AHHHNNH MOM…ESPOVIAN (sic) JUST PUNCHED ME IN THE STOMACH!!! GODDAMMIT DANNY!

Kids can be so mean.

And this bent toward meanness is not a byproduct of behavior necessarily learned at home.

Rather it represents a defense mechanism to combat the insecurities of youth.

The desire to be well-liked and popular hits probably at seven or eight years old; at least that’s how I remember it.

Until then it’s all about introspection. Rarely do you look beyond yourself because there is so much to see and process. You’re trying to figure yourself out, then maybe some of the people, places and things around you.

After that comes the fitting-in phase.

Which for some can be the beginning of a life-long struggle and a most harrowing collection of experiences.

Childhood meanness, pettiness and the like is also often rooted in jealousy.

It’s an “either-or” deal really.

If somebody has what you want but do not have in the way of a personality trait or a particular skill, the choice is either to get close or go on the attack.

The former approach is a kinder one, albeit somewhat duplicitous. After all you are enshrouding your intention to get what you want in a cloak of manufactured interest which may or may not turn into something genuine.

The latter praxis reflects desperation and inevitable defeat or failure.

You know that the likelihood of getting what they have is next to nil so you resort to character assassination and disparagement — commonly referred to as “ranking out” back in the day — in an effort to raise your stock at their expense.

This has been going on forever.

Sad but true and part of life.

The coupling of childhood insecurity and largely unfounded and misplaced peer jealousy is usually outgrown (and none too soon).

Hopefully what happens is as you get older you learn how to build and grow your unique persona at nobody’s expense and go along all-the-while mindful of being the best person you can be. This is a winning formula which in the long run ensures a not insignificant measure of open-armed acceptance and even admiration.

But no kid gets this as a kid. It takes time, effort, mentoring and patience.

And then if you’re a lot lucky and a little good, it can happen.

My pal Danny in many ways had it all. Handsome kid. Very good athlete. Pretty bright. But with a high enough opinion of himself that bordered on, if not directly translated to, conceit. And this bit of cockiness was the characteristic that somehow trumped everything else and contributed mightily to the social difficulties he experienced during our early youth.

Certainly Danny was likeable enough but invariably an innocuous remark or two (hardly recognized as innocuous by us at the time) spilling from his lips would bring him crashing down.

When a scenario such as this one unfolds repeatedly a pattern forms which is extremely difficult to reverse or eradicate especially in one’s youth.

Danny had shot himself in the foot over and over again and had earned the most dubious distinction of being shackled, bound and gagged by these incessant faux pas.

He was “labelled.”

And the hungry wolves salivated and circled, ever-eager to pounce.

I felt badly for Danny. It must have been torturous to endure this day after day. In the interest of full disclosure I had had a very small taste of it myself as most every kid did I guess, but thankfully it was short-lived.

(Although I must say that at the time it seemed like it was going on forever and would never stop, which boldly underscores Danny’s travails).

He must have been made of iron but on the inside I knew he was dying. I mean who wouldn’t have been? “Danny Dog…Danny Dixon — This is Danny Dixon and This is Danny Dixon…” A never-ending stream of annoying and hurtful barbs tossed in his direction.

Why? And for what? To what possible end?

All of the nonsense would have come to a screeching halt with one well-placed punch in the nose, a far more common and occasionally acceptable course then than today.

But Danny was too kind to do that. So he was in a real bind and at the mercy of the seemingly snail-like process of kids growing up and turning their attention elsewhere.

God bless Danny because he was very resilient among other things.

And bless him twice because unwittingly he supplied the rest of us with so much great material.

I’ll never forget the time that we were shooting baskets on his backyard court, newly-constructed in an effort to have Danny engage with friends on his turf if you will. And it was a good idea because we used it a lot particularly if we wanted a break from the park — the neighborhood playground which was the axis of our most active and burgeoning athletic and social lifestyles.

We were friends in spite of the catty and unkind childish antics.

Danny’s mother — chummy with mine and a lovely woman in her own right — had come through the backdoor and was approaching the court verbalizing a request for her eldest son. She had just returned home from getting her hair done.

Somehow the timing was impeccable and could not have been better scripted. As she made her way onto the court a shot which had been launched toward the hoop drew iron and improbably rebounded to hit her directly on top of her head.

We did the best we could to stifle our guffawing until she brayed at the very top of her lungs, “GODDAMMIT DANNY!!!”

All bets were off then and we scattered so as to avoid inflaming an already incendiary situation.

But the damage had been done.

More fodder for Danny-haranguing, harassment and torture.

Then there was the time when we found ourselves face-to-face with a group of the town toughs some of whom interestingly became our friends in high school.

(One of the beauties of playing sports was that it helped to narrow the great divide, the development of mutual respect acting as the catalyzing agent).

As was their wont, the “ruggies” tried to push us around and before we parted ways one of them gifted Danny with a sucker punch to the gut, just for nothing.

A punch in the stomach can hurt especially when it’s unexpected and Danny wailed until he got home — I was with him — at which time he apprised his mother of what had happened.

Still in tears, Danny mangled the kid’s last name when recounting the event in such a manner that I never forgot it. (In fairness the name was a rather long Armenian one, lots of consonants with nearly as many, if not as many vowels interspersed).

More ammo for future reference.

By the grace of God we all got older and outgrew our childhood antics.

Danny emerged none the worse for wear.

I’ve not seen or spoken to him in quite a while.

But he was really a good kid and a better sport.

And we did have plenty of fun together with him not playing the foil.

I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings Danny.

I hope you can forgive me.

We both know at this stage in our lives that sometimes youth can be wasted on the young.

[Editor’s Note: This piece was written by Mr. Kaplan in February 2017.]