The fist filled my vision. I ducked, down and to the left.Blood and sweat stung my right eye. I popped up, jabbed with a right hand. My punch glanced off Michael’s beefy forearm. His head seemed so far away, maybe because he was about five inches taller than me. He also outweighed me by a lot. He lived close by. We weren’t good friends, but we knew each other’s names; we smiled and waved when we saw the other in passing.

Michael faked a right, threw a left. He missed. My left punch pounded his ribs. Michael grunted. I grunted and shook my throbbing hand. Hitting this big Polynesian kid was like driving a fist into a tree. But, hey, I was nineteen and . . . stupid. Michael threw a left, but pulled the punch. I overcommitted. His right hook slammed into my jaw. My head snapped back. I wobbled. A punch smashed into the right side of my gut. I staggered. My abs clenched spasmodically and I doubled over. Each breath seemed to be sucked through a narrow tube.

Michael charged. Clumsily, I sidestepped out of reach. Hunched over, I held up a finger. Michael paused, uncertain what to do. Our rules weren’t very clear. One of Michael’s cousins said, “Hey, Haole, you need to take a break for a diaper change, eh, bra?” Laughter and jeers erupted from the crowd. I glanced at my brother, who held a camera, filming our mutual combat. I grinned savagely, wiped my eyes, and straightened.

This wasn’t the first neighborhood fight. We’d been setting these up for months. Five dollars for admission. It was good pocket change for the fighters, sure, but we didn’t do it for the money so much as the rush. “Times up, Moutsos,” Michael said. “Lights out.” He rushed in, fists raised.My uppercut crashed into his jaw. Thwak! I didn’t know if the crunching was his jaw or the bones of my hand or both. I sensed the crowd freeze.

Michael staggered back. He cupped his jaw, eyes squeezed shut. He shook his head and muttered, “I think we’re done.” I sagged with relief. I was running on fumes. I collected my earnings and a number of high-fives and fist-bumps. As I thumbed through my hard-earned cash, my brother and I headed to my old Ford Bronco. Grimacing, grunting, I pulled myself up to the driver’s seat. “Is it as much as you thought?” my brother said.

 I shrugged and shoved the wad of bills into the sweaty pocket of my Levi’s.I looked up and noticed my face in the rearview mirror. I was a mess, scratched and bloody, with an impressive black eye forming. I shook my head and started the engine. I slid a silver hoop earring into my left earlobe, then one in the right.Hitting the gas, we jerked forward and swerved up the street.

I awoke Sunday morning in pain, but not just from the black eye, swollen, bloody gums, aching jaw, aching muscles, aching knuckles…but in pain because of something deep inside me. I felt a nagging, aching depression that made me fidgety. I had fought for the money, but I fought for something more: to mask the dark feelings in my gut. Was this typical teenage angst or something more?I hadn’t slept well.

My family was at church. I slouched on the couch, television on, but I wasn’t really watching. I stood and went to the fridge. I stared at the food, then closed the fridge and wandered back to the couch. The doorbell rang. I shuffled to the front door, muttering, “I’m coming. I’m coming.”Ding-dong. I yanked open the door. Michael filled my porch.

I hopped back a step. Was he mad about the outcome of the fight? Did he think the way we split the money was unfair? Did he…I squinted at Michael’s clothes. He wore a white shirt and tie with slacks. He grinned at me. “Uh,” I said, “hey, Mike. Why are you here?” I gripped the edge of the door, ready to slam it shut if he lunged at me. His grin widened, wrinkling the gruesome bruise on his chin. He said, “It’s cool, man. Relax.”

I nodded, but wasn’t entirely convinced this was safe. I was, after all, home alone. Michael said, “It’s my mom, bro. That’s why I’m here. She saw my face and about beat me down for getting in a fight with you. I told her it wasn’t anything personal, just for money. That didn’t help.” He laughed. I stared at him, unsure whether to speak or slam the door and return to my moping around the empty house.

Michael said, “My mom told me I’m letting down my ancestors and stuff.Then my auntie, she slapped me. She said I should be telling you about God and stuff.” He held up a book. “Here, bro, this is for you.” “Okay,” I said, and accepted the book. “Uh, thanks.” Michael beamed. He rose up on his toes, then nodded and turned to leave.I shook my head and closed the door. Just as I locked the door, I heard Michael yelling back at me, “See you around, brother!”

“Sure thing,” I said. “See you around.” I grunted at the strangeness of this unexpected interaction. I thumbed through the book he’d given me, a book of scripture apparently. I went to my room and tossed the book on top of my dresser. Then I ate a bowl of cereal. I returned to my room. Lying on my bed, I stared at the book on top of my dresser and nibbled my fingernails. For the first time in my life, I had a serious internal dialogue, asking myself, “Where am I going? I’m nineteen.What should I do with my life?”

Wandering aimlessly around my room, I glimpsed myself in the mirror on the back of my door. I stared at my eyes and snarled. I yanked my earrings out and dropped them on top of the dresser. Gripping its edges, I closed my eyes and growled at the despair overwhelming me, the self-loathing suffocating me. I opened my eyes and there was Michael’s book. There were the scriptures.I snatched the book, opened it to a random page, and focused on a paragraph.It talked about peace of conscience.

The idea leapt out at me. Aloud, I said, “Peace of conscience.” Yes, that’s what I wanted, what I needed. My youth seemed suddenly so frivolous, so empty. I felt like I’d been traveling across a wasteland, nothing worth while around me, no destination in mind, just wandering aimlessly, accomplishing nothing. It was time to grow up.

I lay in bed with the scriptures, reading with real intent for the first time in my life. I read for hours. I read the next day and the next. The words seeped into my skin, mixed with my blood, and became a part of me. I could not get enough. I was starving and had never realized it until now. What I read changed me. It wasn’t an overnight transformation, but I felt like I had a direction, a blueprint for reform.

I’d forever be grateful to a two hundred-pound Polynesian named Michael for giving me a black eye, then giving me a gift that probably saved my life.