Nobody Ever Wins a Fight

I watched the movie Road House recently.

If you haven’t seen it, the setup is almost a joke. The hero, Dalton, is the best bar bouncer in the country. He’s also got a philosophy degree from NYU. So, you’ve got this soft-spoken, meditating philosopher who also happens to throw people through tables for a living.

It’s a fun movie. It’s also mostly a fight movie. Given the whole setup it could have had a lot more emotional depth, and it never quite goes there. It settles for the brawls.

But there is one line with some depth that has stuck with me.

Dalton spends his nights getting hurt. At one point he’s visiting a doctor, his future love interest, to get a knife wound stitched up.

She is looking over his long history of broken bones and scars and asks, “Do you ever win a fight?”

He responds, “Nobody ever wins a fight.”

I’ve been thinking about that one a lot. Especially as someone who loves to win.

A fight is built for a winner and a loser. That’s the whole design of it. Two people step in, and the entire point is that someone comes out on top. So, what does it mean to say nobody wins?

I started thinking about the fights I’ve actually been in. Not with my fists. I mean the argument with someone I love where I “won.” Where I had the better point, and I made sure they knew it. Or the email I fired off to prove I was right.

Did I win those?

In the moment, maybe. I got the last word. But in the long run, I’m not sure anybody came out ahead. We usually walked away with a little less trust between us. A little more distance. The scoreboard said I won. The relationship said we both lost.

Then my mind went somewhere bigger, and I’ll admit I don’t have this one figured out.

I thought about World War II. That’s about as clear a case for fighting as history offers. Fascism had to be stopped. People had to stand up. I’m not questioning that.

But did anyone win it? Winning that war still meant tens of millions of people dead. Cities gone. A generation scarred. “Win” is a strange word for that. Necessary, maybe. Right, maybe. But a win? I’m not sure.

I keep landing back on love and fear.

Fear sees almost everything as a fight to be won. It runs on scarcity. If you’re up, I’m down. If you get more, I get less. So, I’d better win. Fear needs an opponent.

Love asks a completely different question. Not how do I win this, but how do we both come out whole? It isn’t keeping score. It’s trying to stay relational, even in the hard conversation.

Here’s what I find beautiful about Dalton, that ridiculous philosopher bouncer. His actual job wasn’t to win fights. It was to keep them from happening. To calm the room. To defuse the thing before it turned into blood on the floor. The best fighter in the movie spent most of his energy trying not to fight.

I think that’s the whole thing. The only fights we ever win are the ones that never happen.

So, I’ll leave it where I’m sitting with it. Think about the last fight you won. The real one, with someone who matters to you. When you look back at it now, what did winning actually cost you?

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