"Ofah", the boxer said through the spitty mouth piece. The thuds of body-blows on the padded sparing gear. The musky scents, heavy enough to hear. The constant moving feet, hands, and heads. Large room echoes heaving of old ugly men yelling at future ugly men, still fast enough to avoid being un-pretty. I'd punch the heavy bag, and practice a hybrid of Bruce Lee and Batman.
I'd hit that bag until I couldn't open my hands. There was a bloody ring around it about two feet below the middle. Hamburger hands. Grampa's brother Bob ran the Gym, and all their other bothers boxed also. The Fighting Irish is no fluke. I got to know most everybody down there. One Picasso faced trainer named Pete use to teach me little Irish Jigs as I used the leather speed rope. Even Tommy Hearns showed me something one day, and I made the mistake of asking him something about my favorite boxer Sugar Ray Leonard. I was six.
I got into the ring a few times, but didn't have the composure to get hit in the nose. I'd want to jump off the top ring rope onto my sparing opponent, who were always twice my size and age. Somebody always grabbed my before I deviled into the big-time wrestling bag a tricks. Or I'd flip out crying and do the crazy windmill punching scheme and chase whom ever around. I took each hit personally. Not something you can do in the ring.
Even at home Grampa would have me practiced combinations on his big worn paws. Until one day.
He knew I had a temper, and a mean streak. Each have battled me, and still do. Thou now it takes a great deal to bring up either, much on the thick skin. Laughter comes much more often then those confusing emotions, at me myself that is. But Grampa did see the fight in me.
A couple of neighborhood kids were calling me names because I couldn't read. We were on the side of the house and he watched at the window. He must have heard all the prelude yelling. After the fight, two-on-one, and they went home crying, he sat me down. I felt awful, and had to calm down. I didn't want to fight, but thought I had to.
"Why did you beat up your friends?" he asked with kind eyes.
"They said I was stupid!" I said, still trying to get a footing.
"Are you stupid?" he asked with a slight smirk.
"What? not ready for dodging questions."
"Why didn't you just walk inside?" he asked.
"Because!"
This went on for days. He'd ask me why and I'd bob-and-weave around an answer. Finally after days of pushing me on reading books, and simple questions, he asked could I be strong enough to walk away from the fight? My ceiling caved in!
I avoided him, even while sitting next to him at breakfast or dinner. My mind was a blur. Why did he teach my to fight, then ask that? I thought that's how matters were handled with yelling boys. What was the point on knowing how to fight if you were suppose to walk away and get called more names? It didn't make sense.
I eventually made up with the guys. And some time went by. We were all playing football, and I ripped the hood off of a sweat-shirts making a tackle. He wanted to fight. I'd just beating him up, with a another a week before, and I didn't. I said I was sorry, and asked to continue the the game. He was just not about it. I walked home, was pushed from behind a couple of times, but didn't turn around. I could feel how much more pain I was causing, because I had rose above.
I sat down a the dinner table with Grampa. He was in reading, sat his glasses and book down. He saw the change in me. He knew I'd finally got it. We sat and just kind of eyed each other, no words, no hugs, none of that jazz, just a mature invocation.
About two years past, I still got in to a scrap here and there, but still felt better when I walked. My second year baseball team needed a coach, Grampa signed on, then had a stroke. I couldn't punch his hands anymore, his left side held still while his right seemed burdened. We did still go one to win the championship. I know that raised his sprits, though it was hard on me to see him like that. Half a man.
The following year I was up into the major league (of Little League). Grampa still liked to make it to practices when he could. My coach that year asked me what to do at games, nice guy, but... I was still slight, slim, but I was better or at least more knowledgeable then a lot of the older kids. The baseball rule book was my Bible in those days, in my back pocket at all times, Grampa coached more than twenty-five years, I didn't have a choice, but I loved it. Yet that year, wow, that year.
I was the starting shortstop, didn't play great, but at times, maybe. I caught flack from some of the guys about my Grampa being around so much. Saying that was why I was playing more than some older guys. One guy in particle, The Bully, funny thing was Grampa liked him, and worked with him a lot. On the way home I'd call him a jerk, and Grampa would talk about lessons. Grampa would spend all his time helping everyone else at the practices, not me, unless I was acting up, then I'd catch hell, but really all the time he helped everyone, everyone. I remember one of the coaches even asking questions for his softball league. At the dinner table I got quizzed. I still knew even when he was working with so-and-so's stance at the plate he had his eye on me. And most of the time he was there I did act up, when he wasn't I got beat up!
The bully, most of the time, I'd just use my speed, but those other days when I wasn't so fast, damn. He, at twelve, I really would bet he might still outweigh me now. No joke. Sometimes I got caught. He'd sit on me chest, knees holding down my arms, punch at my groan and pry open my mouth to spit into.
Years later, in high school, I, a sophomore, he, a senior, he was still the toughest guy around. One day I was walking down the hallway to my Biology class. I saw him well down the way in the door-way talking to a girl. Each step I took brought up any old memory and a quickened heart rate. He had his arm across the door, like he wasn't allowing her to leave. That just added to my grief. He had had his nose broken a few times, and I wanted to see it first hand. I knew I didn't have the size to brawl with him, but I was faster, I might get killed later, but I'd be the coolest guy in school until I died.
I got to the doorway, I ducked under his girthy arm, books in left arm, and strong leg knee between his legs. I was so ready to drive my elbow through his nose, and bring my knee all the way to his neck.
"Hey! You're Danny Harris!" he yelled, just inches from my face.
I almost went.
"Yeah," I said, still eyeing the vulnerable areas.
"Your Grampa use to come to all our practices, how is he?" still gruff, with slight weathery spit.
"He died two years ago," I said, eyes down, on the verge of berserk.
"Oh...., I'm really sorry, he was a really great guy".
My bomb was defused
"Uhhha, thanks," and I walked past.
Once again Grampa got me to walk away from a fight.
And really for all I know Grampa saved both our lives that day.
djh:If your still lucky enough to have a "grand person" give them a call, if
you happen to be one, make the call. How much more real can you make the
world? elg
�2003 Daniel J Harris