“Good, because you’re gonna get used to them while I show you the most effective fighting technique. A man in my unit during World War II taught it to me. We called him Biggun, and he worked in the motor pool when we were in Hawaii before shipping out. He could lift any two tires on a jeep. Hell, with Biggun working there, they never used jacks. A few nights before
we shipped out, they had a boxing match on the base, some little skinny Yankee nigger was scheduled to fight. He was a pro boxer before the War and the guy he was supposed to fight had to pull guard duty, so that little nigger’s up there in the ring dancing around, calling people out of the audience. Biggun, he stood about six-eight and sat a head taller than the rest of us, so that nigger spotted him right off.
“That nigger hollers at Biggun: ‘You, big boy, come on up here and see if you can handle me.’ Biggun put him off, told him No. Then that nigger told Biggun: ‘Big old boy like you and
you’re yellow.’ Biggun was to his feet and climbed in that ring in no time. Men from the corner put Biggun’s gloves on and wanted to tie them up but Biggun told him that wasn’t necessary. The fight wasn’t going to take that long.
“That little nigger danced and shuffled all around Biggun. But Biggun just stood in the center of the ring, watching him. The nigger danced a little longer, then went in to punch, and when he did, Biggun caught him with a right hand that knocked every tooth out of that nigger’s head. Biggun threw the gloves off, came back to his seat, and they carried the nigger out in a stretcher.”
Was Dad going to teach me how to punch like that with these new boxing gloves? Would I be able to end a fight with one blow, sending my opponent straight to the dentist’s chair?
“You’re big, son, but not as big as Biggun, and you definitely ain’t got his strength. But that’s all right, because you don’t have to be big or strong to throw the deadliest punch in all of boxing: the jab. Everyone wants to throw haymakers, but they don’t always connect. A jab, hell, a jab can’t hardly miss. It’s the shortest, most direct route to your opponent and it’ll keep him off of you. That’s where Donnie whipped you, he just walked up on you and once he got in close, he wouldn’t let you breathe much less fight back. But the jab’ll keep him off you. Now get in your fighting stance.”
Dad hadn’t hit me since that day we grilled, but I worried he was about to lay me out. I took a deep breath, tightened my gut, and braced my chin, but his fist stopped short of my face.
He held it inches away from my face and I counted the gray hairs on his knuckles.
“You keep your fist just like that,” Dad said, “in a man’s face, and he ain’t gonna be able to whip you. You might not knock him out, but unless he’s just a damn idiot, he ain’t gonna take you punching him in the face too long.” Dad lowered his fist. “And this is where you being lefthanded’ll pay off, because most folks ain’t use to fighting southpaws. Now you do it. Aim for my chin, son.”
A chance to punch Dad on the kisser, and he was asking for it. Days with Dad were good or bad, no in between, and this day, despite the early wake up and some difficulties with the quail, was a good day. Life with Dad wasn’t all bitching and cursing. I had a pool, hot tub, trampoline, and video games. All I had to do was learn to play the Please Dad game better, and I could enjoy those things without the constant fear of his wrath. I knew that one sure way to bring that wrath upon myself was to hit him for real, so I punched slowly like he did and I held my fist in his face.
“Good, son. Now do it again.”
This time I laid more oomph into the punch, slightly clipping Dad’s chin. He stepped back, and from his expression I couldn’t tell what emotion was about to rise out of him. Then he
grinned that crooked painful grin of his.
“That’s how I want you to hit Donnie. But only harder.”
I readied myself to punch Dad hard, but he recognized this and caught my fist before I launched it.
“Don’t hit me that hard,” Dad said, turning me to face the oak tree. He pulled out his pocketknife and carved a face in the trunk which was dotted with white pigeon shit. “That’s about Donnie’s height. I want you to punch it.”
Punch a tree?
“What you waiting on? For the damn thing to hit first?” Dad, with a gloveless hand, punched the center of the face and a chunk of bark fell. “Be aggressive. Hit him first and keep hitting him.”
“Couldn’t I use a punching bag?” I asked.
“A punching bag? Goddamn, boy, you think folks always had punching bags?” Dad snatched the gloves off me and threw them at the dogs.
“Now hit the tree,” Dad said.
I wished I had punched when the gloves were on. Bare knuckle on an oak tree was not going to be a good feeling. I envisioned bloody knuckles and sore hands—much worse than the endless laps of swimming.
“Damn it, boy, hit that tree or I’m gonna hit you.”
“No you are not.” Mom strode towards us from the greenhouse. “You touch that boy and I’ll call the police so fast you’ll be in jail by dark.”
“Stay out of this, gal. I’m trying to teach him to be a man.”
“You can’t force a boy to be a man.”
“If it’s up to you, he’ll never be a man.”
“He’ll be one when it’s time.”
“It’s time he hit this tree,” Dad said. “That’s what it’s time for.”
“Wesley, put those gloves on if you’re gonna hit the tree.”
I wanted the gloves on to protect my hands, but I didn’t want to go against Dad’s authority in front of Mom.
Mom and Dad were quiet, but their eyes were busy jumping from me to the boxing gloves to each other. Once they locked in on each other, they stared, trying to see who’d flinch first. Normally, it would be Mom, but she could be strong when she wanted to, and this was one of those times. I used her strength as a shield and walked past Dad to the gloves.
Pal and Mountie wagged their tails at me as I picked up the gloves and slipped them on.
Dad stood by the tree and I assumed my fighting stance in front of him. I wanted to look at Mom and Dad, see what sort of expressions they had, but I decided it was best to go ahead and punch.
Dad wanted me to pretend the face on the tree was Donnie, but I didn’t. I pretended it was Dad. I had missed my earlier chance to pop him and take out twelve years worth of frustration; now I had a substitute.
I reared back and slammed my fist in the middle of the fake face on the tree. The gloves were padded, but the tree didn’t give and I felt the jolt all the way up my arm. I knew if I had punched the tree bare-knuckle, I would have broken my hand.
While the gloves gave me padding, they kept me from knocking bark off the tree. I punched harder, but still no bark.
“When your fist connects,” Dad said, “twist it. That’ll cut open the other fella’s face.”
Dad wouldn’t have given me advice if he knew that in my mind I was punching him. I took his advice and twisted my fist and a small flake of bark came off. I jabbed harder, harder, harder, and the pigeons flew from the tree.
CHAPTER 7
I hadn’t seen Rubin since my sparring fiasco, so I wasn’t sure how he would treat me when he saw me at the dojo. Not only was I a white belt, but I was a white belt who had been badly beaten. Rubin wouldn’t want to associate with me anymore, and it’d be difficult for us to continue working out together at his house. There was no way I was going to be a black belt any time soon, and Dad would just have to accept that fact.
We arrived at the dojo just as Rubin called the formation. I ran and got a spot in the back row, next, of course, to Donnie. His drawn-up face smiled at me, but it wasn’t a friendly smile, it