Once Were Warriors

One part of my life that I've never really shared with a whole lot of people is the fact that I used to fight crime. It's true. Every night, beginning when I was four, and ending abruptly when I was eight, I used to put on a black jumper over my clothes, along with blue wristbands and a black and green checkered cape. The Green Monster, they used to call me, after the very high left field wall at Fenway Park. Also, I was extremely brutal in the way that I dispatched my enemies.

Back then, we lived in Provo, Utah. Usually about once a week in The Daily Herald, you would maybe find an article about some poor sap who had been drawn and quartered after attempting to mug someone. Or maybe it would be an article about the upper half of a man pulling itself around in an attempt to find the lower half after a botched jewelry store robbery. Either way, that was me.

But this isn't really a story about that. Sure, there are some really great stories from my nights on the prowl. Some will even test your gag reflex beyond anything you've ever experienced. Tonight, however, my story is about acceptance. It's about coming to terms with who I was. Facing down my demons. See, the life of a crimefighter isn't really all that glorious. It's not all parades and high-fives and little kids looking up to you and ladies and what-not. In reality, it's really very lonely.

That's why I turned to the bottle.

I wasn't alone here. Perhaps you've heard of my colleagues The Little Rascalz, who also fought crime well before their tweens in the same area. Perhaps you've even read Sean "Red Typhoon" Banks' (an alias, by the way) memoir "The Infant Infantry," and already are attempting to write me off as a liar, but it's true. He still is unwilling to accept what we were.

I am, however, willing to accept myself for who I was, warts and all.

The truth of the matter is, yes, we'd find these hoodlums out on the mean streets of Provo, and yes, we'd give them what they more or less deserved, but we weren't only killing them. We were killing our own souls. Night after night, it became harder for us to sleep. Night after night, our horrific exploits played through our heads on repeat. Oh, if you parents had only known what your children were up to. In our first and second grade classes, it became nearly impossible to concentrate. Those pictures that we drew, the terrible crayon scribbles of people being boiled alive or whatever, that was us trying to cope with what we had done. And once the pictures stopped working, all we had was booze.

I'm not trying to justify my early alcoholism. Nor am I trying to apologize. I was what I was. But that's what was there for us. Night after night, skirmish after skirmish, we'd settle down with one to ten beers. Sure, it affected us each differently. I was very giggly, almost touchy-feely. Others of us were abusive, and it wasn't odd for us to fight each other in this state. I still have scars on my back and legs from such fights. And if the images had affected our schoolwork, the long nights spent drinking were only worse.

Some of us sought help in different forms, whether it was the Elementary Guidance Counselor, an outside psychiatrist, or, in my case, Junior Alcoholics Anonymous. Thank Heavens for them. If not for them, today I'd probably be one of the hoodrats we fought so valiantly. Through Junior Alcoholics Anonymous, I was able to come to terms with what I had become. Truly, I was a Green Monster. And that was okay. Because I could get better. And I have gotten better. I have accepted the terrible things I've seen. I have accepted the terrible things I've done. In the end, it was the Jr. AA that helped me come to the decision to retire, and it did make me a better person in the end.

I write thsi because tonight, we buried a friend. Perhaps you've read about this in the papers. Kevin "Dr. Fightface" DuBois, only 23 (23!) years old, his liver more or less hung itself. A terrible loss. I remember talking to him on the phone not two weeks ago, a night much like tonight. In fact, during that conversation, we talked about much of the things I have mentioned here, albeit in greater detail. I'm not gonna retype that conversation, because this isn't the place, and I'm not one to share these kind of secrets (see, Sean? This is called taking the higher road.). Despite my best efforts, I was unable to reach him in time. If only we had gotten to him sooner.

In closing, I urge you to please, if your child is fighting crime, please please please, talk to him about what he's facing. Please talk to him about the dangers of violence and drinking to excess.

And,

R.I.P. Dr. Fightface.

Thank you for reading this.