Journey of The White Bear #4: The night I got hit by a Tank

This is why you don't pick a fight in Huntington Beach.  O.G. HB bad boy and early UFC powerhouse, Tank Abbot, flat out levels Wesley "Cabbage" Correira in this match.

Life Lessons: You are not your childhood and humor is a great martial art

I grew up as a smart, pudgy, dorky kid who was always small for my age.  I got picked on at home, I got picked on and bullied at school, after school, and I was always a wimp.  I sucked at sports all through my childhood, and was one of the last kids picked for most every game.  Except dodge ball.  I kicked ass at dodge ball.  The reason I was so good at dodge ball was because I was so freakin' scared of getting hit by one of those red balls thrown by a kid who was six inches taller and 20 pounds heavier than me, that I became really good at dodging.

But in all other cases, I ran from any kind of fight.  I lived my childhood in fear.  I was deathly afraid of pain, and did everything I could to avoid it.  Then, in high school, I got into BMX riding.  I started falling on a regular basis, and getting my hit in my shins by the pedals.  I slowly got better at dealing with small amounts of pain.  Later, in Southern California, my friend Mike started taking me to punk rock shows, where I soon got into bouncing around slam pits and bashing into other people for fun.  Over the years, my tolerance of pain grew, and so did my personal confidence.  In my mid-20's, I was practicing games with the American Gladiators.  I worked as a furniture mover for years, which made me stronger and more able to deal with scary situations, like helping to push a 500 pound piano up a flight of 26 stairs.

Years of different adventures led to me working as a taxi driver in downtown Huntington Beach, California in the 2000's.  One night, I got a call to the back door of Perq's, a bar on the first block of Main street in HB.  After waiting a few minutes, three really big, burly guys walked out and got into my cab.  One guy had a thick mustache and big goatee.  He sat behind me.  I asked the guys where they wanted to go, and they said they weren't sure.  They had just got into a scuffle in the bar with some guy, and had to leave.  I headed out of the parking lot, turned right on Walnut, and then took another right on Main, which put me in a line of traffic as we crawled past the front door of Perq's.

"That's him!" one of the guys in the taxi screamed.  The guy they'd just scrapped with in the bar ran in front of my cab.  "Run him over!" yelled the big guy with the goatee behind me.  I turned to look at him, thinking he was joking.  "Run him over or I'll throw you out of the cab and run him over myself!"  Now, I knew the guys had a few beers in them, but he seemed pretty serious about me running the guy over.

As a taxi driver, I'd learned to deal with all different kinds of drunk people, and aggressive people, and drunk, aggressive people.  Another thing about taxi driving is that I usually had two to four people in the cab, so I was always outnumbered.  If a physical fight broke out, I would be toast.  I learned to deal with crazy situations using a combination of intelligence and humor, mostly humor.  It kicked in automatically that night in front of Perq's.

"Man..." I began, "if I run that guy over, then I'll get blood all over the front of my cab.  It's Saturday night!  This is when I make my money!  I'd have stop for half an hour, wash off all the blood and body parts, and then go dump his body somewhere..."  For a couple seconds it was REAL tense.  Then they three burly guys started laughing.  The big guy behind me with the goatee slapped me on the back, so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of me.  "I like you taxi driver," he said, "you're alright."  With a little humor, the tension was broken and the anger fizzled away.  The guy they fought disappeared into the crowd on the sidewalk.  I drove them to another bar, and went on with my night.

The next day I was telling one of my friends about the incident, and he said, "That big guy with the goatee sounds like Tank Abbot.  Was it him?"  At that time, everybody in Huntington Beach knew who Tank was, the UFC was still pretty knew, and Tank was a standout fighter.  But I didn't know exactly what he looked like.  The next weekend I was telling some other guys in my cab about the incident, and I happened to see the guy with the goatee on Main street, walking down the sidewalk with some friends.  I pointed him out.  "Dude... That IS Tank.  You had Tank Abbot try to throw you out of your own cab last weekend... that's AWESOME!"  Sure, it seemed awesome to them as a story, but it scared the crap out when it happened.

In his day, even though he was ten or fifteen years older than many he fought, Tank Abbot was one of the kings of the Octagon.  I would not want to be on his bad side.  But my taxi was my domain, and by joking, I managed to make Tank and his friends laugh.  In everyday life, there are very few situations where you really have to physically fight.  A crazy sense of humor can de-escalate many situations.  I learned the martial art of humor from my dad, a high degree black belt in joke telling.  I've been into a few scuffles, but the martial art of humor has served me well over the years, and kept away from the hospital on more than one occasion.

 I'm at a transition point in my life.  I plan to focus on writing what needs to be written and drawing cool pictures to earn a living from now on.  I could use a little help to get started.  If you like this tale and want to hear more in the future, you can help me out here.