I tell this story because it is an important tale of how non-violent actions can have such a strong influence. This certainly is not a story I am proud of. This is a story of my mother’s actions, not my own.
When I was 6 years old we lived opposite a golf course. Golf balls would come flying over the road into our front garden. My brother and I would collect them and invent games to play with these bouncy toys.
The house next door was slightly up hill from our own and there was a retaining wall running down the side of our house that created a narrow passage. We’d throw the golf balls against the wall of our house and they’d ping between there and the retaining wall. We'd score ourselves on the number of ricochets before the ball rolled along the floor. We keep trying to beat each other's high score until one of us got hit in the face and we’d be called inside.
My mum was a child minder. She looked after other people’s children after school until the parents got home from work. One of the children came from a posh family; his dad played golf. He saw his son playing this rather dangerous game and offered an alternative, safer game.
He gave us his old putter. This was 1983; an old golf club was a club from the 1960s - a proper, solid, heavy bit of kit. It was the best present we’d ever been given. We dug holes in dad’s lawn and played putting around the garden.
Until one afternoon when my brother invited some friends from school to come and play. We had set up a competitive game of putting. Four balls and taking it in turns to use the club. One lad was persistently cheating, taking two shots to everyone else’s one. He’d tap the ball forward and then play another shot; tap and play another shot. We all complained but he kept doing it.
After a while I got fed up. I thought, “If he can do it, so can I.” So on my next turn I tapped the ball forward and played another shot. Of course, he was the first to complain. “Hey, what y’doin’?” he yelled. He tried to grab the putter from me so I pulled it back to stop him taking it. I was now holding the club behind my head.
“Oh, what, you gonna hit me? Go on then, I dare ya. Right there,” he said pointing at his chin, “Go on, I dare ya.”
So I beat the shit out of him.
What did he think was going to happen? Ok, I was six and he was ten; he was head and shoulders taller than me. He learnt a valuable lesson: it doesn’t matter how short the other person is, if they’re the one holding the weapon it’s not a good idea to point at your face and ask them to hit you.
I struck him across the face with the first blow and then several times across his back as he cowered down on the floor. No one could get the club from me, it was flailing around so quickly. My mom rushed out from the house and picked me up, putter and all, with the club still swiping at thin air. This must have looked like that scene in Return of The Jedi, where Darth Vader picks up Emperor Palpatine, with lightning still shooting from his hands.
My mother’s intervention gave my brother’s friend enough time to run inside the house. I was left outside while everyone went inside to check on the boy.
While standing in the passageway at the side of the house I girded myself for the beating that was to come. I knew what I’d done was very, very bad so I was expecting a good hiding. After what seemed like an eternity the back door opened and my mom stepped out. To my surprise the hiding didn't materialise. My mom crouched down beside me and said, “You know when you’re naughty we sometimes joke that the police will take you away. Well, if you do this again, the police really will take you away.” Her face was stern and deadly serious. I nodded to acknowledge I understood.
These softly spoken words had far more impact than yelling or a smack. I knew I was in serious trouble because my mom didn’t raise her voice. This time my behaviour was beyond normal retribution.
My mom continued by telling me how to control my temper by counting to ten. We’d had that conversation several times before but this time was different because the threat of being taken by the police was fresh in my head.
When I was eight years old my parents split up and we moved to a council estate. It was a rough area, the kind of place where someone would stab you for looking at them in the wrong way. I quickly discovered I was not the biggest psychopath in the village. I worked out that starting a fight was not good for your health.
It’s counter intuitive and sounds paradoxical but in a violent place people are more inclined to treat each other with respect. On the council estate you didn’t know who was carrying a knife so your default position was to be polite. When a group of teenagers you had never seen before passed by you warily greeted them with respect; you didn’t square up and act defensive because you didn’t know how many of them were carrying.
It is in this environment that I learned to control my temper. I don’t think counting to ten ever helped but empathy did - taking a moment to understand the other person and realise they were rarely out to kill you. It’s this attitude of empathy that saved my life on the day I was first threatened with a knife.