proudly.
It was definitely strange, but at least Samson had found himself at a young age and knew exactly what he wanted to be later; he strove continuously to reach his goals. He somehow skipped the identity-searching phase that usually leaves people doubting themselves until they are older. There are those who never find their own identity and go through life as someone else. Samson was better off than them.
He was completely obsessed with body building and crazy about the macho-man image. One day, he lured me in and curiosity got the best of me. I didn't understand how he knew the secret to building chest muscles.
"Don't tell anyone!" he whispered while glancing around. He jerked my hand and we ran to the abandoned electric shed behind the school. He reached into his bag and pulled out a tennis ball that had been split in half.
"If you want to have a bulging chest like mine, this is the secret!" He was whispering again, even though absolutely no one else was around. I looked at the two halves with surprise and thought to myself: Apparently the secret to an amazing body is in this tennis ball! It must be a great discovery.
"Take off your shirt!" demanded Samson.
What is he going to do to me?
"Let me make you a real man!"
The expression on his face indicated that he couldn't figure out why every man didn't use this method—a shortcut to the perfect appearance.
I was hesitant, but I had no other choice. I unbuttoned my shirt.
"Hurry up!"
Suddenly, Samson forcefully shoved the tennis ball halves against my chest. I stumbled back and almost fell. He had caught me by surprise and I was powerless, my back against some planks of wood. To make matters worse, Samson was much bigger than me and was as strong as a coolie. I wriggled around trying to break free.
And then I understood. The tennis ball halves were supposed to work like that strange thing with a wooden handle and a rubber cup that people use to unclog toilets. In Samson's crazy head, those tennis ball halves functioned as a tool to pump up chest muscles. Before I knew it, I was being tortured in Samson's strong grip by the powerful suctioning of the tennis ball halves.
I felt the life being sucked out of my insides—my heart, liver, lungs, spleen, blood and the contents of my stomach—by the cursed tennis ball halves. My eyes felt like they were going to pop out of my head. I choked, unable to speak. I signaled to Samson to stop.
"It's not time yet—you have to finish counting names and parents first, and then the results will show!" Count names and parents? Oh man! Darn it!
Counting names and parents was our own foolish creation—doing something within the amount of time it took to say the full names of everyone in our class and their parents. For example: Trapani Ihsan Jamari Nursidik, son of Zainuddin Ilham Jamari Nursidik. Or Harun Ardhli Ramadhan Hasani Burhan, son of Syamsul Hazana Ramadhan Hasani Burhan. No way could I endure these things sucking the life out of me for the entire amount of time it would take me to count names and parents. Malay names were never short!
Samson didn't care. I was a fish trapped in a net. My breaths became short. The suctioning of the tennis ball halves felt like stings from killer bees. My body seemed to be shrinking. My legs flailed around hopelessly. The suffering felt as though it would never end.
Then, all of a sudden, one of the wooden planks behind me fell and gave me room to gather my strength. Without stopping to think twice, I mustered the last ounce of strength left in my body, and with one roundhouse style move, I kicked Samson as hard as I could right between his legs—just like when the Japanese boxer Antonio Inoki took a cheap shot at Muhammad Ali in their 1976 fight. Samson howled and groaned like a bumble bee trapped in a glass jar. I broke free from his grasp, jumped away and bolted off. That genius body-building invention flew up into the air before sluggishly tumbling down onto a stack of
It was definitely strange, but at least Samson had found himself at a young age and knew exactly what he wanted to be later; he strove continuously to reach his goals. He somehow skipped the identity-searching phase that usually leaves people doubting themselves until they are older. There are those who never find their own identity and go through life as someone else. Samson was better off than them.
He was completely obsessed with body building and crazy about the macho-man image. One day, he lured me in and curiosity got the best of me. I didn't understand how he knew the secret to building chest muscles.
"Don't tell anyone!" he whispered while glancing around. He jerked my hand and we ran to the abandoned electric shed behind the school. He reached into his bag and pulled out a tennis ball that had been split in half.
"If you want to have a bulging chest like mine, this is the secret!" He was whispering again, even though absolutely no one else was around. I looked at the two halves with surprise and thought to myself: Apparently the secret to an amazing body is in this tennis ball! It must be a great discovery.
"Take off your shirt!" demanded Samson.
What is he going to do to me?
"Let me make you a real man!"
The expression on his face indicated that he couldn't figure out why every man didn't use this method—a shortcut to the perfect appearance.
I was hesitant, but I had no other choice. I unbuttoned my shirt.
"Hurry up!"
Suddenly, Samson forcefully shoved the tennis ball halves against my chest. I stumbled back and almost fell. He had caught me by surprise and I was powerless, my back against some planks of wood. To make matters worse, Samson was much bigger than me and was as strong as a coolie. I wriggled around trying to break free.
And then I understood. The tennis ball halves were supposed to work like that strange thing with a wooden handle and a rubber cup that people use to unclog toilets. In Samson's crazy head, those tennis ball halves functioned as a tool to pump up chest muscles. Before I knew it, I was being tortured in Samson's strong grip by the powerful suctioning of the tennis ball halves.
I felt the life being sucked out of my insides—my heart, liver, lungs, spleen, blood and the contents of my stomach—by the cursed tennis ball halves. My eyes felt like they were going to pop out of my head. I choked, unable to speak. I signaled to Samson to stop.
"It's not time yet—you have to finish counting names and parents first, and then the results will show!" Count names and parents? Oh man! Darn it!
Counting names and parents was our own foolish creation—doing something within the amount of time it took to say the full names of everyone in our class and their parents. For example: Trapani Ihsan Jamari Nursidik, son of Zainuddin Ilham Jamari Nursidik. Or Harun Ardhli Ramadhan Hasani Burhan, son of Syamsul Hazana Ramadhan Hasani Burhan. No way could I endure these things sucking the life out of me for the entire amount of time it would take me to count names and parents. Malay names were never short!
Samson didn't care. I was a fish trapped in a net. My breaths became short. The suctioning of the tennis ball halves felt like stings from killer bees. My body seemed to be shrinking. My legs flailed around hopelessly. The suffering felt as though it would never end.
Then, all of a sudden, one of the wooden planks behind me fell and gave me room to gather my strength. Without stopping to think twice, I mustered the last ounce of strength left in my body, and with one roundhouse style move, I kicked Samson as hard as I could right between his legs—just like when the Japanese boxer Antonio Inoki took a cheap shot at Muhammad Ali in their 1976 fight. Samson howled and groaned like a bumble bee trapped in a glass jar. I broke free from his grasp, jumped away and bolted off. That genius body-building invention flew up into the air before sluggishly tumbling down onto a stack of
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