How I Became a Ball-Kicker

by Sandra Fu

I was in sixth grade when it happened. I remember it quite vividly. It was the beginning of three valuable lessons I was to learn.

One morning as I was getting ready for school, I picked up a recently purchased training bra, trying to decide if it warranted wearing. Staring down at my mosquito bite-sized breasts, I knew I had no need for it but all my friends were wearing them so I thought, "What the hell?"

Little did I know what that innocent training bra was capable of instigating.

So there I was standing at my locker, taking out the necessary books for next period, when I felt a presence behind me. A split-second later came a sting of pain in the middle of my back. Someone had snapped my bra. Shocked, but mostly mortified, I turned around and saw a boy -- that I actually had a crush on -- standing there with a stupid grin on his face. Admittedly, eleven-year-old boys are not exactly suave, and I realized years later that it was his immature way of showing an interest in me. But at the time it really pissed me off.

So I turned around and delivered a swift kick to his crotch.

His smile was quickly replaced with a gasp for breath as he doubled over in pain. Whatever part of my brain that registers sympathy took the day off as I crouched down low to his ear and yelled, "Jerk!"

Normally, I was the sweetest girl you could imagine, a dream child, an A student and a teacher's pet. But I never acted cocky. Instead, I was meek and respectful like my parents taught me; I was also exceptionally shy, especially with boys. I wouldn't say boo to my own shadow, but that snapped bra flipped a mental switch.

On that day I became a Ball Kicker.

Now being a Ball Kicker does not imply that I go around inflicting pain upon the genitals of every man that I meet, but it does refer to an attitude. The attitude I refer to? Not taking any crap -- from a man or a woman. Kicking that boy in the nuts gave me more confidence than years of straight A's could. I received more praise and admiration from the boys and girls in my class than ever before, which only validated my action further. I never made a literal mental vow, but from that day forward I found myself standing up to people whenever I felt there was a need.

So, lesson #1 -- when you stand up for yourself, others will respect you.

That same year, something else happened that reinforced my newfound status as a Ball Kicker. As the only Asian family in an all-white neighborhood, my siblings and myself endured more teasing and harassment than the average kid. So my little brother -- who at age three was the most defenseless --became the target of the local bully.

One day, the bully -- let's call him Jeb -- started making fun of my little brother, proceeding to chase him around in the street. I caught a glimpse of it from our living room window, but decided to wait and see how much further Jeb would take it. His hands dove in and out, lightly swatting my brother on a shoulder, on his belly, on his bottom. Finally, when I couldn't take it anymore, I yelled for him to stop. But he just laughed and told me to shut up.

My heart began to beat faster in a nervous flutter as Jeb grabbed my brother's shorts and -- with a yank -- pulled his pants and underwear down around his ankles.

The other malicious boys in the neighborhood began howling with laughter; I saw the shame on my brother's face as he struggled to pull up his shorts. That was it! I was furious. How dare that imbecile terrorize a little boy, one third his age and size? "You want to terrorize a helpless kid? I'll show you terror," I thought to myself.

So I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a rather large butcher knife.

I took long, confident strides as I walked out into the street, making no effort to disguise what I held or whom I planned to potentially hurt with it.

"You think that's funny?" I asked Jeb. "You think that's fair to torture a little boy like that?" I continued as I shook the knife at him. He quickly backed away from me, hands up in the air as if it were a hold-up. I still recall with glee the fear in his eyes, the way his feet couldn't decide which way to run, first scampering to the left, then the right, backing up in a semi-circular motion.

"What the hell are you doing? You're crazy!" he cried, looking to his friends for support. But they had all stepped back to watch the action, with no intention of coming in close contact with my brandished weapon.

"Yeah, that's right!" I yelled in return, waving the knife again. "I am crazy and you never know what I'll do with this if you bother my brother ever again!"

Jeb ran into his house and I brought my brother inside ours. It wasn't until fifteen years later that my father told me Jeb's father had actually confronted him about it and threatened to call the cops if I did it again. I would have thought I deserved a lecture, but my father didn't find one necessary. He had the perfect response to our irate neighbor: "You should ask your son what he did to make my daughter do something so extreme."

Jeb's father was speechless for a moment, then mumbled some nonsense and returned to his house. We never had a problem with that boy again.

Lesson #2 - if you stand up for yourself, people will fear you.

The third and final example of my Ball Kicking history occurred right after Brazil won the World Cup in Northern California in 1994. The team was staying in Los Gatos -- a quaint, white-bread town -- and during the night of their victory, the town went crazy -- people all over the streets, lines for bars snaking around garbage cans and buildings. So as not to miss out on the fun, my two friends and I drove from more urban San Jose and got in line for a happening bar.

When I realized we were near the restaurant where a friend of mine worked, I excused myself to run over and say hello. But when I returned to the line, I noticed that a huffing and grumbling grew louder behind us, and I turned to ask if there was a problem.

"Yeah, you're cutting!" a clearly inebriated man yelled. When my friend -- who's all of five-feet tall --defended me, he got right into her face and started screaming, "This one's been cutting all along!"

The one thing I remember about that moment is this -- he yelled at her with so much force that he made her hair move.

A few more minutes of bickering followed until we were all let into the bar, the drunk muttering on his merry way. My friends and I starting drinking and chatting and after about the fourth beer I had to go to the bathroom.

I hadn't walked more than ten feet, when who did I see? You guessed it, the drunk from the line.

I remembered my friend's hair moving with the force of his shouts and I just couldn't let it slide. I walked straight towards him and rammed my shoulder into his from behind. Startled, he turned around and, upon recognizing me, started screaming all kinds of obscenities that I couldn't possibly print. I returned a fair share of my own and then something he said stopped me cold.

"You're not even from around here," he barked snidely.

In a flash, I knew what he meant by it. He thought I couldn't possibly be from Los Gatos because I'm not white. And that just pissed me off even further. I bombarded him with a series of very unladylike words, and before I could talk some reason into my tipsy brain -- which controlled my tipsy arms -- I shoved him with every ounce of strength in my body, throwing him across the room into the bar.

I never knew I had so much strength --but I now believe a small woman could lift a car if her child were trapped beneath it. Adrenaline really works, and it keeps you going back for more.

I had my hands prepped to wrap around his racist little neck when I felt several arms grab me, preventing me from strangling the guy, who was shocked and sprawled across the bar. I caught a glimpse of some of his friends grabbing him and guiding him away, as three strangers threw me into a booth before management could kick me out. I vented while they appeased me with a cigarette and a beer, nodding their understanding and sympathy.

When I no longer felt the need to hunt down the drunk and do some serious damage to his reproductive organs, I thanked them for their attention and left the booth to rejoin my friends. They smiled and said goodbye with disbelief still in their eyes.

So, last but not least, lesson # 3 -- if you stand up for yourself, people will buy you beer.

Sandra Fu is Morphizm's senior editor. She's published articles on the worthlessness of American mass media, dumping asshole boyfriends, Chinese political prisoners and much more for Perceval Press, Melt, drDrew.com and more. Her first novel, Sycamore Circle, should also be published by the time the War on Terrorism comes to a close.

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