A Need To Assay.

Here's something I don't say very often.

I want to hit someone.  I want to approach someone with intent to do violence unto their person, and strike them stoutly.

I'm a pacifist.  I don't hate guns, but I have no desire to own one.  Were I young enough to be drafted, I would be a conscientious objector and would try to find non-violent ways to serve in times of war.  I've never lifted a hand to my wife or children.  Most ultra-violent movies sicken me.  I've only seen Saving Private Ryan once, and I've never been able to sit through Schindler's List.

But I want to hit someone.

I'm an educated man.  I believe in diplomacy and sanctions, and while I do believe that some wars are necessary, I certainly don't think that either Gulf War fell into that category.  When presented with the "a murderer is going to kill your children and you have a gun, what do you do" hypothetical, I say "I'll find another way.  I live "turn the other cheek".

I really want to hit someone.

I have told parents to be more gentle with their children.  I believe that corporal punishment is wrong, and have never spanked my children in punishment.  I work very hard to teach them all that hitting is wrong.  I try (and often fail) to not raise my voice to the boys.

I absolutely positively want to hit someone.

I want to shift with the weight of the polearm as it swings around.  I want to pivot my hips and tense my arms as I sent it cutting towards my opponent. I want to feel the shock of impact rock the haft in my hands, and I want to see my opponent's head recoil from the impact.

I want to feel the ground roll under my feet as I charge with my shield and sword before me, crashing into the opposing line, breaking it with my compatriots, and hear the roar of the army behind me as they sweep into the hole that we have made.  I want to be crushed at the bottom of a pile of holy dead who have fought to the last man against un-beatable odds.

I want to see the herald stride out into the list to announce myself and my opponent.  I want to feint and guard with my dueling spear.  I want to scream like a berserker, sweeping my footman's mace from side to side, clearing the way.

I want to feel the weight of my armor on my hips and my shoulders and my forearms and my head, sliding my helmet down to rest solidly upon my skull, my face spreading into a grinning death's-head as I pick up my sword and shield and form a bulwark against all comers, jostling and pressing against the enemy and my brothers and sisters in the Red Pale to either side.

I want to hit someone.  I hunger for it.  I thirst.  In the morning, I awake to the thought, and at night, I dream of slaying thousands, laughing.

I have forged my weapons.  I have donned my armor.  I carry my lady's favor on my belt, and my honor in my heart.

I want to fight.