His name was John—same as mine. He bullied me from 5th to 9th grade, until I switched schools. He had failed a grade and was bigger and older than the rest of us. I didn’t stand a chance. Some of the worst moments? One winter day, he poured a bowl of fish down my shirt. Another time, after gym class, he and another kid dragged me—fully dressed—into the showers. He was a huge reason I started lifting weights. I wanted to get big and strong enough to fight back.
Three years later, I was 17—muscular, 5′10″, 193 pounds, and had wrestled for three years straight.
John hadn’t changed much—5′11″ and maybe 155 pounds. This time, the mismatch was in my favor. One night, I was at a party with my girlfriend. John showed up too, with his girlfriend. I saw him and instantly wanted revenge. He looked thinner than I remembered, but I didn’t care. I started drinking and staring him down across the bonfire. He kept looking away, never meeting my eyes. I got drunker and more obvious about trying to start something. I was hoping he’d throw the first punch. I had it all planned out in my head: single-leg takedown, slam him across the log he was sitting on, get on top, and hit him until someone pulled me off.
My girlfriend and her friend noticed what was going on. She said, “If you fight him, you’re going home alone.” Her friend added, “Yeah, idiot—he just had his appendix out.” That stopped me in my tracks. A few months later, I heard he was joining the Marines too. That made him feel more like a brother.
Jump ahead 40 years. We found each other on Facebook. He apologized—eyes full of tears. Turns out, we had a lot in common. We’re both into biking, health, and neither of us could stand Donald Trump. Now, I call the guy who once bullied me… my friend.
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