Boxing Lessons

He would show up in the basement every so often and say, “Put the gloves on,” as he gestured to the red boxing gloves that hung on the wall. I would sit on the end of the bench and lower my head, knowing what was next. 

I’ve written about my father often, mostly for myself, attempting like hell to dissect the relationship that we had. Maybe I have shared too much or maybe not enough. I’m not sure either way, and it probably doesn’t matter to anyone but me. Father and son relationships can often be difficult to articulate. I’m not a father myself, so I didn’t give that chance to my own son to dissect our relationship. However, I’d like to think he would have been drowned in love with a heavy dose of mentoring and building character and resilience. I’d want him to understand that masculinity can be good if used correctly, and that what a man needs most is to be of use. To be kind and help others, and if needed, be there when the time comes to stand up for people when necessary. That is strength, to stand for something or someone when you know it’s right, and to do so even when it feels like the world is trying to stop you. I would tell him throughout his life that, “You will be remembered for your actions, not your promises.” It is something I have told myself throughout my adult life, trying like hell not to sidestep too far off a path that I set long ago. I would want my son to know that you will get knocked down often and the important thing is to keep getting back up. 

I have often said that I believe my father was trying to ruin his youngest child. At least it felt that way at times. It seemed like he was trying to destroy me through his anger, resentment, and eventually, emotional neglect. That is, when I became old enough to understand what emotional neglect meant. How could he not be trying to destroy me? You don’t do the things he did without destruction. Looking back, I often return to that word “Resentment” when thinking about how my dad felt about me. It often seemed like he resented me being around or even being alive. 

Yet, there were times when I also thought he was actually giving me the fatherly instruction that a son needs. He at least did so in the way he knew how. For whatever reason, my dad would take the time to teach me how to fight. He learned to fight at a young age, mostly the need to take care of the town bullies and make them a little more hesitant to bother anyone. He furthered his skill in the Army and he boxed often in the ring or got into drunken brawls in the bars of Germany. So, when he’d show up in the tiny weight room I created in our basement and tell me to put the gloves on, I was happy to get the attention from him, to learn something useful, and it terrified me at the same time. 

I would put on the red gloves, all sixteen ounces, and lift my hands to protect my face, and my elbows tucked in to protect my ribs, just like he taught me. Oftentimes, he’d throw a few light jabs and teach me how to defend, and other times he’d teach me how to jab at him, while he smiled at me. I was never sure that smile was from being proud of the straight jabs and right hooks that I’d attempt to deliver, and the way I moved my feet and hips to get power, or if he was glad he was about to have a turn at me? 

When I was twelve, he gave me a boxing lesson I’d never forget. The house was empty except for the two of us. It was a summer afternoon and I was lifting weights. The plastic, sand filled weights were once a Christmas present. 

“Put on the gloves,” he said.

I didn’t ever say “No.” As I said, there was this mix of getting his attention, to spend time alone with him and the feeling as if my father was actually teaching me something, as fathers should do. 

“Put your hands up and protect yourself.”

I did as instructed.

I can still picture his blows coming at me from every direction. I felt my face being hit so hard that I thought it would be twisted right off my neck. Then, the body shots came even harder. I tucked my elbows in, trying to protect myself like he taught, but it was no use. My ribs were being punished and after my young body took as much as it could, my legs wobbled and I fell to the cement floor. I thought maybe going down to the ground that the beating would simply stop. My dad would have taught his “lesson” and moved on. Instead, he continued to deliver blows to my ribs, lower back, and the back of my head. I covered up the best I could. The strange thing is, getting hit so much made me feel like I had done something wrong. It was as if I did not learn the boxing lessons he had been teaching me all along, and this extra punishment was from his disappointment. 

When he stopped, he calmly took the gloves off, laid them on the bench, brushed back the hair that gathered across his forehead and walked out. I lay there holding my sides, still in a fetal position, like an animal that tried to protect their vital organs. Eventually, I got back up. I always did. I kept getting back up, and then I’d check my face and body. The body always held the pain under the shirts I wore. My mom always thought my ribs ached and were bruised from football. I never was hit in football as hard as I was by my father, but I never let her or anyone know. I took it all and kept standing back up. 

There were other times that my dad would show up and teach me about fighting, but it wasn’t boxing. It was things he picked up from the street or in the Army. He showed me pressure points and talked to me about never turning my back on a man who was threatening to harm me, and always, always strike that man first. He’d tell me where to hit a man to hurt him the most, or where to hit him and knock him out. He’d tell me if the man was bigger than me to wrestle him to the ground and “Level the playing field,” delivering elbows to the man’s temples. It may seem like brutal instruction for many, but understand that as a boy, a son, I took any instruction and mentoring that I could. As I said, the attention, even if I got a beating from it, was welcomed. It’s difficult to explain, I guess. Those lessons in fighting gave me something to remember my dad by. I felt like he was actually trying to help me become a man. You look for what you can in a relationship to make sense out of it, and maybe even justify it.

I think if I had a son, or a daughter, I’d take the time to teach them about protecting themselves, and that there are harmful, mean people in the world, so understand that and be prepared when necessary. I’d also teach them to respect nature and spend time in the woods, appreciating the fall wind and the sound of an owl hooting on an evening hike. I would read them poetry and short stories, and when they were old enough, I’d teach them philosophy. They’d absorb books and become lost and found within them. I’d teach them that life will ebb and flow and that there will be hard times, but remember to be mindful of the good moments and keep pushing through the bad ones. I would talk to them about what it means to grow as a human and transcend, and they would practice kindness and helping others. They would never be in my presence without being told they are loved. I’d do all of this and more for my kids, giving them boxing lessons and so many more lessons across the duration of our time together. 

Something I have not shared is that I have sometimes written letters to the kids I never had, and now as I age, leaning into my mid-fifties, I think about how silly I am to imagine them. I am not a father and will never teach boxing lessons to my son or daughter. I will never tell them that I love them and help teach them how to stand when the world is trying to knock them down. How to take the hard blows that life can deliver and keep getting back up. 

I am sometimes naïve that I can do the same for my students as I would for the kids that I never had, but in reality, I often leave uncertain if I have had any impact at all on their young lives. 

This is not a sad story, it’s just painful memories and reflections that were always drowned out and overpowered by my mother’s love. It was love that saved me and love that won in the end. It is love that heals all wounds and love that keeps me going when my ribs and back ache on cold, dark mornings.