Joel Peckham’s “Phys-Ed” is both story and essay about masculinity, boys’ competitions on-field and off-, knocking a man down, identity, fitting in, family, sons & fathers, sex, beer, and rock ’n’ roll. He tumbles these subjects in our minds and sieves them for his truths, covering as much guy-territory as any piece in Heart of a Man.
In the tradition of the personal essay, we see Peckham struggling to answer the questions he poses himself. In the tradition of the story, he brings the tale back to its beginning. – ed.
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No one taught me what to do. I clamped my fist and eyes, and reached back, flailing, pulling as if I could tear the curtain of the New England sky down on us all.
I remember fear, the cries of gulls and Beneventi’s high-pitched girlish giggle. The cold stinging rain and the sense of waiting. And Kozak shoving me on the shoulder, then the chest, then backing away like a boxer, bouncing on his toes – his bright red hair, the stubble on his chin, the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple, but not what he was saying. There was a soundless roar, something building in the back of my head, my fingers closing to a fist.
Every school has a bully. Mine had two – Sean Kozak and Ian Beneventi – and they were at it again. Torturing me. We’d been running an obstacle course, a kind of fitness test, and Beneventi and Kozak took turns harassing me as we ran around the cones, Kozak trying to sweep my feet from beneath me, Beneventi sprinting up and shoving me, trying to knock me down. I remember their laughter – the same sounds I’d heard many times in middle school when Kozak would wind up his long, skinny arms and slap me in the middle of the back or Beneventi would kick the back of my heel so it would fly up and I would stumble into the kids in line at the lunch counter. One time, Beneventi pushed me down a steep flight of concrete steps. I remember him laughing in the echoes. He didn’t even try to slip away but stood there, proud, beaming.
On the obstacle course, I was making it more difficult. I was chubby but had good balance and was quick when scared – and I was scared – but it was also weirdly fun, like the thrill of driving too fast on a dirt road in the dark. Kozak was slow, too big for his body, and I hopped and cut, leaped and scurried to the finish, first in the class, just a little winded and surprised.
When the other kids began to disappear behind the large green doors, Kozak and Beneventi blocked my way. Mr. Holt, the ex-military phys-ed teacher, gave us a long look, sighed and shook his head. I still remember that – the dark square, the flash of his blue tracksuit, the click of a door closing, and the finality of death, my death. Except for Eric, I was alone. Little Eric Ross, trudged toward us, terrified, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of an oversized blue sweatshirt He took his place like a second in a duel, stopping two feet behind me, saying nothing. Kozak sized me up, gave a push on my shoulder. Pushed again. Looked over at Beneventi. Smiled brightly. Happy.
I got lucky. I was terrified, and it was more a spasm than a punch. But then there was the crack of cartilage, and through Kozak’s trembling hands, so much blood.
When I start to think we are driven more by fear and anger, more the product of our terrors than of our love, I think of Eric’s arm around my back.
“Holy shit, Joel, what the hell was that?”
And I wept. We wept. Then laughed. Then wept.
“We’re fucked,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “I’m fucked.”
Originally published on Heart of a Man
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