“Hey, what if I challenge your dad to an arm wrestle?”
I look at him like he’s stupid. Then I tell him he’s stupid.
“That is so unbelievably stupid on so many levels. I don’t even know why you’re suggesting that. Don’t do it.”
I elaborate further and tell him either he’ll lose and he’ll look bad, or he’ll win and he’ll look bad; either way, he’ll look bad. He laughs and let’s it drop. Or so I thought.
Unfortunately, nothing sets off a man’s testosterone like being explicitly told, “Don’t do it”.
***
He waits till dinner with my family has wrapped up. My mother has just finished with the dishes and I’m in the kitchen preparing dessert.
With an over-the-top casualness that instantly catches my attention, he look at my father. With a sly smile, he asked:
“So … how about an arm wrestle contest?”
I glare at him. He continues unfazed.
“Allison told me not to do this … but I think it’ll be fun.”
I reiterate my displeasure. My mother looks over in surprise. My father laughs in disbelief.
The audacity of this punk kid who dares to date his daughter and challenge him to a display of strength under his own roof! As the mature man of the household, he politely turns down the challenge.
***
I bring out the dessert and we dig into the cake, but the damage has been done. What were we talking about before? All conversation feels fake and forced. The atmosphere is equal parts disbelief and humor.
Setting down his fork, my father changes his mind and makes eye contact — steady, firm, confident.
“Okay — let’s do it.”
I groan, sigh, and make a dramatic display of my disapproval. I look to my mother and she shrugs as if to say, “Men will be men.”
I can almost hear David Attenborough’s narration of the scene.
The young buck, inexperienced but confident, makes a stand against the herd leader. This is his chance to boost his reputation and rank in the group. The challenge has been issued; it cannot be retracted or denied. Fueled by testosterone, the two male prepare to lock antlers as the rest of the herd gathers around.
***
I clear the table slowly, giving them both one final chance to stop the madness. Neither are willing to back down.
My brother — too young to be caught in the whirlwind of testosterone — chimes in:
“Bets on Dad winning!”
I laugh and agree without a second of hesitation. I am ruthless in my displeasure of the situation. Both of us stand behind my father in a unified display of strength, leaving my soft-hearted mother to stand behind the challenger out of politeness.
***
The space is ready. The boundaries are drawn. The rules are simple.
I hope someone will call off this nonsense but both men are set on seeing this through. They settle into their seats and grasp each other’s hands. My mother gives the 3–2–1 count down and the match begins.
For a few tense seconds, they remain locked in the middle. It looks almost peaceful if not for the fingers turning white and the occasional grunts of effort. This is a friendly match but no one is going easy on anyone.
The dining table groans in protest over this clash of wills and my mother warns them both to mind the furniture. She is ignored. I see the determination and strain on their faces.
Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, my father gains ground. My brother and I urge him on.
“Com’on Dad! You can do it Dad! You’re winning Dad!
Carried by the momentum of his progress and our faith in him, he makes swift work of the remaining inches. He triumphantly crushes the fool’s hand against the table and proudly claims his title as victor and champion.
***
I see the disappointment in his face. He really thought he could win; he really wanted to win. His childhood as an only child does not lend well to losing.
Then he pulls himself together and paints a smile on his face. He shrugs defeatedly and good-naturely says,
“Well, now we know! That was a good match! Congratulations mister.”
My father accepts his concession with grace. They shake hands, laugh about it, and pour another round of drinks.
I shake my head, still wrapping my head around the audacity of it all. Men will be men. Silently I wonder if I was the unspoken prize…
—
This post was previously published on Medium.
***
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