On being 'Alpha' & fighting

Perhaps even bigger than bullshitting up your lay count and the HB rating to go along with it, is the bullshitting up of your 'Alpha' status, and the fights to accompany it.Once upon a time, it was enough to just aspire to be a ladies' man, the guy who gets the hot chicks, but in more recent years, you've also got to be the guy who can stare down a Silverback gorilla. With a suitable story to go with it, like he walked in on you fucking his wife from behind, and your only reaction was to put your cigarette out on his wife's ass as you looked him in the eye and barked at him to, "Go get me a fucking beer!"The internet is a wonderful place and you can be anything you want in both the comments sections and blog post boxes! For verily, the "publish" button is a magic wand that makes it all come true!Yeah. Right. Tell me about your diet and weight training too, you fat fuck.I'm not going to pretend to be a fighter, my face is in far too good shape for that claim, and I'm not going to claim that you can justtellif a guy is to be fucked with or not... but most times you can.I watched a documentary on the Kray twins the other night. It was an old one, maybe ten years or more, and a repeat I'd seen before. The guys on it were now all senior citizens, probably half of them had trouble walking, and the other half problems with incontinence.  But they still looked hard as fuck.You could see it, quite literally etched on faces carved from stone. You could hear it in their voices, even above the wheeze of asthma, and you could see it in the way they held themselves; they were hard men.I look at pics and Youtube material from the land of the Mansophere, from some guys claiming similarly, and I don't see any of that vibe coming through the screen, the why I did with them geriatric gangsters. Probably because those men have genuinely fucked people up, and not just fantasised about it on a blog.I've met plenty guys in real life that I know on a logical level could fuck me up, but I wasn't intimidated by them, or afraid to be around them. That's because I knew they were well balanced, nice guys, who'd prefer to avoid the aggravation and all that comes with it in the consequences of a fight. They weren't psychopaths in other words. Sure, if you pushed them hard enough, gave them enough of a reason, they'd eventually punch your ticket for you, but they weren't hair triggers like Joe Pesci inGoodfellas.These days, everyone wants to project that they are, though. Or at least a brand of Joe Pesci-lite. Not a full-on psycho, but a guy not to be fucked with or the retribution will be just as terrible...Gimme a fuckin' break.Not an internet Alpha. Giveaway: he'd be shooting himself in both clown shoesI can maybe count on one hand the number of guys who scared me, and that's over the course of my life. The guys who really were in the not-to-be-fucked-with category. Some of these dudes weren't the biggest, most physically imposing, gym or boxing monkeys either. But you could sense, on some primitive level, that they weren't a regular knuckle & bruise scrap; they'd kill you. They just wouldn't stop.I'm not going to do the next best bullshit act and pretend I've kept company with such people, because I haven't, I am literally speaking about a handful of brief occasions that my path has crossed such animals. Two spring most to mind.One is a local gangster who used to own a club in my city. It was common knowledge, and he'd had trouble with the law. His club could be heavy handed on the bouncing too. I was a VIP member of his club, he knew his members personally because there just weren't that much of us that paid the fees, and it got us access to the club's roped off, balcony area. The guy always had a "hello" and was friendly, but I never mistook that for him being my friend. Even if I was shit drunk, I knew enough not to be overly forward, and I was always polite and deferential.Because I knew what the guy was capable of, and whilst I didn't think I'd "accidentally" break my leg exiting badly from the club as one punter had, just for being too chummy after a couple of drinks and stepping over the line, I still didn't want to give a man like that ANY excuse or reason to feel aggrieved.It was like when me and my mate (Gabriel fromOne Saturday Nightwho was also a member) used to get invites to special hosting or occasion nights at the club. We knew we were just names on a mailing list, but we went when we got the message asking if we were coming. Did we really think the guy would give a shit if we weren't there? No, of course not. But like I said, I just never wanted to put myself in a position whereby the man might have cause to feel snubbed.Now, I never seen any shit at this guy's club, I never heard any shit, I always had a good time; but I had heard the rumours and read the local papers. Thus whenever anyone said anything to me about the man, I always answered in the positive. I just didn't take the chance of anything in the negative getting back to him.Call me a pussy. I call it being sensible.Another run-in that sticks out was in London. I was outside some club, in the smoke section, and there was this dude noising up the line to the front of me. He was being obviously aggressive and looking for trouble. He didn't look all that, he wasn't even a big guy. In fact he was a bit of a short arse. So when he came up my way, and bumped his shoulder off me, I responded. I whirled round, so did he, and I opened my mouth... and then shut it. There was something in that guy's face; in his eyes. There was something "off." A voice in my head, my body, said loud and clear, "Leave this one alone." If I've ever seen murder in a man's eyes, it was his. Call that melodramatic, or me a pussy, but that's the only time I've felt to my core that this guy wasn't just a fight, he was a fight to the death. I let it go and never questioned if that was the right thing to do. I didn't want none of that.Now, what's my fight card like, though? Some dudes claimFight Clubnumbers and more altercations than a professional boxer. Me - actual, real knockdown fights in adulthood? I think the number's three.Sabre-rattling, I'm-going-to-fuck-you-up but never do bullshit, probably too many to count. That's what 99% of my 'fights' have been. Just by showing a willingness to fight, 99% of the time I haven't had to.But then, I've always hung out at nice, upmarket bars and clubs, where trouble is a rarity anyway. The few occasions I found myself in those positions, two were in the same small town that I was visiting, out with a mate for a drink who lived there. You know, an unknown face, and so the local asshat(s) have a 'problem.' Even more bizarre, I was in my thirties, not some kid in the college bar."My mule don't like people laughing." This is EXACTLY how it happened. Honest.Without arms and legs grafted on, here they are:First small town incident, I'd been out with a mate, we'd had a good drink, and then went to the local club. I call it a club but it was the back room of the bar, which when they had no functions on, used as a "nightclub." We'd been in, enjoyed ourselves, drank, had a couple dances with a hen party that was celebrating there, and then left (on our own) at kicking out time. No trouble or hint of it.As we're walking away from the place, a guy some way behind us is shouting something. I don't tune in, but then I catch, "POOF!" Which is the thinking man's goto insult to demand "satisfaction" in Scotland. I didn't think this was aimed at me so we kept walking. Then a few more descriptors were added, "Hey you! You in the black! Aye you, ya fuckin' poof!" seeing as I was in black jeans and black tshirt (it was summer), I surmised it was me he was addressing.I turned, he was on his own, not a big guy, but not a small guy, just average, and on his own marching up to me. Again, he mentions he suspects I'm a homosexual in his delightful way, "You're a fuckin' poof, aren't ya?" It was so cliched and ridiculous, that my mate said later that he thought the guy knew me and it was a joke.I didn't know the guy and was bemused by all this. He gets up in my face, and anyone who's familiar with the Scottish practice of fisticuffs will be aware of the "Glasgow kiss" - which is a headbutt. I thought that was imminent so immediately swept across his neck/shoulder area while simultaneously sweeping his feet from under him. That upended him and allowed the concrete ground to do the damage. As he tried to get up I jumped forward and snap-kicked him full in the chest, putting my full weight and momentum into it as I came down. That knocked him heavily back down again. Then I paused to see what he'd do next - which all the hardened street fighters would say is a mistake - but he clambered to his feet and sprinted off. I was glad he did too. And that was that.Next time was maybe a year later, same small town, same mate plus another friend, same club, and again at leaving time another altercation. I really don't remember how this one started, but again I was being singled out for some reason? I'm 6ft 2" and over 13st, so I don't think I look like an easy target? I don't look like a thug, but I'm not small. Anyway, I was as bemused in this incident because there were three of us, and one of him.I can't remember the preamble now, but I recall he was smoking a cigarette. In that 'hard man', underhand-hold way "thugs" do. He's smoking - hard style - and giving me the Clint Eastwood stare, and then suddenly brings his hand toward my face. I thought "Punch!" and blocked it, immediately firing out a snap-punch to the dead centre of his face. As he went whirling back I felt something ping off my face and realised it was his cigarette. He hadn't been going to hit me, but had flicked his cigarette into my face.I hadn't knocked him out, nothing as dramatic as that, but the look of incomprehensible shock on his face as he went sprawling back was a beautiful image. It was a look of total confusion, of "this is not the script. This is not what was meant to happen!"But with that, a genuinely big dude on the other side of the road suddenly comes running at me and my mates. I could see his big, bodybuilding chest bounce in his tshirt, and those big arms pumping as he came charging.I don't mind saying, I thought, "Fuck!" That the other guy had been the set-up, the excuse, and now here was the main course. I knew my mates wouldn't run so I stood waiting. I was thinking, do I charge him before he gets to me? Do I wait and see what he's going to do? I didn't know what was for the best so stayed put.To give you an anticlimax, the guy simply pulled up behind the guy I'd downed, put his arms around him, and then walked off with him.I was right glad he did too. I really didn't want to get into it with that guy. Whether he knew the other guy or what, I don't know, but that was what happened.You'll note too that what does happen, isn't much. It has been my (limited) experience, that street fights are quick and brutal. They are not long, drawn out Rocky V affairs. Also the guys who want to spend fifteen minutes telling you how they're going to take you apart, won't. If such a guy genuinely believed he could do that, he'd be doing it. The guy who's serious to do you harm just hits you, he doesn't piss about painting you a picture.This is just how it happened. Except there were maybe one or two more guys.The last time of note was in my hometown. I was at a city centre club, maybe not the most upmarket venue, but we used to frequent it, and always enjoyed it. On this occasion, we'd been on the dance floor with a couple girls, I left to go take a piss-break in the toilets upstairs, and as far as i was aware, my mate was still dancing with his chick.I had to use a cubicle, so I do the necessary, and come out - and find my mate standing at the sink mirrors covered in blood! I thought his nose was broken, his clothes were covered, his suit looked a bucket job. I was in shock, and asked what happened? I'd only just left him, and was only taking a piss!He told me some guy had got up in his face about dancing with the girl, knocked him down, and then kicked him in the face. Then my mate had picked himself up and run up the stairs.We went down to the doorman, and said what had happened. The doorman wanted to know who it was - so did I - and although reluctant, my mate finally agreed to point him out.I walked along, saw the guy, and the bouncers removed him. We went back to the door and my mate called his brother to come get him. We were going to have to take him to A&R to get that nosed checked out for sure. I spoke to his brother on the phone because the guy was in a bit of a state.I was steamed. To see my mate upset like that, shaking, and covered in blood. I could see the guy arguing with the doormen. So I said to my mate, "You're sure that's the guy?" He said that was definitely him.So I exited the club and started and swinging. I broke his nose with the first punch. I was aiming to. I thought he'd broken my mate's nose. I felt it go under my fist. He tried to fight back - half heartedly - but you can tell in sparring when a person gives up, becomes afraid of you, and is just 'fighting' to try and minimise the injuries. I remember him going down twice and me kicking him as hard as I could in the body as tried to get back up both times. A couple of girls in the queue had run over to try and stop it. One was either side of me holding my arms, telling me to stop, and the guy crawled over to sit on a wall opposite the club.I was lucky there was no police outside the place. I was also lucky my mate's brother showed up in his car too then, and we all got the fuck out of there.That was maybe thirty seconds, no more than a minute that altercation. I remember feeling hyped up at the time, steamed as I said, but it wasn't until I was home hours later, adrenaline still pumping, that I felt one of my legs shaking. It was then that I was having thoughts, like what if that hadn't went my way? What if his mates had joined him outside? What if he had known how to handle himself? It was after the fact I felt 'scared.' The same with the two incidents prior. Away from it, later, I'd get the leg trembling, hands shaking.I've had nothing physical like that in the last ten years, and I hope that continues. I just don't need it. Getting my clothes messed up, maybe me messed up or worse. I've had words and stare downs in the last ten years, but whilst wary, I never seriously believed it was going to go any further.I have maybe a half story more but that's for another time. As I said in mymartial artspost, by the time of those incidents I'd had years oftrainingbehind me, and whilst I'm no bar brawler or thug, I felt confident. I'd cross-trained in kickboxing, boxing and MMA. I knew that not everyone with a shaved head, tattoos and a big mouth, was Jason Statham - I'd encountered many of those types in training and been surprised by how many guys I thought looked 'hard,' weren't shit.I hadn't always been confident, though. I've no sad tales of being bullied at school, but I was a coward who didn't stand up for himself.I recall one time, I was eighteen, it was before university, I'd been in a club and a guy had come up and tried to pick a fight with me. I was scared shitless. I was literally shaking. The reaction was enough to please the dude, that I was about pissing myself, and off he went. I about run out of the place.That was another reason I got back intomartial artsat uni. The disgust I felt at myself for reacting like that.But that's the truth. That's my 'Alpha' moments and not so alpha moments. I don't consider myself a candidate for Rage Cage, but I've had enough of a moment or two to smell out the bullshit. Same with the 'womanising' as the two seem to go hand in hand.For me, being alpha, isn't about being the loud mouth jackass. It isn't bragging on whaling on dudes. It's just not being afraid. Not being afraid of other men, and walking through life feeling that way.Unless there's real danger, in which case there's no shame in recognising it and walking away from it.