Pro Forkfighter


Since fox hunting’s reputation has been sullied by the introduction of the British, there is but one noble sport left in which to indulge:  fork fighting.  It’s highly unlikely that any of you readers will ever be invited even to spectate, as fork fight bouts (formally known as frolics) are by invitation only, and invitations are only conferred to select citizens, citizens who have distinguished themselves in the areas of pancake, pea and pork loin manipulation.  And evaluation takes place surreptitiously– there’s no saying when or where you may be observed in the process of consuming any of these foods, so it’s best to up your chances by ordering all three at once.  (Doing so will also signal to any member of the Order of the Sparring Tines how serious you take the possibility of an invitation.  Think about it.)  And of the select who are invited to attend a frolic, even fewer will ever be given the chance to indulge in the sport themselves, thus becoming a member of the Order.

So it is in some sense luck that brought me into the fold.  Ignoring how, I’d rather regale you with tales of the circuit.

I remember my first frolic back in ’48– the frolic that earned me the title, “The Candy Kid.”  I was fast out of the corner, and my prior training as a contortionist proved to be my greatest asset as I dodged, ducked and writhed with the greatest of ease, a daring young kid on the fork fighting league!  It was my Marinelli bends, dislocations, head sits, and oversplits overwhelmed not only my opponent, but led the announcer to exclaim, “Why it’s like a mechanical taffy pull out there!  And this kid’s moves are sweeter than candy, too!  The Candy Kid  just won’t stop, and it looks like will spin all the way to a victory!”  And the name stuck.  After that first frolic, I focused on developing my fork skills, and was the first forkfighter to incorporate the now standard “foot forks,” to the sport.  I wish you could have seen how I could disarm an opponent on the way into and out of a head seat– whipping both feet at the right fork on the way down, then sending the left flying as I righted myself.  These moves are all a part of the coach’s playbook now, but back in my day there were no coaches and I flew solo.  In some ways, it’s sad to see the sport so codified, but I’m proud to have contributed to the cannon.

In the end I was my own undoing.  Call it destiny, call it what you will, but when I caught a glimpse of legend-in-the-making, “Quicksand Drill,” utterly decimating a short stack in a dining car between St. Louis and Portland, OR, I knew that the world of fork fighting was about to be turned inside out and on its head.  I may have recruited her, and though it may go down in the annals of history that I “mentored,” her, I’m here to say on the record that there was damn near nothing I could teach that kid.  She took to the sport like an oil slick to a duck.  I was at the top of my game, but it was a privilege to be unseated by her.  It was only right that she earned her own nickname during our title frolic.  The commentary this time, “The Candy Kid’s going down faster than a Canadian Mountie in a Quicksand Drill!”

If you’re lucky, and if you’re up early enough, someday you just might catch me and Quicksand keeping our games sharp just for kicks.  We usually meet up on Sundays behind the Falun Gong group in the park.  And then destroy some pork loin for brunch.


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One Response to “Pro Forkfighter”

  1. carrie Says:

    Where did you get the screen cap?

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