The kids were arm-wrestling in the cafeteria today. I was watching them and smiling and Will said "Mr. G. you gots to get in on this."
"I don't think so," I replied. "Nobody beats me at arm-wrasslin'."
Unfortunately, Hassan heard me. I've mentioned him here before. He's like an Econoline van with feet. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by dozens of excited teens chanting "Hassan!"
But like I said, nobody beats me at arm-wrasslin'. There used to be a guy name of Matt who could stale-mate me back in the day. I think we arm-wrassled a dozen different times and stale-mated each go. He was a fucking moose, a fucking moose from Adams County PA. He could hit a softball about a half-mile, but likely coudn't run a half-mile without keeling over. After we'd arm-wrassle my entire arm would tingle for hours, and the next morning my shoulder would ache like a sore tooth.
I told Hassan that I was three times his age, and that this wasn't fair. "You should wait until you're 18 or 19. You could take me then." He laughed, and his giant polar bear paw swallowed my tiny hand.
I put him down in two seconds. The kids were shocked. Then Nat Turner wanted a go, and I made short work of him too. They made fun of me because they said I turned pink when I arm-wrestled. I shrugged.
Next week I take over Lukie's classes for the rest of the year. I need to earn their respect any way I can.