Float Like a Butterfly

By SirWilho

 

It was our lucky day.  We unearthed something from the depths of my Grandma’s old barn that would turn us into men.  Hidden away in the secret place where my dad and his brother stored the wine that made you partially blind and screaming about snakes, we found boxing gloves.

Grandma Ann bought the gloves when my dad was a boy.  He and his brother would fight so she did the next best thing and got the gloves.  Thank goodness she got gloves instead of ballet shoes or we would have been goners.

The leather on the gloves was partially eaten away by mice and a little dry rot, but we didn’t care.  I took an old flannel shirt and cut out some patches, stripped some 16 lb. test line from the Zebco, found a big honkin’ needle and started sewing.  After the flurry of sewing, the gloves looked pretty good, even though the big knots of fishing line would undoubtedly cause some minor abraisions.

I figured since I did most of the work on fixing up the gloves then it was my right to pick who I wanted to fight with.  Brother Gump and brother Bishop pounded the crap out of me anyway so why would I let them use the gloves to beat me more?  Youngest brother Sprout was perfect, 3 years younger, skinny, with toothpick arms and a big slack jaw just ripe for the pounding.

Fighting started out windmill style with arms flailing and somewhat resembled being chased by bees.  We looked like a couple of teen girls slapping each other. My previous thoughts of Ali like talents were quickly squashed by a slap to the side of the face.  “Okay,” I said to young Sprout, “You have to start making a fist, kinda like you do when you’re holding your sippy cup, then punch forward, not like when you slap at a fly.  Get it?”  “Got it,” replied the eager nimrod fighter.

It wasn’t long before we were slapping less and actually punching with reckless abandon.  During one duel, I started to pattern the lesser of the Silver brothers and watched as he threw about 10 left jabs in a row.  I was pretty sure an 11th was coming so I lay in wait with my right arm jacked waaaaay back.  As soon as the feeble excuse for a punch came, I dodged a little to the side and launched the huge right.

I have to digress a moment and look back at some really perfect moments.  You know the feeling you get as your club wacks the ball in the sweet spot?  It could be getting the 30# salmon in the net or knocking a guy off his feet in football. This punch gave me that feeling.

Okay, back to the huge right.  The fist came at young Sprout with lightning speed and nailed him square in the jaw.  His eyes rolled back a little bit it and it seemed his knees weren’t paying attention and the boy started to fall.

At this time a person does not know what is appropriate.  Should I be concerned that I might have killed him, or do I start laughing and start the count?  “One, two, three, four,…” I said.  After I declared him officially knocked out, a little kick to the ribs was all he needed to come back into consciousness.  I saw the tears but no one was home so crying was futile for him.

Throughout the months I knocked him out several more times, which might explain how he is today, and seeing him crumble never got old.  In fact, he was going down so much we had to hold our matches in the bedroom so he could crumble on the nearest bed.  One time I clocked him a good one and as he was wobbling about I hung him by the underwear and on my parent’s doorknob.

After getting yelled at by my mom for the tenth time because I knocked out Sprout again, I had enough.  The feeling of knocking him out felt good but the getting yelled at part started to deteriorate my enthusiasm. .

The boxing stopped for a while due to me getting yelled at, but Sprout kept coming back for more.  Being the creative sort, I came up with a way to alleviate the yelling part.  I made a contract:

I, _______ (print here), knowingly go into this boxing match today and will not hold my brother responsible for the beating I am about to take.  This contract is binding and will waive off any yelling at me by mom for the beating of said Sprout.  Signature:__________,  “X” is good since you don’t know cursive yet.

With the legal issues behind us it was time to box.  Doink, doink, wack, pound and the boy is going down for the count again.  As he comes to for the eleventh time, big alligator tears started falling and the wailing begins.

“Dammit Billie, I told you not to knock out Sprout, you just wait until your father gets home and takes out ‘the belt’.  “Sorry, no belt for me, ma,” was my retort.  “See right here, Sprout signed away my responsibility for the beating.”

As I learned later on in life, contracts are not always binding and mine didn’t hold up in family court and actually made it a little worse.

On a few occasions I took some good shots from Sprout, even a few stars were seen.  There was one time that really took me by surprise.  Sprout and I took the gloves outside and were mixing it up by the mailboxes.  I was giving him a good beating when out of nowhere a huge right smashed into my temple.  I knew right then that getting knocked out really isn’t fun.  As soon as he hit me, my eyeballs exploded with stars flying through blackness.  My knees buckled and I was going down.  Just before my head hit the pavement, I came to and saw Sprout running like Ben Johnson towards the house and the security of my mom.  I was humbled for the moment.

The gloves provided a source of displaced aggression throughout the neighborhood.  First, I pounded Sprout.  Sprout then pounded Blake and Mike, Blake then took the gloves and pounded his sisters.

The gloves are nowhere to be found at my dads.  Hopefully one day, my son or nephew might stumble onto them, on second thought, I sure hope my mom threw them out.