I Never Fought as Much as People Think, and I Was Never Strong

This is a story from back when I was still healthy. Or rather, from back when I was still an idiot.

Before I knew it, people were saying I was a seasoned brawler, and that I was "hojine" (Akita dialect for someone with no common sense).
The second one I will not deny. I thought so then and I still think so now. That one fits.
But "seasoned brawler" is wrong.

A life-or-death fight like something out of a comic book? I can count those on one hand. Or rather, I cannot count them at all, because there were none.
If someone called me a short-tempered hothead instead, I would agree far more readily.
One offhand remark and I boil over like a cheap water heater. That part has not changed.
And I boil over at random, usually depending on the mood in the room. At least that is how it looks from the inside.

What people actually said about me was probably not "seasoned brawler" but "quick to fight."
A short-tempered hothead is naturally quick to fight.
Anyone who knows me is nodding right now: "Yes, that. That is the one."

But being quick to fight and actually fighting are two different things. Real fights were rare.
Usually the people around me stepped in and that was the end of it.
So my fists have no memory of ever hitting anyone. Nice clean little hands, mine.

Now hold on, you did judo, so you would not have punched anyone. You would have thrown them, tripped them, or choked them.
If someone says that to me, I have no answer.

And still, right up to thirty, I do not have a single memory of a fight worth calling a fight.
Though it is possible I simply do not remember.

Drinking, however, is another story entirely.

I will be honest about it now. Sometimes I drink and nothing happens to me at all. Other times the drink takes me and I lose my memory.
When it does not take me, I turn into a quiet sage, almost disappointingly well behaved.
The problem is the other case. What frightened me was the moment I woke up the next morning.
My mother would shake me awake out of nowhere and start shouting. Every time, I had worried her.
She still tells me that whenever I went out drinking, or when festival season came around, she spent the whole night praying that nothing had happened.

Apparently I used to go on quite a rampage once the drink had me.
I drank until my memory cut out, and I caused a great deal of trouble for the people around me and for the people drinking with me.

Maybe that is why.
Maybe God planted an incurable illness in me on purpose, so I could not trouble anyone any further. That thought crosses my mind sometimes.
Since the illness, I have stopped drinking. My mother is glad to be rid of one worry.
Although she also points out that the temper never got fixed, so it comes out about the same.

People who know me would probably call me "kikane" (Akita dialect for a hell-raiser).
But the truth is that I am a coward who only puts on a strong face.

The reason goes back to childhood.
When I was a "warashi" (Akita dialect for a small child), I was a crybaby who wet himself, and worse.

You know the story.
That crybaby who used to wet his pants has grown into such a fine man.
In my case, I just grew taller.

Still, being all height and no use meant I never had to fight over nothing.
And that is not such a bad deal.