We’re not gonna take it

Have you ever exploded with rage after someone pushed you past your breaking point?

That day of reckoning came for me when I was surrounded by my fellow classmates while lifting weights in the universal gym during one of our semi-weekly physical education classes at dear ol’ Lincoln High School.

When my arch nemesis violently threw me against a cinderblock wall with malicious intent, I charged headlong into his midsection knocking him to the floor like a wild bull stampeding through the streets of Pamplona, Spain with steam pouring from my nostrils.

In the immortal lyrics of the American heavy metal band Twisted Sister, (I wasn’t) gonna take it anymore.

It became my own personal anthem.

Following the best year of my secondary education with a plethora of close-knit friends, I had high hopes that my senior year of high school would be the icing on the cake; but my lofty expectations came crashing down around me when Bobby Ewing made it his personal responsibility to make my life as miserable as possible.

Oddly enough, the popular football jock and I seemed to have nearly identical schedules, including a morning gym class with Mr. Louis “Lou” Zagorsky two times a week; but I would’ve stayed in “special gym” had I known my “tormentor-in-chief” was going to constantly be in my face.

If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought that he was stalking me.

After witnessing the blond-haired athlete’s juvenile antics in Basic Electronics with Mr. Donald Norman, I was in no mood to deal with his unpleasant demeanor in the weight room.

However, Robert “Mags” Magnifico managed to add a little pep to my step when he caught up with me halfway across the second-floor bridge connecting the educational facility’s main building to its addition and discussed the upcoming hoops game at Beaver Area High School.

“You must have something on your mind,” suggested the youngest son of the town’s top law enforcement officer as he placed a duffel bag over his shoulder. “Ever since you stepped into the stairwell on the third floor, I’ve been calling out your name to get your attention; but you apparently didn’t hear me, because you kept on walking.”

“Did you get your basketball ticket for Thursday night,” he continued with an inquisitive look in his brown eyes while glancing in my general direction. “Because I’d like you to ride shotgun with me if you’re planning on attending the game against the Beaver Bobcats; and I cleaned out the front seat just for you.”

“I’ll be there with bells on,” I revealed with a hearty laugh before putting an arm around my boon companion at the base of the two-tiered “L-shape” staircase. “But I’m glad you decided to clean out your car, because I was beginning to think you drive around in a garbage dumpster with all those McDonald’s drive-thru bags.”

A word of warning – we’ll be stopping at Mickey D’s on the way home!

Once this talkative pair entered through a side door directly behind the boy’s gymnasium, we sauntered past the universal gym and the teacher’s office area before slipping into a row of lockers away from our peers to begin changing into gym clothes for another day of moving weights.

Shortly after the bell sounded, Robert “Robbie” Brough came running around the corner completely out of breath as he attempted to play catch up with his intimate friends by stripping down to his skivvies.

“Look who decided to join us,” observed the black-haired Italian as he tied the drawstring on his gym shorts. “You can thank your lucky stars that Mr. Zagorsky is out in the gym setting up the volleyball net; otherwise, you’d be on your way to the principal’s office with a tardy slip.”

“Save it for someone who cares,” retorted Robbie after poking his head through a crew neck t-shirt. “I distinctly remember you being late to gym class last week; and I totally covered for you by saying that you were taking a dump in one of the toilet stalls.”

“That was a good cover story,” I admitted while grabbing a hand towel to put around my neck. “Because we all know that there’s no way Mr. Zagorsky was going to walk back there and check on you since your fecal matter smells like a skunk crawled up inside of you and died.”

Look at who’s got jokes!

While half the boys headed out to the gym for a high-spirited game of volleyball, the rest of the young men – mostly football jocks – stepped into the weight room to work up a sweat while pumping iron.

About halfway through the class period, I was seated on a weight bench over in the corner when Ewing glanced down at my wristwatch and demanded to know much time there was before everyone had to shower and change back into their regular attire.

“What have you been smoking,” I questioned while standing to walk over to the leg press machine. “Since you treat me like a piece of human garbage on a regular basis, I’m not about to comply with your request, so you need to march out into the hallway and look at the clock on the wall.”

In a fit of rage, he forcibly pushed me back against the weight bench as my head came in contact with the cinderblock wall; after which my nostrils flared as I raised myself up off that bench and charged him like a battering ram knocking down a well-fortified door.

Beating my obnoxious intimidator with balled-up fists across his chest, it took three guys – Mags, Robbie and Steve Grossman – to pull me away from the justified beatdown of my surprised adversary.

Then it took my comrades the rest of the period to calm me down.