When I was 14 years old, my cousin John and I weighed about as much as a couple of hamsters, and had approximately the same chance of landing a girlfriend.  We were so thin we looked as if we were ambassadors from the kingdom of Anorexia , and I was certain that our lack of manly muscle was the primary reason why neither one of us had ever even kissed a girl, which seemed like something we wanted to do. We were easy to beat up, which meant we were regularly set upon for thumpings by boys in the neighborhood.  These were big, hulking, ninth-grade brutes who would chase us down and punch us, or have their little sisters do it.  It could not have impressed any potential girlfriends to see John and me scurrying up the street in panic, especially when we were crying.

One kid in particular used to delight in making me miserable.  He was known only as "Hoffman"; he was too mean to have a first name.  Though in my grade, Hoffman was nearly two years older, having been forced to repeat fourth grade in what I saw as proof that he was a dangerous moron.

I didn't share this opinion with Hoffman himself.

In what was a fairly normal delusional fantasy, I pictured myself lifting weights and growing muscles, after which I would have a little chat with Hoffman.

Me:  Hello, Hoffman.  I'm now stronger than you, bigger than you, and tougher than you.

Hoffman:  Plus you can read without moving your lips!

Me:  Exactly.  So I'm taking your girlfriend Cynthia.

Hoffman:  Sure!  Want me to wash your bicycle?

Ah, Cynthia.  Blonde and beautiful, Cynthia didn't realize how much more she would want me than big stupid Hoffman, and hung out with him under the mistaken belief that he was more mature simply because he had started shaving.  I was totally and completely in love with Cynthia, ready to forever dedicate my heart to her or, for that matter, to any female who would have me.

One afternoon John and I lifted weights for two solid hours in his basement, turning ourselves into men of steel--though "monofilament" might have come closer to describing our arms.  We also pumped up our minds, telling ourselves that the next time we saw Hoffman we would give him the thrashing he deserved, and then Cynthia would fall for one of us or even both of us, which sounded complicated but was certainly better than our current situation.

Unfortunately, we did encounter Hoffman that day, and under the worst possible circumstances:  He was walking with Cynthia on the path along the local creek, where John and I had gone to use our newly developed muscles to hurl rocks in a manly fashion.

Whatever passed for a brain in Hoffman's skull identified John and me as easy prey for a game of "Impress Cynthia," and he began to shove me around, challenging me to what he called a "fight" and I thought of as a "beating."

Now, there were two of us; surely John and I, working together, could outrun this creep.  But John had unfortunately been paying attention to our wild boasts back in his basement, and when Hoffman stepped close to the edge of the creek to cut off my retreat, my cousin leapt forward and shoved the bully off the slippery bank into three feet of foul, muddy water.

We ran to John's house and locked ourselves in the bathroom to ponder our next move.  There was no Witness Protection Program at that time, so we pledged to protect each other, unless Hoffman blamed only John, in which case there was no sense risking my own life.

But fate intervened:  Within a few weeks, Hoffman's family moved away, perhaps to a home by Leavenworth prison so they could be near his father.  I never saw Hoffman again, until just last month, when I saw him walking toward me down the street.  He looked as big and stupid as ever, but we're adults, for heaven's sake, and anyway I figured he must have forgotten all about the creek incident by now.

Just in case, I ducked into a doorway and hid until he had passed.

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