How Many Eight-year-olds Could I Beat Up?
I’m standing in the middle of the field. 400 yards away I see a group of eight-year-olds charging towards me. I’m not sure why they’re running. And I don’t know that they want to kill me.
These boys and girls do not have any weapons beyond their fist; neither do I. They are not trained in fighting nor are they especially strong. And they are not zombies. They’re just your average, enraged eight-year-olds.
[According to Wiki Answers, the average height and weight of an eight-year-old boy is 4’2 and 55lbs. Most eight-year-olds are in 2nd or 3rd grade.]
So how many eight-year-olds do I think I could fend off?
I’m going to go with an even 30.
So there I am walking though the middle of this barren field and I see the children running towards me. Instinctually, I’m alarmed. Why are these kids running? I think I would run towards them, thinking they’re in trouble and need help.
They’re getting closer. Hey what’s wrong? Are you OK? What’s going on? When the fastest of the eight-year-olds reached me I would probably try to hold him by the shoulders to see if he was OK. Once he started hitting me, I would become defensive and more alarmed. Then more would arrive and they’d be hitting me, too.
At this point I’d be pushing them away. HEY! What’s going on here? I wouldn’t want to hit any of them because how would I explain punching an eight-year-old? But eventually I think there would be a snap realization – it’s them or me. I gotta beat the shit out of some eight-year-olds.
My first move would be the old head-clunk: two eight-year-old heads smashed together. Maybe I’d punch one of the dazed eight-year-olds in the face as she goes down. Then I’m throwing tight punches and elbows to get the clinging children off me. Probably stepping sideways on some knees, too. The most important thing at this point is not falling down. I can’t trip over any downed children and I can’t let them get hold of my legs.
Assuming the punches, elbows and head clunks work and I get all the clingers off, I’d charge in one direction to get out of the middle of the crowd. Maybe I’d use one of the little ones as a shield. Once I got out of the group, I’d throw the child I was carrying on the ground, then kick his head like a soccer ball.
Then I’d have some space. I’d continue running around to avoid becoming encircled again. As I ran, I’d only have to fight 1-3 children at a time and I wouldn’t have to worry about tripping over any limp ones.
As they got close, I’d only be throwing haymakers. I wouldn’t have to jab because they’re hands are too small and weak to block the punches of an adult. All I’d have to do is connect. I’m not sure how many punches the toughest eight-year-old could take, but I imagine it to be no more than three. My right hand may get soar so I’d also be kicking them in the stomachs as well. I like to think I could grab a limp child by the hands and swing him around like a weapon, but I’m no action hero and I’d probably get dizzy.
In the end, there would be a field of tears and wailing children. I wouldn’t be proud of myself and I’d wonder how to explain the tiny bruises that cover my arms, legs and chin.