Growing Up Short and Dumpy

I wasn’t particularly tall at age thirteen, reaching about 5 feet 6 inches with my shoes on. In fact, I was pretty dumpy looking since I weighed about 160 at that time. However, in the summer of 1960, an amazing thing happened. I grew almost three inches and lost ten pounds at the same time. All of a sudden I went from a plump little kid to a lanky, strapping teenager. Eventually I would grow another three inches and hold my weight in the 160 range. It’s unbelievable what a few inches in height and a few less pounds can do for your self-esteem. Although my upbringing was centered on education and intellectual pursuits, I always felt somewhat inferior in physical activities. In reality, I was fairly coordinated and had excellent reflexes, but my size and shape always seemed to hold me back. When the kids used to choose up sides for the stickball or basketball games (I was never allowed to play football and, in the 1950’s and early 60’s, football wasn’t nearly as compelling as it is today), I usually was the last to be picked. This didn’t please me, but my folks never failed to remind me that education and vocational aptitude were far more important things in life than athletic prowess.

I had worn eyeglasses since the age of 4, when my mother realized that I always wanted to sit within 3 or 4 feet of the television and took me to the optometrist. It turned out that I was extremely nearsighted and had a high degree of myopia. Eyeglasses were a must. While this led to my being the brunt of some common children’s cruelty, I never regarded my glasses as a major hindrance. I could see better with them than without them and that was all that mattered. However, the extra few inches in height enabled me to cut a more acceptable figure than that of a short plump kid with glasses. My self-confidence soared and I now felt equal to any physical challenge that came my way.

There was an Irish punk, Mike McNulty, who used to insult me every chance he got. It wasn’t unusual for him to come running up to me, screaming ‘Four-eyed Jewboy!’ for all to hear, as he proceeded to grab my hat or books or whatever he could latch his miserable fingers onto. Occasionally, he would even punch me in the stomach and I, having no idea whatsoever how to defend myself, would either run away or go home with a bloody nose. Not that three inches is the difference between being a tough guy or a wimp, but I finally decided that I had had enough of this mean bastard’s abuse. One day in September of that year, I was walking through the playground on my way home from school when McNulty came running up to me in his usual fashion and made a grab for my books. Instead of standing stock still, which had been my customary reaction to his previous attacks, I sidestepped his lunge and punched him square in the face, bloodying his nose. Despite the shock he must have felt, he had a reputation to uphold. McNulty put his hands up, palms forward, in a traditional signal of surrender, and then launched a kick straight for my groin. Fortunately, I knew what a rotten apple he really was and had no illusions about his backing off. When his leg began to move forward, I stepped inside the range of his kick, and brought my books up into his unguarded chin, knocking him unconscious for almost five whole minutes. My parents weren’t very happy when they found out about the incident, but McNulty never physically bothered me again. Once in a while, he would yell a religious slur at me but it was always from the other side of the street. When the word of my defense got around the neighborhood, I received a great deal more respect from the other kids. I had found out that, while turning the other cheek was a normal reaction to the religious prejudice most Jews experienced, sometimes it felt far better to smash someone’s face in. It was a lesson I didn’t soon forget.