"Father" by Armin Tolentino
"I don't want trouble," he said again, louder, and I felt my face blaze up a moment before I reached out and snatched the cap off his head, pulling at his hair at the same time. His head exposed now, I could see he was balding and the hair on his head was thin and wispy like pinfeathers on a chick.
He turned red for a moment and I was standing there like an idiot, my heart pounding and my stomach turning with alcohol and hatred. The hand holding the hat, up high like it was a torch or a war prize, had turned white, I was squeezing it so tightly.
He led with his left, his fist a hard little rock that swung into my ribs and I staggered back. He was swearing at me in Spanish and followed with a straight right into my chest that knocked the wind out of me. With my free hand, I threw a haymaker at his head which he ducked easily and slammed another hard fist into my other side. I dropped the hat, buckled over holding my ribs, which I was certain were broken. My insides were flaming, a flower of pain was blossoming throughout my torso.
He didn't seem to care about the hat anymore and he caught me on the chin making me fall on my ass.
"Tha's 'nuff! The boy's done!" screamed Paul. I could feel him close behind me. The Mexican's face softened and he bent down to pick up his hat. Paul was kneeling beside me.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Get the hell away from me!" My chin was cut. I held my palm to it to curtail the bleeding. Paul tried to help me up, hands hooked under my armpits, and without thinking I turned and swung, catching him on the temple. I got up a bit and rammed my shoulder into his gut and we were both sprawled on the ground, clawing at each other. The Mexican was in the street trying to wave down someone for help. Paul was shorter than me, but ropy with tight muscles. He got me in a cradle, his chin digging into the soft spot on my chest where I was punched.
Paul told me that he learned to box from his dad, or had to learn rather. He said it wasn't until he was eleven that he learned to bob and weave when his dad was swinging wild. It wasn't until he was fifteen that he was able to get in more punches than his pops, and when that happened, they made so much noise that the neighbors called the cops and Paul just began to run. When I told him that was fucked up of his old man to do, he shrugged it off and said he had no hard feelings.
"That's how it was back then, Kevin. That's how kids learned. He was actually a decent man."
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