“Coward.”
Towered. “I’m not.”
“Then fight,” one of them would say, and would swing all he had and hit Fezzik in the stomach, confident that all Fezzik would do was go “oof and stand there, because he never hit back no matter what you did to him.
“Oof.”
Another swing. Another. A good stiff punch to the kidneys maybe. Maybe a kick in the knee. It would go on like that until Fezzik would burst into tears and run away.
One day at home, Fezzik’s father called, “Come here.”
Fezzik, as always, obeyed.
“Dry your tears,” his mother said.
Two children had beaten him very badly just before. He did what he could to stop crying.
“Fezzik, this can’t go on,” his mother said. “They must stop picking on you.”
Kicking on you. “I don’t mind so much,” Fezzik said.
“Well you should mind,” his father said. He was a carpenter, with big hands. “Come on outside. I’m going to teach you how to fight.”
“Please, I don’t want—”
“Obey your father.”
They trooped out to the back yard.
“Make a fist,” his father said.
Fezzik did his best.
His father looked at his mother, then at the heavens. “He can’t even make a fist,” his father said.
“He’s trying, he’s only six; don’t be so hard on him.”
Fezzik’s father cared for his son greatly and he tried to keep his voice soft, so Fezzik wouldn’t burst out crying. But it wasn’t easy. “Honey,” Fezzik’s father said, “look: when you make a fist, you don’t put your thumb inside your fingers, you keep your thumb outside your fingers, because if you keep your thumb inside your fingers and you hit somebody, what will happen is you’ll break your thumb, and that isn’t good, because the whole object when you hit somebody is to hurt the other guy, not yourself.”
Blurt. “I don’t want to hurt anybody, Daddy.”
“I don’t want you to hurt anybody, Fezzik. But if you know how to take care of yourself, and they know you know, they won’t bother you any more.”
Father. “I don’t mind so much.”
“Well we do,” his mother said. “They shouldn’t pick on you, Fezzik, just because you need a shave.”
“Back to the fist,” his father said. “Have we learned how?”
Fezzik made a fist again, this time with the thumb outside.
“He’s a natural learner,” his mother said. She cared for him as greatly as his father did.
“Now hit me,” Fezzik’s father said.
“No, I don’t want to do that.”
“Hit your father, Fezzik.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know how to hit,” Fezzik’s father said.
“Maybe not.” Fezzik’s mother shook her head sadly.
“Watch, honey,” Fezzik’s father said. “See? Simple. You just make a fist like you already know and then pull back your arm a little and aim for where you want to land and let go.”
“Show your father what a natural learner you are,” Fezzik’s mother said. “Make a punch. Hit him a good one.”
Fezzik made a punch toward his father’s arm.
Fezzik’s father stared at the heavens again in frustration.
“He came close to your arm,” Fezzik’s mother said quickly, before her son’s face could cloud. “That was very good for a start, Fezzik; tell him what a good start he made,” she said to her husband.
“It was in the right general direction,” Fezzik’s father managed. “If only I’d been standing one yard farther west, it would have been perfect.”
