An Angry Man
Back in 1987, over thirty years ago, I had a young man working for me who was very well-liked by everyone. He was a Midwesterner who was smart and shrewd, but generally mild-mannered. He had been a football player at a Division II school, and while tall and lean, he was also considered by everyone to be a strong athlete. In the two years he had worked for me, I had not seen him lose his temper about anything. Then one day, something got him riled up and his anger rose to the surface and took on a menacing air to it. It was not out-of-control, but it shook the Division nonetheless. It was the power of abstinence from anger that made everyone sit-up and take notice of a situation that could rile-up such an otherwise calm guy. His anger had gravitas.
Several years later, a gang of friends from work and I went to Utah on a ski trip. This was a typical guys weekend with plenty of horsing around in addition to the long days of skiing. We had a rented condo, so we would all gather in the living room in the evening and do something thematic like watch a Warren Miller ski video. My calm football-player friend got into a friendly wrestling match with a Welsh friend who had grown up playing rugby in the rough and tumble parts of Cardiff. The football player was at least a head taller and a bit heavier than the Welshman. The wrestling was taking place in the center of the living room with another six of us looking on with the curiosity most men do when there’s a fight (even though this was a friendly match more than a fight). Both wrestlers started off smiling and laughing with boyish charm. As these things go, one tightened grip led to another positioning move to an even tighter grip. Neither man was a trained wrestler, but athletic boys from big families grow up wrestling their brothers and no holds are barred. Being contact sportsmen just added to the level of mutual determination.
The easy chuckling and laughing at the start of the match turned into somewhat strained and more episodic bursts of quick laughter as breath became a more prized commodity among the two. Red marks on skin where handholds had lingered started to become evident. Sweat was starting to appear on both men’s faces and bodies as hair became matted and tussled. The Welshman sweat more, but the football player showed more redness in his face. As the match went on it became increasingly clear that this was getting serious and very physically demanding on both men.
As the match went from casual and fun to strenuous and serious, it suddenly took a turn towards the very serious. The Welshman had a powerful headlock and leg wrap on his taller companion. The harder he grappled, the more he smiled. The opposite was happening to our American friend. As he grappled to maintain what little leverage he had, he completely lost his smile and started to grit his teeth like a mad dog in battle. It was clear that the smaller Welshman was both a more accomplished wrestler with a high threshold for pain and a tested aggressor from the playgrounds and playing fields of Cardiff. The Celtic blood ran thick in him and he seemed to truly enjoy battle. His counterpart not so much. He was all but done, but being the bigger man made it virtually impossible for him to give in to the smaller man. That’s when I decided to intervene and play referee who wanted them both to break their holds. I did it out of pity for my American friend and I doubt any of the spectators missed that.
When they broke, the big guy tried to shake it off and look unperturbed, but did a weak job of it. He couldn’t help but comment to no one in particular that he didn’t realize our Welsh friend was going to take this so seriously and had he known… The Welshman just laughed his normal hearty laugh and slapped the American on the shoulder in a friendly manner. I’m not sure, but I think I saw the taller man wince momentarily. I came away with a decided view about who I would be less likely to want to fight with and who I would want next to me in a dark alley.
That Welshman has remained a very dear friend of mine over the years. I was once speaking to him on the phone when he was on a plane taxing towards a runway. Apparently the man in front of him was not pleased with his loud talking and laughing (we always laughed when we spoke). I could hear the man confront my Welsh friend and tell him to “put the goddam phone down”. That’s when I heard that shift in my friend’s voice go from laughter to that deep guttural sound of a threatened predator. He told the man, “Why don’t you fuck off and die, you wanker.” I had rarely heard that voice from my friend, but suffice it to say the man sat down and shut up as I heard the attendant politely instructing my friend to put his phone away.
Anger is an interesting tool in human interaction. Overused, it can easily become meaningless and unimpactful. Used sparingly it can be a real attention-getter. Controlled and tactical, anger can be channeled and very powerful, even in a calm manner. Caught flat-footed and deployed in desperation it looks like a powerless flail. The most noticeable thing about anger is that when it is cerebral it is loud and purposeful in a somewhat obvious way. But when it gets triggered in the cerebral cortex it becomes immediately very scary and directed.
I got angry today and it was initially a superficial and cerebral anger of the managerial sort. It involved money and a principal. As the encounter carried on, I got defensive because of my need to leave for the airport. That drove the anger deeper. I don’t like to run through airports and I don’t like to fly mad. I have a firm belief in the value of an airport demeanor where it all flows like water off a duck’s back. I was getting cornered by this untimely confrontation and it set me off. As I left, I did so by throwing the ultimate managerial insult of disapproval, “do whatever the hell you want.” I have calmed down since. I will never mention it again. But I suspect that several people in the office now realize that the boss is capable of getting really mad. We’ll see what impact it all has.