get a grip on his shorts with these stupid gloves. There we go. 1, 2, 3 and … down with his shorts and pants! Classic! He didn’t expect that. He’s dropped his guard! Right. Here goes. This is the first and, hopefully, the last, time I hit anyone. It’s a cracker, right on grown-up SFB’s nose. Bulls-eye! Grown-up SFB bounces off the ropes and falls flat on his face, the arena’s spotlights shining off his big white bum. Everyone is laughing at him, everyone!
‘And the new heavy-weight champion of the world is Dylan “The Dynamo” Andersonnnnnn.’ The declaration can barely be heard over the noise of the crowd. People are jumping into the ring. The old man is lifting my arm by the wrist. Woo Hoo! Champ-ee-on-ee! Me, the best at something. Fantastic. Oh-oh! It’s going dark again…

‘Come on you girl - get up and fight.’ Not-so-grown-up SFB is grinning down at me. Rats, back to reality. Ooo, my nose hurts. Maybe if I pull his trousers down, … but then again, that wouldn’t be very nice. That’s the sort of thing SFB does to his victims. Although, it was pretty funny when I did it to grown-up SFB. I start to laugh. And laugh.
‘He’s mad! Stop laughing and get up and fight, chicken!’ SFB yells.
But I can’t stop laughing at him. The crowd begin to disperse. They obviously have better things to do than to watch me roll around in hysterics.
‘Forget this! It’s pointless when they don’t fight back.’ SFB stomps off in a huff.
Fight over. Although my nose is bleeding and my rib cage is aching, I feel as if I have won. Right now, age 11, Dylan Anderson is a bully’s victim. But I won’t be for ever. OK, so I might not end up being world heavy weight champion of the world but my point is I have my whole life ahead of me and I can be whatever I want to be. The bully is a loser now but, and, my point is, he’ll probably be a loser for ever. Mind you, there’s no harm adding boxing gloves to my Christmas list.

THE END