Sometimes you have to fight when you’re a man.

The first time I heard “Coward of the County” by Kenny Rogers, and heard those famous words, I did not believe the message. To me the song was only about revenge. I believed that fighting was never right. That was then.

When I was seventeen years old my life was changing. At home I was learning to cope with an abusive situation, but felt like I could handle it. I just made sure to protect my little sister by taking the brunt of it, and all would be well. What I did not realize was how bad it was for my mother at her house.

I knew my stepfather liked to drink, and when drinking he got loud and obnoxious. I also knew that in his younger days he had been a boxer, and had won a few titles in his day. One day I went to visit them and walked in just in time to see him drunkenly reliving his boxing glory, with my mother as the punching bag. I went cold.

He did not see me until I said, “That. Is. Enough.”
He turned to me, His face was red, and there was rage in his eyes. Mom cried, “No, Jackie. Just leave.”
“Yeah, Jackie-Boy. Do what Mommy tells ya, Boy. Run along…”
“No, John. You are the one leaving. Now.”
He smiled. A look of wild glee came into his eyes, and I knew he would not stop while he was standing. Good.
He charged at me, fist raised. To me, it was like watching him in slow motion. I seemed to have several minutes to react. I was not afraid. I wasn’t even angry. I just knew I had to stop him.
I was standing between him and the open door, the screen door the only thing between us and the front porch. As he reached me, I stepped to my left, let him get even with me and twisted to my right, punching him quickly in the back with my left hand. His momentum carried him through the screen door (knocking it from its top hinge) across the porch and face first into the yard. I stepped onto the porch.
“If you need to call a cab, fine, but you are not coming back into this house.” I was aware of the birds singing, traffic from a block over, the heat from the afternoon sun on my skin, mother crying behind me, and the sound of John’s heavy breathing. I also remember little Dave across the street stopping his game of catch with his little brother to watch us.