My first and only playground fight was with Chucky， the biggest bully in my grade school. His real name wasn‘t Chucky， but he had fiery orange hair， freckles， and big ears like the teen-horror-movie Chucky， so I’ll call him that to protect the guilty.
Chucky was the first person to put serious fear in my heart. We all deal with fears throughout our lives， both real and imagined. Nelson Mandela said the brave man is not the one who feels fear but the one who conquers it. I certainly felt fear when Chucky tried to knock my block off， but conquering it was another matter.
You couldn‘t have convinced me of it back then， but your fears and mine are really a gift. Our most basic fears， such as the fear of fire， fear of falling， and the fear of roaring beasts， are hardwired into us as survival tools. So be glad for those fears and own them， but don’t let them own you.
Too much fear is not good. Too often our fears of failing or being disappointed or being rejected paralyze us. Rather than face those fears， we surrender to them and limit ourselves.
Don‘t let fear keep you from chasing your dreams. You should treat fear like you treat your smoke detector. Pay attention to it when it goes off—look around and see if there is real danger or just the alarm ringing. If there is no real threat， put fear out of your mind and go on with your life.
Chucky， my grade-school tormentor， taught me to conquer my fear and move on， but only after the first and last fight of my childhood. I was friends with almost everyone in my school， even the tough kids. Chucky， though， was straight out of the bully factory. He was an insecure kid always on the prowl for someone to pick on. He was bigger than me， but then so was everyone else in the school.
I wasn’t exactly a threat to anyone. I was a mere first grader， all of twenty-two pounds， and in a wheelchair. Chucky was a couple years older and a giant compared to me.
“I bet you can‘t fight，” he said one day during morning recess.
My friends were there， so I put on a brave face， but I remember thinking： I’m in my wheelchair， and he‘s still twice as tall as me. This is not a promising situation.
“Bet ya I can” was the best response I could come up with.
It wasn’t like I had a lot of experience with fighting. I was from a strong Christian family. I‘d been taught that violence was not the answer， but I wasn’t a wimp. I‘d done a lot of wrestling with my brother and cousins. My little brother still talks about my best wrestling move. Before Aaron grew to be much bigger and taller than me， I could roll him around on the floor and then pin his arm down with my chin.
“You could almost break my arm off with that strong chin of yours，” he says. “But then when I got older and bigger， all I had to do was push my hand against your forehead and you couldn’t get near me.”
That was the problem that I faced with Chucky. I wasn‘t afraid to fight him， I just didn’t know how to get the job done. Every fight I‘d seen on television or at the movies involved someone punching or kicking someone else. I lacked the essential hardware for both those moves.
None of this seemed to put off Chucky. “If you can fi ght， prove it！” he said.
“Okay， meet me on the Oval at lunchtime，” I snarled.
“Done，” Chucky said. “You’d better be there.”
The Oval was an egg-shaped patch of concrete in the middle of our grass and dirt playground. Fighting there was like fighting in the center ring of our school circus. The Oval was our main stage. What happened in the Oval didn‘t stay in the Oval. If I got whupped in the Oval， I’d never live it down.
All through the morning‘s spelling， geography， and math classes I fretted about my lunchtime appointment with the school bully. It didn’t help that word had spread throughout the school that I was taking on Chucky. Everybody wanted to know my plan of attack. I had no clue.
I kept envisioning Chucky punching my lights out. I prayed that some teacher would find out and stop the fight before we started. No such luck.
The dreaded hour arrived. The lunch bell sounded. My posse gathered around my wheelchair， and we rolled to the Oval in silence. Half the school was there. Some brought their lunches. A few were taking bets.
As you might guess， I was the decided underdog in the early betting.
“You ready to fight？” said Chucky.
I nodded yes， but I had no idea how this would go down.
Chucky wasn‘t so sure either. “Uh， how we gonna do this？” he asked.
“I don’t know，” I said.
“You gotta get out of your wheelchair，” he demanded. “It isn‘t fair with you in the wheelchair.”
Apparently Chucky feared a hit and run. This gave me a negotiating point. Fighting was not my cup of tea， but I was already a good negotiator.
“If I get out of this chair， you have to get on your knees，” I said.
Chucky was being razzed about picking on a kid in a wheelchair. He went along with my counterdemand. My stocky foe dropped to his knees， and I hopped out of my chair， ready for my big Crocodile Dundee moment—if only I could figure out how to go about fighting without fists.
I mean， they don’t call it a “shoulder fight，” do they？
The lunchtime crowd ringed around us as Chucky and I circled each other. I was still thinking that he wouldn‘t possibly go through with it. Who would be so low as to hit a little kid with no arms and no legs？
Girls in my class were crying， “Nicky， don’t do it. He‘ll hurt you.”
That got to me. I didn’t want girl pity. My macho pride kicked in. I walked right up to Chucky like I knew I could kick his butt.
He gave me a double stiff arm to the chest， and I went backward arse over earlobes， flopping onto the concrete like a sack of potatoes.
Chucky had gobsmacked me！ I‘d never been knocked down like that. It hurt！ But the embarrassment was far worse. My schoolmates huddled over me， horrified. Girls cried out， shielding their eyes from what they thought was a pitiful sight.
This bloke is really trying to hurt me， I realized. I flipped over and pressed my forehead to the ground. Then I leveraged a shoulder against my wheelchair to get myself upright. This technique made for a calloused forehead and a very strong neck， qualities that would soon spell Chucky’s downfall.
I had no doubt： Chucky had no qualms about kicking my butt. It was fight or flight， and flight wasn‘t a realistic option.
