Triumph and Rejection

"Honey, please hit me, really hit me, try. You're a smart boy; hit me a good one," Fezzik's father begged.

"Tomorrow, Daddy; I promise." Tears began to form.

"Crying's not going to work, Fezzik," his father exploded. "It's not gonna work on me and it's not gonna work on your mother, you're gonna do what I say and what I say is you're gonna hit me and if it takes all night we're gonna stand right here and if it takes all week we're gonna stand right here and if it—"

S

P

L

A

T

!!!

(This was before emergency wards, and that was too bad, at least for Fezzik's father, because there was no place to take him after Fezzik's punch landed, except to his own bed, where he remained with his eyes shut for a day and a half, except for when the milkman came to fix his broken jaw—this was not before doctors, but in Turkey they hadn't gotten around to claiming the bone business yet; milkmen still were in charge of bones, the logic being that since milk was so good for bones, who would know more about broken bones than a milkman?)

When Fezzik's father was able to open his eyes as much as he wanted, they had a family talk, the three of them.

"You're very strong, Fezzik," his father said. (Actually, that is not strictly true. What his father meant was, "You're very strong, Fezzik." What came out was more like this: "Zzz'zz zzzz zzzzzz, Zzzzzz." Ever since the milkman had wired his jaws together, all he could manage was the letter z. But he had a very expressive face, and his wife understood him perfectly.)

"He says, 'You're very strong, Fezzik.'"

"I thought I was," Fezzik answered. "Last year I hit a tree once when I was very mad. I knocked it down. It was a small tree, but still, I figured that had to mean something."

"Z'z zzzzzz zz zzzzz z zzzzzzzzz, Zzzzzz."

"He says he's giving up being a carpenter, Fezzik."

"Oh, no," Fezzik said. "You'll be all well soon, Daddy; the milkman practically promised me."

"Z zzzz zz zzzz zz zzzzz z zzzzzzzzz, Zzzzzz."

"He wants to give up being a carpenter, Fezzik."

"But what will he do?"

Fezzik's mother answered this one herself; she and her husband had been up half the night agreeing on the decision. "He's going to be your manager, Fezzik. Fighting is the national sport of Turkey. We're all going to be rich and famous."

"But Mommy, Daddy, I don't like fighting."

Fezzik's father reached out and gently patted his son's knee. "Zz'z zzzzz zz zz zzzzzzzzz," he said.

"It's going to be wonderful," his mother translated.

Fezzik only burst into tears.

They had his first professional match in the village of Sandiki, on a steaming-hot Sunday. Fezzik's parents had a terrible time getting him into the ring. They were absolutely confident of victory, because they had worked very hard. They had taught Fezzik for three solid years before they mutually agreed that he was ready. Fezzik's father handled tactics and ring strategy, while his mother was more in charge of diet and training, and they had never been happier.

Fezzik had never been more miserable. He was scared and frightened and terrified, all rolled into one. No matter how they reassured him, he refused to enter the arena. Because he knew something: even though outside he looked twenty, and his mustache was already coming along nicely, inside he was still this nine-year-old who liked rhyming things.

"No," he said. "I won't, I won't, and you can't make me."

"After all we've slaved for these three years," his father said. (His jaw was almost as good as new now.)

"He'll hurt me!" Fezzik said.

"Life is pain," his mother said. "Anybody that says different is selling something."

"Please. I'm not ready. I forget the holds. I'm not graceful and I fall down a lot. It's true."

It was. Their only real fear was, were they rushing him? "When the going gets tough, the tough get going," Fezzik's mother said.

"Get going, Fezzik," his father said.

Fezzik stood his ground.

"Listen, we're not going to threaten you," Fezzik's parents said, more or less together. "We all care for each other too much to pull any of that stuff. If you don't want to fight, nobody's going to force you. We'll just leave you alone forever." (Fezzik's picture of hell was being alone forever. He had told them that when he was five.)

They marched into the arena then to face the champion of Sandiki.

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Who had been champion for eleven years, since he was twenty-four. He was very graceful and wide and stood six feet in height, only half a foot less than Fezzik.

Fezzik didn't stand a chance.

He was too clumsy; he kept falling down or getting his holds on backward so they weren't holds at all. The champion of Sandiki toyed with him. Fezzik kept getting thrown down or falling down or tumbling down or stumbling down. He always got up and tried again, but the champion of Sandiki was much too fast for him, and too clever, and much, much too experienced. The crowd laughed and ate baklava and enjoyed the whole spectacle.

Until Fezzik got his arms around the champion of Sandiki.

The crowd grew very quiet then.

Fezzik lifted him up.

No noise.

Fezzik squeezed.

And squeezed.

"That's enough now," Fezzik's father said.

Fezzik laid the other man down. "Thank you," he said. "You are a wonderful fighter and I was lucky."

The ex-champion of Sandiki kind of grunted.

"Raise your hands, you're the winner," his mother reminded.

Fezzik stood there in the middle of the ring with his hands raised.

"Booooo," said the crowd.

"Animal."

"Ape!"

"Go-rilla"

"BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

They did not linger long in Sandiki. As a matter of fact, it wasn't very safe from then on to linger long anywhere. They fought the champion of Ispir. "BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" The champion of Simal. "BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" They fought in Bolu. They fought in Zile.

"BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"