My Fight

5 Jan

Boldness. I love it. I always have. As a wee one my Father was my hero, as his forefathers had been to him. He thrilled me with long gutsy tales on chilled drizzly nights by woodfire warmth, of life in our wet place in the Highlands of old Alba, ancient name of Scotland. Sooner than I could fully understand language I was bursting with a passion for my blood, and there was awakened in me a bond to it that I think I brought into this life battle. I have never not felt it, way down under my toenails, the stamp that gripped me with a sense of home I’d have to fight to recover, in a life scattered far from it, for whys I couldn’t catch or comprehend until late in the game.

I’ve fallen and been beaten, repeatedly, but I always get back up. I admit that my fervor for the fight itself was sometimes my undoing. True to the legacy of my Scot blood I have a visceral respect for combat. My intrinsic drive to stay in the game when the chips are down has been called courageous, but I don’t do it for the sake of bravery itself, but because “fortune favors the bold”.

Frankly, I’ll battle with a suicidal bravado verging on stupidity, but in the end I’m not consoled knowing that I showed or even embodied bravery, loyalty to my team, fought with honor, or gave my best. My audacity, even insanity, is fueled by the fact that there is still a cup waiting past the goal line and I want to fondle her, kiss her, and call her mine. No matter what game or battle I choose to play or fight, I want the win.

©2006-2010 brent david fraser, all rights reserved

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