Natasha Gabbay ’10
Managing Editor 

People always seem to say that things aren’t really like they appear to be in the movies, but for me, the first fight I ever witnessed couldn’t have been more cinematic.

It was a gloriously sunny Saturday afternoon when I ventured up to Hartford for the annual June Dave Matthews Band concert. Someone had brought a mini grill and we were heading up early to have a little barbeque.

After about an hour of traffic to make it from the highway exit to a mile down the road where we would set up our barbeque, we finally made it and staked out a bit of land that we would call our own for the next couple of hours.

Having a good time, enjoying each other’s company and minding our own business, I suddenly saw a posse of boys strutting towards my friends and me. The next thing I knew a tall, skinny (or so he seemed at first) boy had knocked down our table that had the buns, ketchup and mustard atop it and was beginning to push around one of the boys standing adjacent to him.

Apparently we had stolen their “blue cooler” (if only they had taken a look around and realize that a dozen blue coolers littered the lot where many similar barbeques were taking place), and before I knew what was happening, I witnessed my first live punch.

The moment I saw the tall skinny boy take a swing at one of the boys in my group, I saw his large, toned muscles glistening in the sun rays. He wasn’t so skinny after all. I was shocked but secretly exhilarated; I had never seen a real fight.

But before I could get too excited, the boy’s posse had spread out and was starting to pick on any guy they could get their hands on. My position about 15 feet away seemed like a safe vantage point where I could watch and wait until the confrontational boys had exhausted their testosterone rushes.

Just as my girlfriends and I were beginning to feel that this little bout of mostly pushing was turning into a full on brawl, and that we needed to go and find policemen that could deter the group of boys with matching “RIP” tattoos from beating up our small and mostly defenseless friends, I was suddenly knocked back.

Somehow, the brawl had expanded and the skinny boy who wasn’t so skinny had thrown someone down right at my feet. As he went to punch the boy lying helplessly below me, I was apparently in the path of his fist and got a “right hook to the jaw,” as someone deemed it later.

After the momentary shock of being punched, I was suddenly swarmed and scooted back away from the fighting by a group of girls who were armed with bags of ice for my face. The police had finally caught word, and were running towards the scene.

Luckily for me, the punch wasn’t particularly powerful and there was no swelling or bruising to be seen (although I’ve been called “Mohammed Ali” and “thug” as I walk through the halls). My initial exhilaration of seeing the fight earned me some bad karma, and hopefully the first fight I ever witnessed will be the last fight I ever see without dim lights and a bag of popcorn.