The King is Dead...

The timeless theme of the old lion fighting the young lion is understood across cultural boundaries. Vegas odds are usually on the young lion. But it is by no means a surety that the younger belligerent wins. The 30-year Peloponnesian War is a good example. The Athenians were asserting their power after taking a leading role in repulsing the Persian Empire. This naturally led them into conflict with the Spartans who originally claimed martial supremacy of the Greek world. The war was devastating on an apocalyptic scale for both city-states. But it ended with the old lion sacking Athens. A counter example would be the Americans knocking the holy hell out of the Mesopotamians in the Persian Gulf War. Time is always against the old fighter. He gets winded fucking, his joints are calcified, his teeth get dull.

A major milestone in the lives of most young men is when they can beat their fathers at something they were trounced at when they were younger. My father and I used to play one-on-one basketball in the shop. He was an excellent ball-handler and had the rhythm not seen in the average white man. I wanted to be in the NBA. But I couldn’t reach that mountain top until I could beat my dad. One night I remember distinctly...

It’s not easy to guard a man a hundred pounds heavier and six inches taller, slipping and sliding on shop dust. Due to the sloping roof, jumpers were out of the question, save for trick shots banking off a joist. So it was all driving to the hoop. My dad would give a graceful studder step, get me on my heels, put his head down and drive hard to the hoop. It was kind of a get-off-the-rails-or-get-hit-by-the-train situation. I was twelve.

After beating me 10-2 he would give me an embarrassed handshake and suggest we head to the house. I declined, with the excuse that I should sweep up the shop before I left. It was late. My chest was heaving, my shirtless torso was covered in dirt and sweat. I swept the shop out. And sobbed. Swept. And thought of the day he would find the prudence to get off the rails.

If you’d hear my father tell it, he was the 1960s Boston Celtics of the Indian Leg Wrestling world. He claimed he had never been beaten. As our volunteer coach for our 5th grade traveling basketball team, he organized an Indian Leg Wrestling tournament at practice, with the winning athlete taking on the coach. With immense pride, I won the tournament, despite cries of illegal elbow usage and other such trifles. Then I got to take on my old man. Even at eleven, I felt confident in an upset. Right up until the three count and our legs hooked. And then I felt myself tumbling asshole over elbow along the hardwood.

A decade later the time came. We were branding calves. When we got halfway done, we took a beer break. My father, half-joking, suggested we hold an Indian Leg Wrestling tournament (it’s called Criss Cross Apple Sauce Leg Wrestling now). I was more than keen for that. I had been lifting. Just got back from Iraq. Blood was now an aphrodisiac, and my preferred meal of the day was dragon fire.

We got in position in the middle of the corral for all to see, lying amongst the hay and dirt and shit and calf testicles. Our arms were locked together. The right legs swung up, like jousting knights raising their lances in salute. The left legs swung up. When the left legs lowered each competitor was to swing the right leg back up, hook behind the knee of their opponent, and try to roll them. When my right leg swung up, I put enough force into it to nearly tap the dirt behind my head. Like a compressed suspension coil, I released, hooked behind his knee, and expected the inertia to tumble my dad right off his throne.

But something unexpected happened. I didn’t roll him over. His upper half remained supine. His right foot was pinioned to the ground next to his ear. The motion was accompanied by a prolonged ripping sound. I was embarrassed for him at first because I thought he had torn his pants.

It wasn’t his pants. From knee-back to asshole I had torn his hamstring asunder. Fifteen years later it remains the proudest moment of my life. It’s not so much that I needed to beat my father but tear his fucking throat out and place his blood-splattered crown upon my head. Metaphorically speaking.

And look pensively over my shoulder at my growing sons.

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