TAKING ON DOMINIC

Hello and welcome back to my blog.

Most of us can remember at least one unforgettable character from our middle school years that we either despised or had an altercation with. Mine was a kid named Dominic. And yes, we sparred. Being a scrawny little guy through most of my teen-aged years did not allow me the pleasure of winning many physical battles, but this was one of the rare times that I did. Don’t you just love a story where the underdog wins out? I sure do! Enjoy.

I tried staying away from Dominic Sorrentino. I really did.  But he always seemed to be somewhere in my peripheral vision, when I least expected it.

Dominic and I attended middle school together.  We had very few things in common except that we were both Italian.  And even then I wasn’t sure his ancestors came from the boot or they arrived here to the states aboard a trade ship from India.  He didn’t have a discernable Italian accent, not even a slight hint of a New Jersey one, but he did have that dark olive skin tone.  That’s one thing we did share. 

Almost all the boys in my class were around my age, 13- or 14-years-old.  Some kids were just experiencing their growth spurts, showing signs of little black hairs growing on their face and underarms and their voices changing frequently, like playful tabbies with squeak toys.  And then there’s acne, a teenager’s worst nightmare.

There is usually no escaping that grossness, no matter how much you try to hide it. It only gets worse. My face was so bad that one time my smart-assed older sister tried to use a magic marker to trace out the island nation of Zanzibar on my cheek.

Dominic’s pubescent hormones kicked in way before anyone else’s did.  He had that distinctive thick neck, lots of arm and face hair. It seemed like he was growing at least an inch a day, trying to mimic your standard bamboo stalk. 

But what I noticed more than anything else was his meanness.  We were never what some kids would call friends, but as far as I knew, we weren’t enemies either.  I’m sure his current mood swings were due to his newly acquired daily deliveries of testosterone.  One day he would whisk right past me without so much as a glance, and the next day he would use his bulldog malice to frighten and intimidate me.  I would just shrug it off most days. I knew that he was dealing with only a handful of dyslexic hamsters spinning on their hamster wheels within his tiny adolescent brain.

My “growth spurt” was uneventful at best.  I managed to sprout a few dark hairs here and there. However, my hopes of rising to the top number of the seven-foot vinyl ruler hanging in the school nurses examination room was never going to materialize.  But what I didn’t have in height, I made up for in bulk.

I was really good at gymnastics, rope climbing and track. I was really fast and proficient on the pommel horse too. Unfortunately, once I put on a few muscles and my chest widened a bit, I was forced to participate in other P.E. activities like wrestling. 

The teachers divided the kids up into pairs, using our last names as criteria. It didn’t matter whether your body was built out of twigs or your legs were sturdy as red oak trees.  Guess who they paired me up with.  Yep! Good ol’ Dominic.  Upon hearing my sparring partner’s name, I gasped slightly and began thinking of ways to get out of this match with my nemesis.  Should I fake a headache? Should I conjure up a fake fainting spell and play dead? 

Mr. Smith blew his little blue whistle and waved his hand in the air, motioning for us to come front and center.  The rest of the kids had already placed their bets on who was going to be mincemeat at the end of the match. For the most part, it wasn’t going to be Dom.

Mr. S. pushed the button on top of the large analog timer, signaling the three-minute countdown. Dom and I walked around each other a couple of times with outstretched arms on each other’s shoulders.  His eyes were fixed on my now frightened face, and I could tell that the fight mode dial lever in his brain was inching way past the “kill” mark.  We circled some more, and with a fierce look on his face, you could tell that he was ready to strike.  Just then, I dove for his left leg. I quickly pushed it back far enough that he lost his balance and toppled over me, with his face landing on the red mat below.  Before his hamsters could get back on their treadmills, I jumped on his back, grabbed his right arm, swung it over the small of his back and sat on it.  My scrawny 130 pounds was just enough to keep him from moving, as I heard Mr. Smith announce the last two numbers of his countdown.   

Coach ran up to me and grabbed my arm, pulled it up over my head with the rest of my body following, and declared me the winner.    Dominic was sitting up on the mat by now and was finally aware of what had transpired.  He stood up, walked over to me, and shook my hand. “Good job, WOP-Boy” he said.  I said thanks back and walked off the mat. 

Some of the guys in the class congratulated me and patted me in various places.  “We didn’t know you had it in you Ricky!” one kid exclaimed.  “Taking on the Dom… now that’s a feat in itself, huh!”  I just turned and said, “it helps if you had a good trainer.” Then the kid asked, “who are you talking about?”  Oh, I commented, “that would be one Mr. Rocky Marciano.”  “He’s one of my mafia dad’s closest buddies.”

I never had to worry about getting picked on again in middle school.  High school, however, was another story.

I hope you enjoyed reading this latest adventure. If you did, I would love for you to write a comment and if you haven’t yet subscribed to my blog, please do so you can get more of these great stories to share with others. Caio!