01/06/12

So today, out of the blue my buddy's wife phoned me.

She explained to me that she and her husband have bought some fitness equipment and want me to come have a look at it. They had bought a heavy bag and some gloves. They know I was a boxing coach and were wondering if I'd come over and show them a couple of things.

I wasn't doing anything so I put on some sweats and drove over there to find a black heavy bag hanging from a rafter of their front deck and a pair of light bag gloves sitting on the picnic table.

I first set foot in a boxing club at the age of five. My dad ran the club and I went there one night to see where he went three times a week. After that night until he went into the hospital to die I was there three, four times a week or more. My childhood, my youth and my adulthood until the age of 35 was spent in the gym fighting.

I fought in my first tournament at the age of seven and my last when I was twenty five. Boxing was a force in my life literally from before I can clearly remember. When I finished fighting competitively I committed myself to teaching the art. Because of that I learned to teach, coach, and lead people beyond what they thought were their limits. What i did in that club from my childhood onward made me the man I am today, made me the Firefighter I am today, and made me the teacher i am today.

My dad and I changed lives. There are a hell of a lot of people who learned a bit from us that has stayed with them throughout their lives.

Inside a boxing ring was where my dad and I loved each other. Neither of us could show affection for the other except by fighting. It was never an angry or ugly thing. It was beautiful, it was love as only boxers can find it. He was always the teacher and I the pupil. I knew I was a man when he gave me people of my own to teach. He was always in my corner through every fight, win, lose, or draw.

When he died I never wanted to set foot in a ring againm that was when i started to say "I used to be a boxer"

Since he died I have never thrown a real punch. Yeah, I had the gloves on with my kids, but never threw a real  punch.

So yes, I thought maybe I could show them a few things. I wasn't all that excited about it, but I thought i'd show them some moves, enough so they could play around at fighting and have a laugh or two.

My buddy's wife came out and hit the bag a few times, she's a big strapping gal who has a bit of promise. I listened to the thuds of her gloves in the canvas bag, I showed her where her feet go, where her hands and shoulders go, and how the punches should strike.

I listened to my voice speak the language again.

The phrases slipped out, "Drop the knee" "Hands up, hands high" "Chin down" "Bring it back high" "Elbows in"

I was there again. I was on the gym floor again and thousands of nights slipped past. I heard my father's voice come from my throat.

I smelled leather and sweat.

Both of them were apt pupils, their hands were where a first-timer always carries them. Too low, chin too high, feet all wrong. But eager, grinning, nervous, scared a bit.

Before I knew it the time was up, their lesson done, I eyed their heavy bag and wrapped my hands for the first time in so very, very long.

I faced the bag, swung it a bit, rolled my shoulders into place, moved, slid my feet and felt it all go "click". The hands were in place, head in place, feet, balance right, God, but it was all there.

I flicked out a jab, felt the shock, too slow, wrong place. I heard a dull, flat, "Thud"

Snapped it out again, heard it "Pop!"

Yeah, right there.

Lefts, rights, "Pop!" "Pop!" "Pop!"

The sound, god the sound was right, the shots going where they should. It was glorious, my chest tightened and swelled, the tears came with the sweat. The werewolf stirred inside me.

I was home, for the first time in so goddamned many years I was home again.

I stepped in, rolled a left hook and heard it again, the first time in eons..."CRACK! "

"You always know when the shots are landing right" the old man would say...

"The punches sound like gunshots"
 

I stood and hit that bag for twenty minutes solid, until I couldn't lift my hands anymore. Until I couldn't keep the tears inside anymore. The sounds, and the smells, they filled me and emptied me at the same time. I could hear him, feel him talking to me as the punches cracked out.

I knew he hovered just beyond my vision, and I could hear his voice as my gloves struck.

As I stood there and stripped the wraps off my hands, remembering his hands wrapping them on me a hundred years before, I saw the date on my watch.

12 June, he died five years ago to the day.
 
 

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