Mama told me I was born swingin’ my fists. She says she ain’t never
seen nothing like it, ten whole pounds and a scowl on my face, with one hand
clenched and aimin’ straight for Papas nose. She says the only thing I was
ever good was hittin’ people, and goddamn it, I was good, my mama
always says. Papa taught me how, though I don’t think he knows it. Late at night
he’d come home, swaggerin’ through the dark livin’ room, smelling like gin and
sweat, swearing and mutterin’ to himself. My ears would perk up when I’d hear
the door slam behind him, and I’d hide behind the couch and watch him swing
left, shove right, slappin’, yelling, mama crying and tryna’ ward him off,
screamin’ bloody murder. He’d shout that the house was too damn messy, where’s
my dinner, where’s that stupid boy of yours, woman? Then he would spot me hiding
and give me that unfocused glare, and I’d always know what was comin’.
In the middle of the night I would stumble out to the backyard, slam my fists into the rotting oak tree that I begged mama not to cut down, hitting harder and harder, knuckles bleeding, water dripping from my eyes, clenchin’ my teeth, swearing that I would never let no other person make me feel so weak, so powerless, so scared. Once I turned twelve, I didn’t see papa no more. Mama said they took him far away.
After Mama died years later, she’d left me the house. I’d already moved out by then, but I still didn’t sell it. Something kept bringing me back, and I couldn’t bear to let it go. Some nights I’d drive out there and sit beneath that old oak tree letting the tears flow until my insides were numb and hollow. I was a child again, scared, confused, lonely, and I would beat the tree again with my fists and scream at God, asking why can’t I forget?
I always remember Papa in the ring. I’d hear his slurring, angry words spew from the mouth of every lowlife heartless bastard that thought he could beat me, every grinnin’ muscle-bound loser that thought he’d even get a punch in. I would see him smashing his fists down on my mama with every fist they hurled at me; I would hear her screams, her pleas, and her pain at every blow of the ref’s whistle, with every wheezing, defeated pant from my opponent after he’d realized his winning streak would end that night. And more than anything, I would feel the heat from his sour breath pour out from behind the teeth of every single man that had ever challenged me. I promised myself when I was a little boy that no man would ever look down on my crumpled body curled up on the floor again.
But no one ever told me you can’t always win.