Уильям Голдман - The Princess Bride

"Bully, bully," they taunted Fezzik during morning yogurt break.

"I'm not," Fezzik would say out loud. (To himself he would go "Woolly, woolly." He would never dare to consider himself a poet, because he wasn't anything like that; he just loved rhymes. Anything you said out loud, he rhymed it inside. Sometimes the rhymes made sense, sometimes they didn't. Fezzik never cared much about sense; all that ever mattered was the sound.)

"Coward."

Towered. "I'm not."

"Then fight," one of them would say, and would swing all he had and hit Fezzik in the stomach, confident that all Fezzik would do was go "oof" and stand there, because he never hit back no matter what you did to him.

"Oof."

Another swing. Another. A good stiff punch to the kidneys maybe. Maybe a kick in the knee. It would go on like that until Fezzik would burst into tears and run away.

One day at home, Fezzik's father called, "Come here."

Fezzik, as always, obeyed.

"Dry your tears," his mother said.

Two children had beaten him very badly just before. He did what he could to stop crying.

"Fezzik, this can't go on," his mother said. "They must stop picking on you."

Kicking on you. "I don't mind so much," Fezzik said.

"Well you should mind," his father said. He was a carpenter, with big hands. "Come on outside. I'm going to teach you how to fight."

"Please, I don't want—"

"Obey your father."

They trooped out to the back yard.

"Make a fist," his father said.

Fezzik did his best.

His father looked at his mother, then at the heavens. "He can't even make a fist," his father said.

"He's trying, he's only six; don't be so hard on him."

Fezzik's father cared for his son greatly and he tried to keep his voice soft, so Fezzik wouldn't burst out crying. But it wasn't easy. "Honey," Fezzik's father said, "look: when you make a fist, you don't put your thumb inside your fingers, you keep your thumb outside your fingers, because if you keep your thumb inside your fingers and you hit somebody, what will happen is you'll break your thumb, and that isn't good, because the whole object when you hit somebody is to hurt the other guy, not yourself."

Blurt. "I don't want to hurt anybody, Daddy."

"I don't want you to hurt anybody, Fezzik. But if you know how to take care of yourself, and they know you know, they won't bother you anymore."

Father. "I don't mind so much."

"Well we do," his mother said. "They shouldn't pick on you, Fezzik, just because you need a shave."

"Back to the fist," his father said. "Have we learned how?"

Fezzik made a fist again, this time with the thumb outside.

"He's a natural learner," his mother said. She cared for him as greatly as his father did.

"Now hit me," Fezzik's father said.

"No, I don't want to do that."

"Hit your father, Fezzik."

"Maybe he doesn't know how to hit," Fezzik's father said.

"Maybe not." Fezzik's mother shook her head sadly.

"Watch, honey," Fezzik's father said. "See? Simple. You just make a fist like you already know and then pull back your arm a little and aim for where you want to land and let go."

"Show your father what a natural learner you are," Fezzik's mother said. "Make a punch. Hit him a good one."

Fezzik made a punch toward his father's arm.

Fezzik's father stared at the heavens again in frustration.

"He came close to your arm," Fezzik's mother said quickly, before her son's face could cloud. "That was very good for a start, Fezzik; tell him what a good start he made," she said to her husband.

"It was in the right general direction," Fezzik's father managed. "If only I'd been standing one yard farther west, it would have been perfect."

"I'm very tired," Fezzik said. "When you learn so much so fast, you get so tired. I do anyway. Please may I be excused?"

"Not yet," Fezzik's mother said.

"Honey, please hit me, really hit me, try. You're a smart boy; hit me a good one," Fezzik's father begged.

"Tomorrow, Daddy; I promise." Tears began to form.

"Crying's not going to work, Fezzik," his father exploded. "It's not gonna work on me and it's not gonna work on your mother, you're gonna do what I say and what I say is you're gonna hit me and if it takes all night we're gonna stand right here and if it takes all week we're gonna stand right here and if it—"

S

P

L

A

T

!!!!

(This was before emergency wards, and that was too bad, at least for Fezzik's father, because there was no place to take him after Fezzik's punch landed, except to his own bed, where he remained with his eyes shut for a day and a half, except for when the milkman came to fix his broken jaw—this was not before doctors, but in Turkey they hadn't gotten around to claiming the bone business yet; milkmen still were in charge of bones, the logic being that since milk was so good for bones, who would know more about broken bones than a milkman?)

When Fezzik's father was able to open his eyes as much as he wanted, they had a family talk, the three of them.

"You're very strong, Fezzik," his father said. (Actually, that is not strictly true. What his father meant was, "You're very strong, Fezzik." What came out was more like this: "Zzz'zz zzzz zzzzzz, Zzzzzz." Ever since the milkman had wired his jaws together, all he could manage was the letter z. But he had a very expressive face, and his wife understood him perfectly.)

"He says, 'You're very strong, Fezzik.'"

"I thought I was," Fezzik answered. "Last year I hit a tree once when I was very mad. I knocked it down. It was a small tree, but still, I figured that had to mean something."

"Z's zzzzzz zz zzzzz z zzzzzzzzz, Zzzzzz."

"He says he's giving up being a carpenter, Fezzik."

"Oh, no," Fezzik said. "You'll be all well soon, Daddy; the milkman practically promised me."

"Z zzzz zz zzzz zz zzzzz z zzzzzzzzz, Zzzzzz."

"He wants to give up being a carpenter, Fezzik."

"But what will he do?"

Fezzik's mother answered this one herself; she and her husband had been up half the night agreeing on the decision. "He's going to be your manager, Fezzik. Fighting is the national sport of Turkey. We're all going to be rich and famous."

"But Mommy, Daddy, I don't like fighting."

Fezzik's father reached out and gently patted his son's knee. "Zz'z zzzzz zz zz zzzzzzzzz, " he said.

"It's going to be wonderful " his mother translated.

Fezzik only burst into tears.

They had his first professional match in the village of San-diki, on a steaming-hot Sunday. Fezzik's parents had a terrible time getting him into the ring. They were absolutely confident of victory, because they had worked very hard. They had taught Fezzik for three solid years before they mutually agreed that he was ready. Fezzik's father handled tactics and ring strategy, while his mother was more in charge of diet and training, and they had never been happier.

Fezzik had never been more miserable. He was scared and frightened and terrified, all rolled into one. No matter how they reassured him, he refused to enter the arena. Because he knew something: even though outside he looked twenty, and his mustache was already coming along nicely, inside he was still this nine-year-old who liked rhyming things.

"No," he said. "I won't, I won't, and you can't make me."

"After all we've slaved for these three years," his father said. (His jaw was almost as good as new now.)

"He'll hurt me!" Fezzik said.

"Life is pain," his mother said. "Anybody that says different is selling something."

"Please. I'm not ready. I forget the holds. I'm not graceful and I fall down a lot. It's true."

It was. Their only real fear was, were they rushing him? "When the going gets tough, the tough get going," Fezzik's mother said.