MY RECORD in street fights is 0-2-1. For those unfamiliar with boxing, the first number (zero) represents my victories. The second number is losses: one via walkover and one via technical knockout. The last number represents a draw.
The technical knockout happened last month, when I drifted too close to the edge of the herd at the Dekalb Avenue subway station. A mentally ill man, whose screaming monologue I had assumed to be emanating from a distant part of the platform, strode toward me, mid-rant. Something about me must have caught his attention, because he stopped and fixed me with an accusatory glare.
“You!” he shouted. “Never. Fucked. Nobody!”
My first thought was: clearly he doesn't know me very well.
My second thought was more like a series of calculations. The tracks were at my back. He was about five feet in front of me. He was young and in outstanding physical condition, probably a super middleweight, and he had a good sweat going. I
