GOOD… I’M GLAD…FUCK YOU.

Y’know, you can’t allow yourself to think negatively. Or with any malice in your heart. It just serves no positive purpose whatsoever.

When I first got punched in the nose, I wanted to do the punching thereafter. To dictate that kind of thing. And I pretty much did. Great. So what? Always somebody around the corner who can clean your clock, bet on it.

But that’s not the point. Fighting shouldn’t make you happy unless it’s a source of gainful employment and puts food in your children’s mouths.

So you learn how to behave. You willingly (or not) practice a little decorum, if you’ll be so kind. You get rid of the negative energy. You hopefully outgrow the foolish tendencies which can punctuate your youth.

You get older. Then you age. Then you are old. But you’re not dead yet. Nor should your spirit be.

Occasionally it — the spirit — fluctuates; there’s an ebb and flow to it. It can wane and then be rejuvenated but it should never die while you are still drawing breath.

Because without your spirit, your will, even your dampened joie de vivre, you’re done. You need this to live. To live happily and with hope for tomorrow. With any shred of hope actually.

Everybody needs hope.

So let’s discuss whatever it is that may be known as a ‘competitive nature.’ In my house it ran very, very deep and manifested itself differently in each individual.

My father passed down to us, among many other things, his love of sports. And his disdain for losing. My mother didn’t like to lose either but her pursuits had a more intellectual bent to them; an athlete she was not. She liked to play bridge and routinely conquered the most difficult crossword puzzles, sometimes in ink. She either “competed” against another or against herself happily. (See the game of solitaire, a manual and real — not virtual — exercise of the brain). But make no mistake, she would take a back seat to no one…ever.

That’s why I was flummoxed as a young boy when my mother so readily conceded that a friend’s mom — who certainly didn’t look it — was a far better athlete than she. It was less about the facts of the case which were accurate but moreso that she was so willing to accept them without contesting any of it.

How could she? I would never be able to do that, I remember thinking.

But upon reflection I realized that everybody has their own bailiwick and that the concept of competition is transcendent. In her own way(s), she was as competitive a person as anyone who lived in the house — including her mother who was one of the first female graduates of Tufts/Jackson way back when (in the late 1890’s).

And that was saying something, believe me, although neither my mother nor my grandmother addressed it unless asked. They were not boastful people.

My brother, five years my senior, was bitten by the bug and moved forward full throttle. Younger brothers being what they are, say “me too.” I was no different; I wanted to do everything he did, exactly the way he did it. Whatever it was he did.

On top of that, genes don’t lie. So although we didn’t really compete mano a mano when we were youngsters due to the five year age difference, the seeds were sown. The soil was fertilized and watered daily under lots of frenetic physical activity and plenty of sunshine. Vegetation of all competitive strains sprouted and grew bountifully.

We were what we were — and still are. We are what we are.

So when I found out on pretty good authority that someone close to our family but not related asked of another, also close but unrelated what could have happened in that house, our house, I was slightly taken aback.

(A veiled reference was being made I assume to the fires which have historically burned in our bellies as well as to our hair-trigger tempers which have quieted down dramatically with age. Quite possibly the wholesomeness and purity of their origins was being questioned).

And mightily offended I might add. Until I thought about it a little more deeply.

We were competitive people who tried very hard and achieved. We didn’t like it when we didn’t do well. In those cases we were made to understand lovingly that it wasn’t the end of the world.

I can still hear to this day my mother comforting me by saying, “Pete dear, don’t care. Try to relax.”

Implicit however was the notion that we’d have to try a little harder to get what we wanted. Study. Practice. Do the best you can. Always. And if you do your very best, nobody could ask any more of you, results be damned.

Words to live by.

I marvel at how wonderful our upbringing was. Our parents (and grandparents) were superstars; they were well-rounded and intelligent people who understood most everything. They were terrific teachers and kind and compassionate souls. Love overflowed from each of them.

They were not perfect of course and neither are we.

But, speaking for myself (though I’m sure my brother would agree) there will be no apology forthcoming for being competitive and wanting to win. For trying my best and constantly striving to be better. For being me.

That’s what I learned in my house under idyllic circumstances and I’m more than proud to say so.

I’m kvelling come to think of it.