Three Cheers for John Metcalfe.

I’m about 14 years old, sitting in the library at school. It’s well past 4’o’clock and I should be well on my way home but I’m not. I’d like to be able to tell you that I’m busy studying in my spare time, but that wouldn’t be true. Although extremely bright I’m not one of nature’s swots. I’d like to think I’m ‘too cool for school’ but that’s most likely not true either. I’m probably holding a book in my hand for the sake of appearances but I’m unlikely to actually be reading it at this particular moment as there is too much going on in my head to concentrate. The stark truth is I’m hiding here. Adrian Farley has decided that he wants to fight with me and I’m here busy evading him. I know he’ll be looking for me and I really don’t want to fight him, so I’m avoiding him. It’s not that I’m scared. Well maybe I am a little scared…scared of pain certainly. It’s just that I’m really not into all that macho posturing to ‘prove’ myself. It all seems like too much hassle to me and someone always gets hurt…usually me! I’ve never been very competitive and I hate confrontation. I really just don’t want to fight him. I mean really what’s the point. I certainly don’t have anything to 'prove' and I don’t understand it.

At my last school I was bullied…for two reasons. Reason No.1 was that I was the brightest boy in the class and always came third in exams. Generally there were always the same two girls ahead of me…but I was always the brightest boy. Reason No.2 was that I was tall for my age, broad shouldered with blond hair, very easy to spot and single out, and although I was bigger than average I was definitely not aggressive, retiring rather than forceful, introverted rather than extroverted. This was obviously seen as challenge by some of the smaller but more aggressive lads who seemed to pick on me as a way of making them look bigger and more powerful.
So I was used to being set upon, often by several boys at once and usually after a class where the exam results were announced. They would corner me and knock me down, goading me for being too clever, all of them kicking me simultaneously as I curled up in a protective foetal position. I’d often come home covered in bruises, but I never told my parents why. My father would probably have urged me to fight back but I just didn’t want to risk it. It seemed to be easier to take the beating than to try to make a stand and possibly make it worse for myself.

Now, this school is a ‘boys only’ school and I’m unfortunately no longer able to say that I’m the brightest boy in the class. But still it seems any excuse is often good enough for the emergence of hostility from my peers. There is a tangible reek of testosterone in the air and if anything the absence of a female contingent means it’s even more brutal here. Pubescence provides an abundance of the aforementioned hormone and it seems boys will seek out many ways to express this sudden excess of masculinity. Sometimes rugby and football are just not enough to dampen the energy and enthusiasm of an overbearing adolescence.

So here I am again, cowering in the school library rather than going out to make a stand for myself. An older boy walks in. I know him only vaguely, he’s in the year above me, but he has a reputation that is legendary. His name is John Metcalfe. He’s a bit of a rogue, a ‘hard nut’, a larger than life character and he’s known for being tough. He is also notorious as a ‘bullshitter and teller of tall tales’, not just at my school but throughout the entire locality. I have no idea how he gained this status, but everyone around my age seems to know about it. It is commonplace for example if you think someone is telling a barefaced lie to rub your chin in a wistful manner as if stroking a long invisible goatee beard and counter them with ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’ in a sarcastic tone.

Now the boy to whom this mega reputation pertains is standing in front of me having approached the table at which I’m sitting and I must confess to being a little in awe of him, if not trembling slightly from fear.

‘Wotcher doin’ ‘ere Somerlove?’ He enquires .

‘Er, reading!’ I tentatively supply an answer I hope won’t antagonise him.

‘Bollocks! You’re hiding from Farley aren’t you?’ His perspicacity is obviously as sharp as his reputation.

‘Ok, yes I am’ I look down at the desk shamefaced.

He pulls up a chair and sits opposite me.

‘You don’t want to be scared of Farley, he’s all front!’ he declares.

‘Do you think so?’ I look up at Metcalfe again.

We talk for a while about the whole sad, sorry situation, about me cowering in the library whilst Farley stalks the corridors and playgrounds searching for me. About how I really am quite a big lad and shouldn’t be scared of the likes of Farley. Metcalfe tells me I should stand up for myself.

'Sometimes in life you find you have to fight back and assert yourself' he explains, and then the one piece of information which has resonated throughout the rest of my life.

‘If you don’t make a stand now, the likes of Farley will dog you your whole life. You’ll be a doormat! Everyone will take advantage of you simply because they can.’ Metcalfe outlines the cold hard truth with a maturity and worldliness that belies his tender fifteen years on the planet.

I agree. At least, I have the foresightedness to see what he means. In my head I picture years and years of me running scared every time a confrontation raises its ugly head to greet me. I envisage a lifetime of cowering and trembling every time someone tries to assert themselves over me, with me backing down at the slightest opportunity. It's not an appetising prospect. I look up at Metcalfe entreatingly.

‘Look, if you go and fight Farley I’ll referee. OK?’ Metcalfe obligingly suggests. ‘The moment it looks like you’re going to get hurt I’ll stop the fight’

Hesitantly I agree, motivated by the images of a life spent fleeing from bullies still buzzing around my head.

Metcalfe and I leave the school library and go off in search of Farley. We find him and several of his cronies a little later waiting just outside the school entrance and Metcalfe explains to them that I agree to fight as long as he referees the contest. A location away from the school underneath a motorway bridge is deemed to be the best setting for the fight and we all nervously make our way there, Farley and his cronies are leading the way with Metcalfe and I bringing up the rear.

Metcalfe is covertly giving me fighting tips as we walk.

‘Go in really hard, don’t pussyfoot about. Let him know you mean business. That’ll scare him. He thinks you’ll be a walkover. Remember: maximum violence immediately. He won’t be expecting that. It’ll give you the element of surprise.’ He whispers nonchalantly so as not to arouse the suspicions of those ahead of us.

Once in place, Farley and I remove our ties and blazers. We then roll up our shirt sleeves and square up to one another whilst Metcalfe outlines the rules of engagement.

'No scratching; no biting; no gouging; no kicking and no hitting below the belt. Now shake hands and lets have a clean, fair fight.'

We grudgingly shake hands and then Metcalf stands between us, arms outstretched, holding us apart. He then takes a step back and motions for us to begin. I immediately lunge forward toward Farley and swing my fist as hard as I can in the direction of Farley’s face. Thud! It connects with Farley’s jaw and he collapses like a sack of potatoes, crumpling in a heap. I feel the sting of pain on my knuckles, and wince as they start to redden. Ouch! Farley stays down. Metcalfe starts counting. ‘1, 2, 3’ Farley groans in pain and clutches his jaw. ‘4, 5, 6,’ Farley looks back at me from the floor in utter disbelief…and with…what exactly is it I detect…perhaps the unmistakable glare of…wide eyed FEAR. Farley is suddenly afraid of ME? ‘7, 8, 9.’ Now I finally understand…in the monochrome world that Farley inhabits THIS is how you earn respect. Metcalfe reaches the end of his count and declares Farley ‘OUT!’. Metcalfe grabs my left wrist and raises my arm aloft declaring me to be the winner. Farley’s cronies gather around him on the floor and try to rouse him. He's bleeding from a cut lip and is slightly groggy. I step back completely amazed, hardly believing that the fight is over so quickly. Metcalfe just stands there grinning at me with a look of pride on his face.

That evening I walk home with a spring in my step. I feel completely different. I feel confident for the first time in my life and it feels good.

Farley doesn’t ever dare bother me again after that and once word has got around the school neither does anyone else. John Metcalfe nods to me everytime we pass in the corridor; I've earned his respect too.

Of course now I appreciate what an important moment that was in my life and what a debt I owe to the infamous John Metcalfe. For several years after that kids around the town would still stroke their imaginary goatees and utter the magical words ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’ when feigning disbelief. I doubt most of them even knew who John Metcalfe was. It had become learned behaviour, just something you did when you thought someone was bullshitting. I never did discover how he actually earned that particular reputation. I remember, a couple of years after the events of that evening, reading in the local newspaper how he’d saved a young woman from getting assaulted and raped in a dark alley one evening, chasing off the girl’s assailant, and was being hailed as a local hero even getting a mention in our school assembly.

John Metcalfe will of course always have my eternal respect. If I met him today I would shake his hand heartily and thank him for the profound effect he has had on my life. He would almost certainly be completely unaware and I wonder whether he would even recollect that incident so long ago. I find it strange that this single moment should have so much significance for me, yet probably so little for him.

Naturally, nowadays I am nobody’s bitch. I have consistently asserted myself throughout my life thus far and have always taken the former option when the ‘fight or flight’ instinct has arisen. But I’d like to think that should I ever again feel the need to cower, hide or run away whilst vacillating tremulously I’d summon a degree of defiance by philosophically stroking an imaginary goatee beard and mumbling sarcastically under my breath ‘Yeah John Metcalfe!’