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Confession time. When I was nine years old, I quit Halloween.
Nobody talked me into it and it had nothing to do with religious reasons. I walked away from one of the best nights of the year as a kid because of shaving cream. I’ve thought about that night more than I probably should have, but it taught me something about getting hit and how to respond when you get blindsided that is still helping me to this day.
Welcome to Stuff I Learned Yesterday, this is episode #721, “Quitting Halloween.” I’m Darrell Darnell, anything Reese’s is my favorite Halloween candy, and I believe that if you aren’t learning, you aren’t living.
Let’s jump back in the Delorean and head to October of 1985. Commando starring Arnold Schwarzenegger and Alissa Milano was the top movie. Take On Me by a-ha was the top song. The most popular Halloween costumes were Hulk Hogan and Freddy Krueger.
My parents had divorced earlier that year, and the summer of 1985 meant a move to a new town. My dad rented a house, and after school we’d usually end up at his girlfriend’s house, hanging out with her kids. She would eventually become my stepmom, so that’s what I’ll call her here. I was in fourth grade. My brother was in sixth. My soon to be stepbrother was in fifth, and my soon to be stepsister was a senior. New town, new house, new people. Everything about my life that fall was new.
The town was Wellston, Oklahoma. Fewer than 1,000 people. Picture Hawkins, Indiana in Stranger Things. Hawkins is 10-15 times bigger than where I lived.
Downtown was one block. No stoplight. On one side of the street you had a video rental store, a grocery store, a pool hall, and the post office. The other side had a deli, an insurance office, and two vacant buildings. There were probably a few other spots that were either small businesses or empty storefronts, but I honestly can’t remember. That’s about it. If you wanted to see the whole thing, you didn’t need a map. You needed about ninety seconds.
Like most kids, I was excited about Halloween for one reason: candy.
I have no idea what I dressed up as that year. I’ve tried to remember. I’m sure it was great. Maybe that was the year I tied some bandannas around my body and went as a member of the Rock N’ Roll Express. What I do remember is that I was going trick or treating alone. That may seem shocking or dangerous to some of you but it was a very small town, and it was a different time. I was given instructions on where to go, and I was given one rule. Don’t go downtown.
Downtown was where the older kids hung out on Halloween. I’d been told they used it for a giant shaving cream and egg fight, and I was supposed to stay far away from it. That was fine with me. I was nine. I had zero interest in getting egged or covered in shaving cream. So I had a plan. Stay in my zone, hit my houses, fill my bag, go home.
Remember that word. Plan. I guess I’ve always been a guy that appreciates making plans.
I left my stepmom’s house and started working my way door to door. I did what you’re supposed to do. I rang the bell, said the words, got the candy, and said thank you. Things were going great.
Then I came to a large two story house about two blocks from downtown. Two blocks. I remember thinking that was a safe distance. After all, my new best friend lived right across the street. I rang the doorbell, got my goodies, and turned to head back to the sidewalk.
And then out of nowhere, something hit me in the face.
It was shaving cream. One of the kids who lived there had been hiding on the balcony, waiting, and he ambushed me as I walked away. I never saw him. I never heard him. I’d followed the rules. I stayed away from the big kids downtown, and I still got hit. It came from above, from a house where somebody had just handed me candy.
I wiped away what I could, but it was on my face, my hands, and my costume. And I did what I’m not proud of, but I’m going to tell you anyway. Like Ralphie in A Christmas Story when he broke his glasses, I started crying. Then I ran. I ran the whole way back to my stepmom’s house.
Once I got cleaned up, I didn’t want to go back out. I was too scared I’d get hit again. My night ended with candy from only a few houses. No full bag. No friends. No best night of the year. I let that shaving cream ruin my night.
I wish I could do it over. When I think about it now, I feel silly. Shaving cream doesn’t leave a bruise. It didn’t actually hurt me. I wasn’t knocked down. I was surprised, embarrassed, and a little scared, and that was enough.
A few years later I watched a man take a real punch and do something very different.
When I was a kid, Mike Tyson was unstoppable, and I’m not exaggerating. He was the heavyweight champion of the world, and he had legs like tree trunks. His uppercut looked like it could separate a head from a body. He didn’t seem like a normal person. He seemed otherworldly. Every time he fought, you didn’t wonder if he’d win. You wondered how quickly he would end the fight by knocking the other guy out cold.
Tyson is credited with a line you’ve probably heard: “Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face.” It’s one of the most quoted lines in sports, and when you think about those guys who were brave (or foolish) enough to step in the ring with Mike, it makes sense. People had good plans. Then they met his fist.
By the time I was in eighth grade, Tyson was 37 and 0. On February 11, 1990 he traveled to Tokyo to take on a challenger named Buster Douglas. Nobody gave Buster a chance. At least one sportsbook had him at 42 to 1 underdog. We all viewed it as a formality rather than a fight.
But Buster Douglas had a plan too. He used his jab and his height. He had about a twelve inch reach advantage, and he kept hitting Tyson with that jab again and again. He lasted a lot longer than anyone expected and made Tyson look human.
Then came the eighth round.
Tyson landed an uppercut, and Buster Douglas went down. This was exactly what everyone expected. This was the part of the story where the underdog’s plan met Mike Tyson and the plan fell apart. A man who’d been written off was on the canvas, and the referee was counting. The formality was in full effect.
The only thing is, Buster Douglas got up. He got to his feet at the count of nine. Right at the last second. A controversial, slowly counted last second, but still, he got up before the count of 10.
Think about that. He’d just taken the best punch the most feared man in boxing could throw. He could have stayed down. Nobody would have blamed him. It was Mike Tyson and he was getting paid either way. Instead, he got up, and he kept fighting.
Two rounds later, in the tenth, Douglas used that jab again to set up an uppercut of his own. It snapped Tyson’s head back. Then came four more punches, and Mike Tyson, who had never been knocked down in his entire career, hit the canvas.
I remember the part everyone remembers. Tyson fumbled around for his mouthpiece. He got it halfway in, and it wasn’t enough. The referee counted him out at 1 minute and 23 seconds of the tenth round. The unstoppable champion was stopped. Buster Douglas shocked the world.
The man who got knocked down first, won. The difference between the winner and loser wasn’t the size of the fist, it was the size of the heart. It was replacing fear with fortitude.
Now, to be clear, I’m not comparing a can of shaving cream to a Mike Tyson uppercut. A nine year old on a sidewalk and a heavyweight challenger in a boxing ring are not in the same boat. But the question is exactly the same. When the unexpected hit lands, what do you do in that moment?
Here’s what I learned.
First, the punch that gets you is rarely the one you planned for. I planned for downtown. I had a whole strategy for avoiding the big kids, the egg fight and the shaving cream. And I got hit by one kid on a balcony, two blocks away, at a house where I thought I was safe. Life works like that. You prepare for the big, obvious threat, and the thing that catches you off guard is smaller and closer.
Second, being hit doesn’t mean you lost. It means the fight started. I used to think that getting hit meant I’d done something wrong, that my plan had failed and now the night was over. But Buster Douglas got hit harder than I ever will, and his night wasn’t over. It was round eight. The fight still had four rounds left and he only needed two of them to become a legend. Getting hit just told him what the fight was really going to be.
Third, you’re allowed to take a count. I’m not saying get up instantly like nothing happened. Buster didn’t. He used every bit of that count of nine. Wipe off what you can. Catch your breath. Cry if you need to. A setback can sting, and you don’t have to pretend it doesn’t, but there’s a difference between taking a count and taking the night off. One is a pause. The other is a decision to quit.
And that’s what I did. I didn’t get knocked out of Halloween. I walked out of it.
I’d love to tell you that was the last time I let a small hit send me reeling, but I’d be lying. I’ve had plenty of shaving cream moments since then. A door that closed. A conversation that went sideways. A day of parenting where I lost it and wanted to hide in my room for the rest of the evening. And each time, I get the same choice that nine year old kid had. I can head for the house, or I can wipe my face and ring the next doorbell.
I think about the candy I missed that night. Not because of the candy, but because of what I didn’t get to do. I didn’t get to laugh with friends. I didn’t get the full experience. The shaving cream only lasted a few minutes. What I lost by quitting lasted the whole night. Quitting is the thing from that Halloween that still haunts me to this day.
So here’s what I’d say to you, and to nine year old me. Something is going to hit you in the face. Probably soon. It might come from the proverbial balcony of a house you thought was safe. Don’t be shocked when it happens, and don’t believe the voice that says you’re done. Take your count. Wipe off what you can. Then get back up, and go ring the next doorbell.
You don’t get to choose when the punch lands, but you do get to choose whether it’s round eight or the end of the night.
I’m Darrell Darnell, and this has been Stuff I Learned Yesterday.
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