© 2002 Brian Hodges - Please do not remove the copyright from this essay

ichael Kelso said it best on That 70's Show: "It's funny when friends get hurt."

It was eight years ago, during a summer soccer game. I was warming up with my medicine ball, which is basically a weighted (about twelve pounds) soccer ball, used for improving hand dexterity in goalies. Off to the side, our striker Sam was stretching out. Suddenly, Cale our mid-fielder, in a flash of inspiration, grabbed the medicine ball and shouted, "Hey Sam, put a head on this!" then lobbed the ball in Sam's direction.

Sam, not recognizing the ball's hazard-red color, planted his feet, cocked his head and fired. Had this been a regular two-pound ball, it would have rocketed half-way downfield. Instead, it plopped about five feet in front of Sam who fought for equilibrium, but quickly succumbed to gravity and concussion. Oh how we laughed.

What was it about the pain inflicted on our friends that was so funny? Everyone can understand, if not condone, taking pleasure in the suffering of one's enemies. But to gain such amusement in the harm of a close friend, so much so that we would go out of our way to cause it?

Are boys insensitive? Of course. Can you blame us? We learned early on that showing concern was a sure-fire way to draw ridicule. I was ten-years-old the day I witnessed my friend Wyatt take a cartoonish tumble down a flight of stairs. I thought for sure he had broken a bone or seven, and I made the mistake of rushing over in a panic, asking, "Are you okay?!?" He took one look at me and erupted in laughter. This was no laugh designed to mask how much the fall had scared him. He just thought it was funny that I cared so darn much. From that day forward, concern for anybody's well-being was voiced with a non-committal, "(snort) Dude, y'alright?"

No doubt, this behavior stems from latent, dawn-of-man, kill-or-be-killed instincts, and the male need to establish who has the bigger… muscles. However, since fighting to the death these days has to be government-sanctioned through wars or police brutality, we've had to think up less debilitating ways to assert our dominance by running the fastest, jumping the highest and throwing a ball through a metal hoop the most number of times.

Of course, these "games" are arbitrary, and the outcomes (since they no longer end with a dead competitor), imprecise. The winner knows that his victory is a hollow one - temporary at best. And as most of these games are played as part of a team, there can be no definitive champion.

Since we can't just take comfort in that fact, boys are constantly seeking out ways to one-up their friends - who are, after all, their first circle of competition. What better way to gain an edge than by saying a sprained ankle not only didn't make you cry, but in fact, made you laugh? The stronger boys were the first to learn this tactic. The rest of us simply learned not to indulge them with our concern. Beyond that, we also found our own edge by laughing first. Beating the injured guy to the laugh was like saying, "Yeah, that wouldn't have hurt me either."

But, even that wasn't enough for us. We had this need to see the tough guys break. To see them crumble. Yes, to see them cry. So we'd throw an elbow a little farther than necessary during a rebound. We'd hip check a defender during a breakaway. We'd throw weighted balls at people's heads!

Most of the time, we were unsuccessful. The only response we ever elicited from our target was more laughter. Which only made them appear tougher for having survived a deliberate frontal attack. But, every once in a while, the twisted ankle or the broken nose would drive a guy to tears. Whether we had instigated it or not, for a split second, everybody who wasn't crying felt stronger. And we'd all ignore our guilty consciences as we snickered, "(snort) Wuss."

Several million years of obsolete male impulses don't go away easily. No matter how cravenly civilized and mature we try to be, males will always have that warrior instinct that can only be satisfied by blood. And until we can replace boxing with locked-cage death matches, there will never be a clear-cut way to satisfy that lust. Until then, boys will just have to continue laughing at each other's injuries... and on slow days, aiming their javelin at a buddy's head.