The guy on the left is a super-idealized version of my 7th grade gym coach, Mr. Blasongame (?), the man who did nothing to protect me when I was being repeatedly bullied during second semester. Every day, I was cat-called (“Mrs. Rader” was the favorite), called out for fights after school, etc etc. It didn’t stop until the school year ended and we (my family) went on a summer long car trip around the western half of the United States. For some reason, when I started 8th grade, the bully kids mostly left me alone. My mom’s theory about that was that I filled out, got bigger. But that didn’t protect me the previous year.
I hadn’t hit puberty yet; I didn’t even know what a “fag” was when they started tormenting me with that word. My sin: I was a big (for my age) in-doorsy kid who cried easy. By the time I was done with 7th grade, I vowed nobody would ever make me cry again. It worked okay for a while. However, as I reached adult-hood, I realized I couldn’t cry even if I tried. It’s taken years of work to be able to get to the point where I can cry, on occasion.