If I absolutely had to get into a school-yard fight back in junior high, I don’t know why it had to be with Ira Blitz. I should have known I wouldn’t stand a chance.
First of all, unlike me, Ira had mastered a number of exotic skills that gave him a distinct advantage in almost any scrap. Punching, for instance. More important, Ira actually seemed to enjoy fighting. Whenever I faced the possibility of an after-school brawl, my first response was to submit the matter to binding arbitration and hope for a resolution satisfactory to all parties. If that didn’t work, I’d ask my family if we could move.
Most important, however, was the matter of Ira Blitz’s name. If you’re looking for a partner for an adolescent brawl, it’s always a good idea to avoid someone whose surname sounds like it applies less to a person than to a Panzer division. I’m not saying that Ira’s family handle was the only reason I lost this battle, but I would have been a lot more comfortable if he had been named, say, Ira Negotiated Settlement. As it was, however, Ira won our scuffle handily, deftly landing head-to-toe blows and finishing me off with a pop in the eye that caused me to see stars, several comets, and a large portion of the Crab nebula.
