After having my first encounter with the act of fighting — an altercation with another boy at recess that, to this day, I take no responsibility in provoking — my dad sat me down and told me a mindset he felt all Olsen men should live by.

“Son,” he said, “An Olsen man never starts a fight, but he never walks away from one.”

At the time, I had successfully followed half the teachings from his adage. I found myself in a situation in which someone wanted to fight, and I was faced with the two options everyone in those shoes is left with.

In this fight-or-flight scenario, I chose the latter. I ran to a nearby aid, did like every good coward does and hid behind her leg and waited for the punishment of my would-be aggressor.

On the surface, it was the logical solution to a problem I wanted no part in, but the greater context of it all stuck with me.

Why didn’t I do anything? Why didn’t I try to stick up for myself?

Levied with the advice I received from my father, I promised myself something that has stuck with me ever since. If ever face-to-face with a situation like that again, I wouldn’t run away from my problems — I would face them head-on.

And for 15 years I never had to use this advice.

Although I technically haven’t been in a fight since my elementary school days, that small detail doesn’t mean I have backed away from the promise I made to myself.

But, as fate would have it, Friday night would change all that.

The evening had all the makings to your classic “something is bound to go wrong here” scenario.

After an evening that began with casual drinks at Harper’s to watch the game turned into a mad dash toward P.T O’Malley’s to drown our sorrows, the mindsets of my roommate and myself can go without question.

We were inebriated, sure. We were upset, obviously. But I can’t say we were up in arms to the point of wanting to cause physical harm to anyone who might be doomed to cross our paths.

Unfortunately for us — and you likely can tell where this story is going — the same can’t be said for everyone in East Lansing that night.

As we were making our way back home, we came across a group of people who, like us, appeared to be diluting some sort of anger or frustration they currently had going on in their lives.

After a brief introduction, which started with one of them flicking a cigarette at my chest, we learned that the three men before us didn’t go to MSU and, based on my best knowledge when recollecting their size, most likely were ex-convicts making their way across the Midwest.

As our conversations meshed between them insulting the girl we were with, taking cracks at our school and threatening our physical well-being, I don’t know which part of me decided staying where I was made the most sense.

Whether it was because of the advice I received way back in fourth grade, or simply because I was a victim of the moment, a part of me decided staying made sense.

At my stature, fighting never is something I really process rationally in my mind, and I spend a whole lot more time avoiding those situations than looking for them.

But, in a nutshell, we stayed. We talked back. And two punches to the face later, I realized I made a critical mistake.

When the stars finally disappeared, I found myself in a hospital bed, throbbing in pain and being told by a doctor I had fractured my nose in two spots.

In the days that followed, I was “nursed” back to health by my mom ­— who made the three-hour drive down to remind her son how much of an idiot he was — slept roughly 12 hours a day and ate more ice cream than I can remember ever consuming in my lifetime.

Looking back, it was a horrible situation to put myself in. But I think something important can be taken away from it all.

When it’s all said and done, the end result is painful, embarrassing and leaves you with marks that make even the most polite person cringe and ask you what happened.

But the same shouldn’t be said for standing up for the things you believe in.

Although hopefully it’s about something more important than the school you affiliate yourself with, you never should be ashamed for sticking up for the people, things and ideas you hold close to your heart.

It’s just deciding which is which — that’s the hard part.

If he wasn’t impressed with the combat display I put on that night, I’m sure my dad at least can look down and be happy with what I learned, and know I put his initial advice to good use.

Now let’s just hope this black eye goes away before graduation so my mom doesn’t kill me.

Greg Olsen is the opinion writer at The State News and a professional writing senior. Reach him at olsengr2@msu.edu.