Things I Hated About Childhood - Being Attacked in Daylight in Front of a Crowd
I rarely think about childhood except when prompted by someone else, like a podcast host (here) or my three daughters who regularly calibrate whether they would have been friends with me. So far, the consensus is that we probably wouldn’t have been friends. Needless to say this serves as a nice springboard into a few moments that made childhood miserable.
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Childhood Pain Point #1:
For about three hours after school each day, I was basically raised by my 16-year-old babysitter, Todd Kirschenbaum. Leather jacket. Usually dropped off by a gorgeous girlfriend. I worshipped him. Until I didn’t.
One afternoon, while riding my bike up and down our street, two older kids asked if they could test-drive it. I glanced over at Todd. He nodded, casual as ever. They hopped on and started riding in circles, slapping each other high-fives, and loudly joking about how my bike was so much better than theirs. Then, one of them said they wanted to keep it.
Nobody even stole anything from me before. I still held an innocent sentiment that the world maintains “cosmic fairness.”
I was only 10 years old- standing there, stunned. Was this really happening? Right in front of me? In front of Todd—my protector? [A life-is-stranger-than-fiction rendition of the movie classic - My Bodyguard.]
And then, things got worse.
The two boys stopped, smirking. One of them offered a deal: punch for punch. Whoever flinched the least would get to keep the bike.
A tiny voice inside me asked, “What do I get if I win?” They laughed. So did the growing crowd that seemed to appear out of nowhere. My so-called friends bolted into their houses, abandoning me to this terrifying spectacle.
I turned back toward Todd, desperate for backup. Back turned, he walked with my twin brother to sit on a curb, 15 yards away. Not even a glance my way. When I tried to meet his eyes, he looked down.
And there I was—a 10-year-old, standing toe-to-toe with a 15-year-old, bigger, stronger, and radiating an unshakable confidence. It felt like a pre-fight face-off in a boxing promo, except this wasn’t staged.
My body betrayed me.
My chest tightened so hard I thought my ribs might snap. My lungs refused to expand, leaving me gulping for air - and even worse, with this new sensation I tried to pretend it wasn’t happening and I could breathe and speak normally. Spoiler alert: this “fake it till you make it” mantra doesn’t work.
Mentally, it was worse. Every thought blurred into the next: I can’t do this. What if I get hurt? Why isn’t Todd helping me? Over and over, spinning faster and faster until I couldn’t grab hold of a single one.
My first panic attack.
And yet, I stood there, locked in this cruel test of precarious manhood. We locked eyes. His grin spread wide, wolfish, relishing my fear. He laughed—a lot—and said, “Tell you what, since it’s your bike (for now), you get to punch me first.”
I’d love to tell you this turned into some Hallmark Channel moment where I surprised everyone by knocking him flat, won the admiration of the crowd, and maybe even a girl (though I wouldn’t have known what to do with her at age 10). But no such luck on Front Street, Uniondale, New York, in 1984.
My hands hung at my sides, useless weights attached to trembling arms. I had no idea how to throw a punch. The best I could manage was a weak, clueless swing—a jab at his shoulder with no windup and even less force.
He didn’t flinch. Instead, he pretended to rub his arm, his movements exaggerated, cartoonish. Then, like a seasoned showman, he turned to the crowd and dragged out the word, loud enough for everyone to hear:
“Ouuuuch?”
Laughter erupted around us. I wanted to disappear, to rewind the day and undo every decision that had led to this moment.
Then came his turn.
He circled me slowly, savoring every second, like a predator playing with its prey. His eyes amused as he leaned in, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “This is probably gonna hurt a little more,” he said. The crowd loved it. He smirked, letting the tension build.
“Are you ready?” he asked, his voice low and taunting. “Got any last words?”
He wasn’t in a rush—he wanted me to feel the weight of it, to drown in my own terror.
Then, he raised his fist.
His fingers curled in slowly, deliberately, as if he wanted me to watch every joint lock into place. He held it there, letting me absorb what was coming, then pulled his arm back with a cruel deliberation, like an archer preparing to release a killing shot.
The punch landed with a force such that my shoulder exploded in pain. My vision blurred with tears, but I didn’t cry. Not there, not in front of them. I couldn’t give him the satisfaction.
For maybe a second, he hinted at something nobody else caught - admiration. A micro-expression of being impressed that I didn’t completely fall apart. And then…he stole my bike and his friend stole my twin brother’s bike. They rode off. The crowd dispersed. I stood there alone in the middle of the street where it all went down.
My so-called bodyguard finally moseyed over afterward, casually placing a hand on my unharmed shoulder. He barely met my eyes and muttered, “You did the best you could.”
Fucking prick.
This could’ve been the origin story of how I became a villain—bitter, angry, vowing to take revenge on the world.
But it wasn’t. Somehow, even at 10 years old, a small voice inside me knew I’d choose a different path. I’d grow stronger. I’d work out harder. And one day, I’d become the kind of person who steps in—who protects people, so they wouldn’t have to endure what I did.
For the next 40 years, I’ve tried to live by that.
You can choose to be an upstander, doing what Todd Kirschenbaum couldn’t. You can refuse to stand by in the face of injustice. When the moment comes—and it will—don’t let it slip by.
Consider it an instant opportunity to create a lasting legacy. Because no matter how fleeting that moment might feel, I promise: the person you protect will never forget you.
I know my 10-year-old self could’ve used you.
Events like this are what inspired me to author books such as The Upside of Your Dark Side (Penguin) and The Art of Insubordination: How to Dissent and Defy Effectively (Avery/Penguin).
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