To win their battles, these kinds of underdog rely on their own and one another’s ability to absorb violence. They find their might in their nature. They believe victory is assured by their nature, and that as long as they act in accordance with their nature, they will claim it.
Because they are able to fight, they must fight.
Some examples of the small one or the few who fight the large one or the many
Corleone Family vs. The Five Families. Moses vs. The Egyptians. Israel vs. The Arab Nations. Samson vs. The Philistines. Yeshua vs. Rome. The Nazi Party vs. The World. McMurphy vs. Hospital Security. The Palestinians vs. The Israelis. Warsaw Ghetto Soldiers vs. The Nazis. Mosada Soldiers vs. Roman Centurions. Al Quaeda vs. The West.
These kinds of underdog rely on stealth, craftiness, or technology to win their battles. They have faith that their might comes from outside of them. They believe their fight is meant to be; that their might, whether it is in the form of stealth or craftiness or technology, is a gift from God that they must use if they wish to claim victory.
Because they must fight, they are made able to fight.
Conclusion
Had their birth not been thwarted by the decimation of their ancestors, a billion Philistines would today be crying out against David for having cheated in the contest that ended their giant.
Underdog stories are easy to tell. It is best to be suspicious of underdog stories.
The ISS desk faced the back of the Office to prevent conversation with kids in the waiting chairs. No one was waiting when I came out of Brodsky’s, except for Miss Pinge, who wanted to leave. She handed me my ISS assignment and pardoned herself to the bathroom. Then she went out to her car to smoke.
I reversed my chair to watch Main Hall through the window. It was already a minute into Lunch/Recess-rush, and my eyes went straight to the the Main Hall Shovers.
The blankspot for Jesus on their scarves was loud, way more prominent than it had seemed the day before, when I’d only seen the scarf get brandished for a second. Not only was it centermost on the scarf’s left leg (beneath it were the symbols that stood for the co-captains; above it, the ones for Lonnie Boyd and the fifth guy, A-teamer X, whose unknown last name, it could now be deduced, began with a letter between B and F), but whereas the other starters’ symbols were thinly embroidered — just scant white thread-shapes on deep red fabric, the fuzz of which seemed to be trying to suffocate them — Frungeon’s white stripe was dyed bright in the wool.
The Shovers kept touching their scarves on the knots, triple- and quadruple-checking their integrity, but otherwise nothing they were doing was new to me. Their actions in Main Hall, though usually conspicuous and often offensive, were always predictable. If a bandkid was around, they’d call him a bancer and shoulder him sideways at the wall or trip him. If a girl who wasn’t an Ashley or a Jenny was pretty and standing or walking alone, then one or two Shovers would push another into her, the pushed one would sly-grope a tit or some ass, explain real loud how he had to catch his balance, then apologize softly and ask if she was hurt. When an Indian came by, they’d show him their thumbs and say, “Gumm ‘em!” or “Yope!” or “Gumm it up! Yope!” and try to shake his hand, unless he was a starter, or Bryan Maholtz, in which case they’d step to the side so he could pass. Most of the time, though, the Indians ignored them, and the bandkids and pretty non-Jennys and — Ashleys kept enough distance to dodge molestation; most of the time the Shovers only had each other, and their Shover-to-Shover routine went like this: One would toe the heel of the one in front of him, the heel-toed one would shove the one in front of him, and the one who’d been shoved would stop short and go rigid so the heel-toed one would walk into his elbows. Sometimes, too, they’d make a Shover sandwich, i.e., the heel-toer would walk into the elbows of the one who had just walked into the shoved one’s elbows. And occasionally the heel-toer’s own heel would get toed by a fourth Main Hall Shover, then the fourth by a fifth, then the fifth by a sixth, and etc. and so on. The only thing that might vary was the size of the sandwich.
None of the Shovers ever wrecked school property, or ever got in trouble, let alone damaged, yet from the way they’d chin air and slap backs post-routine, you could tell that they thought they got away with being dangerous. Mischief wasn’t danger, though, and they’d only been mischievous, and you didn’t have to get away with that during Lunch — mischievous was what you were supposed to be. The whole purpose of Lunch outside of the classroom was to provide time and space for students to engage in benign little fits of halfhearted assault that would dull their urges to damage the arrangement. So while the Main Hall Shovers thought themselves defiant, like some paddling gang of finns on the foamy rapids, they were just a bunch of sawyers in school-colored scarves eating candy in a barn before supper. They’d have brought more damage singing Aptakisic’s fightsong while marching down Main Hall in a singlefile line — at least then their behavior might have seemed ironic.
After their first routine (a three-man sandwich), I looked past them to the action on the farther side of Main Hall. The seventh-grade Jennys — Jennys April, Khouri, and Flagg — knelt under the fire alarm to retie their shoes. The shoes were brand-new white with a steel toe on the outside and a bright-colored tongue: a red tongue for April, a green one for Khouri, and an orange for Flagg. No one in the hallway seemed to notice the Jennys, so they pulled the knots loose and tied them again, and then again, and again once more, when finally two Ashleys — Dunkel wearing an EMOTIONALIZE head-band, and Doer a wrist one embossed with a Star of Boystar — stopped to admire the shoes. Dunkel slapped her forehead, and Doer used her wrist to touch each Jenny on the shoulder. They kissed each other’s halos and giggled loud giggles.
Then an Israelite Shover thumped the window chin-first, and my line of sight got blocked, and he fell. A second kid tripped on the fallen one’s body, and the tripped one got grundied by Maholtz. Maholtz then blindly collided with Slokum, who one-arm bounced him off the window hard and continued forward without breaking stride.
Maholtz saw me see him, stuck his hand in his pocket, and pulled out his sap and snicked it. I stood up fast and he backpedaled. I reached in my hoodie and pulled out my swearfinger, mouthed the word “Bryguy,” and there might have been a stare-down, and Maholtz might have won it, but I looked at the ground, overcome with confusion, and so I didn’t know if there’d been any staredown.
What confused me was how it was that I’d known that the Shover who’d slammed against the window was an Israelite. To read a face takes too much effort to do it without noticing, so I knew I hadn’t, inadvertantly or otherwise, read an Israelite story in the slammed Shover’s face. I could barely remember the shape of the face. What I did remember was blonde hair and light eyes, and though no few Israelites had such features, the features themselves far from signified Israelite. His nose I couldn’t picture, but big-nosedness would have indicated little, anyway. To really get across that Nazi propaganda look, you had to reveal your profile to the viewer, and the glance that I’d gotten was totally frontal. By the time I started picturing the area under his scarf-knot to see if he wore a hamsa or chai or mogen David, the image was already becoming unreliable — it flickered and the chest expanded and contracted, cycling through various breadths and shirt-colors, none of which seemed to be accurate. Was it possible I made a mistake? What kind of mistake was that to make, though? Why would I see an Israelite where there was no Israelite? Because I wished he were an Israelite? Did I wish that? What I really wished was that no Israelites were Shovers. However, being that some were, did I wish them more harm than I did the other Shovers? Did I wish hard enough that the wish banced my eyesight, banced it enough to Israelitelate a window-slammed Gentile? I didn’t think so. I didn’t believe people’s brains worked like that, or at least not mine, and I still don’t. But that stopped mattering, anyway. What came to matter was that, yes, when I thought about it, I did wish the Israelite Shovers more harm than the others. I wished them all harm, all of the Shovers, but there was a sharper kind of satisfaction in my stomach when I thought of the Israelite ones getting damaged. They seemed, somehow, to deserve it more. Or maybe it was just that I would never hurt them myself, at least not for being Shovers. All Shovers were chomsky for being Shovers, but the Israelite ones, in addition to being chomsky, got me disappointed. Despite that disappointment, I wouldn’t bring them damage, because they were my brothers, chomsky or not. And because I wouldn’t bring them damage despite the disappointment, because they were my brothers, chomsky or not, it made me feel frustrated and wish them extra damage.