thought I had broken the skin.
âShow me,â he said again, this time nudging my shoulder.
I turned toward the punching bag, opened my fist, and wrapped my arms around it.
Malloy sat there in his chair staring at six-year-old me, hugging a punching bag like it was a person. He nodded his head like I had passed some sort of test.
âOkay. I got it,â he said.
I stepped back.
âSo youâre not mad?â
âNo, sir.â
âThen I wanna teach you something.â He took my hands in his and continued, âAnd Iâm only gonna teach you becauseI know you wonât abuse it, like some of the other kids around here. You love first, and thatâs always a good thing. Youâre not fighting the war that so many of the other kids are fighting. Youâre rebelling against it, like Muhammad Ali. You know who that is?â
I shook my head yes.
âYouâre like him. Got a heart for people.â He looked at me for a second with a funny smirk on his face. Iâm not sure I really knew all of what was going on.
âOkay,â I said. I had no idea where this was going, but I was hoping that eventually it would lead to a TV and a snack.
This time he balled both of my hands up into fists.
âI wanna teach you how to box, kid.â
â¢Â â¢Â â¢
Now here I am, almost ten years later, still at it. Except Iâm actually throwing punches now.
âCome on, Ali! Hit him!â Malloy barked as I threw my right jab at this kid, Jamaal Crowder. Jamaal was just another neighborhood guy that Malloy had taken under his wing. He didnât talk too much, and if I was his size, I probably wouldnât say too much either. I mean, who needs words when youâre a teenage giant.
âHit him!â Malloy commanded again, our shoes squeaking on the wood floor.
I threw another jab, one I knew was a stinger. It wouldâve had any normal person doubled over, but Jamaal didnât even flinch nor did he wait for me to follow with another shot. He unloaded a flurry of body blows, backing me into a corner. Itried to defend myself by doing what Malloy had taught me. Block and counter. None of it was working.
âPunch! Donât slap him, son,â Malloy said, annoyed.
The thing is, I knew what to do. I knew how to take cover and wait for the perfect time to throw the uppercut. I mean, Malloy had been training me for a long time, and itâs not like I had never sparred before. I guess the stupid yarn situation was still bugging meâdistracting me. I was just glad Doris didnât flip out about it.
âOkay, okay, thatâs it,â Malloy murmured, saving me while trying to light a cigarette. âWeâre through. Good job.â Jamaal backed off and held his gloves out for me to tap them with mine. A sign of sportsmanship and, thank goodness, a sign we were done. Donât know much more of the big guy I couldâve taken.
âHow your hands?â Malloy wheeled over to me.
âSore,â I replied, pulling off the gloves and unwrapping layer after layer of the white tape Malloy always wrapped around my fists. He said it would toughen up my hands, but it didnât seem to be working.
Jamaal quickly tossed his equipment in a duffel bag and zipped it shut. He didnât say nothing. He just looked at me and Malloy, nodded, and headed for the door. He never hung around and helped clean up or talked trash with us. He just showed up, beat up on whoever was there, and rolled out.
Malloy shook his head, sort of confused, but instead of making some slick comment about how strange Jamaal was, he focused back on my hands.
âLet me see,â he said, the cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. I held them out. âThis one here is swollen.â He pointed at the middle knuckle on my right hand. âI donât know how many times I have to tell youââ
âI know, I know, keep my fists tight. Squeeze
âShow me,â he said again, this time nudging my shoulder.
I turned toward the punching bag, opened my fist, and wrapped my arms around it.
Malloy sat there in his chair staring at six-year-old me, hugging a punching bag like it was a person. He nodded his head like I had passed some sort of test.
âOkay. I got it,â he said.
I stepped back.
âSo youâre not mad?â
âNo, sir.â
âThen I wanna teach you something.â He took my hands in his and continued, âAnd Iâm only gonna teach you becauseI know you wonât abuse it, like some of the other kids around here. You love first, and thatâs always a good thing. Youâre not fighting the war that so many of the other kids are fighting. Youâre rebelling against it, like Muhammad Ali. You know who that is?â
I shook my head yes.
âYouâre like him. Got a heart for people.â He looked at me for a second with a funny smirk on his face. Iâm not sure I really knew all of what was going on.
âOkay,â I said. I had no idea where this was going, but I was hoping that eventually it would lead to a TV and a snack.
This time he balled both of my hands up into fists.
âI wanna teach you how to box, kid.â
â¢Â â¢Â â¢
Now here I am, almost ten years later, still at it. Except Iâm actually throwing punches now.
âCome on, Ali! Hit him!â Malloy barked as I threw my right jab at this kid, Jamaal Crowder. Jamaal was just another neighborhood guy that Malloy had taken under his wing. He didnât talk too much, and if I was his size, I probably wouldnât say too much either. I mean, who needs words when youâre a teenage giant.
âHit him!â Malloy commanded again, our shoes squeaking on the wood floor.
I threw another jab, one I knew was a stinger. It wouldâve had any normal person doubled over, but Jamaal didnât even flinch nor did he wait for me to follow with another shot. He unloaded a flurry of body blows, backing me into a corner. Itried to defend myself by doing what Malloy had taught me. Block and counter. None of it was working.
âPunch! Donât slap him, son,â Malloy said, annoyed.
The thing is, I knew what to do. I knew how to take cover and wait for the perfect time to throw the uppercut. I mean, Malloy had been training me for a long time, and itâs not like I had never sparred before. I guess the stupid yarn situation was still bugging meâdistracting me. I was just glad Doris didnât flip out about it.
âOkay, okay, thatâs it,â Malloy murmured, saving me while trying to light a cigarette. âWeâre through. Good job.â Jamaal backed off and held his gloves out for me to tap them with mine. A sign of sportsmanship and, thank goodness, a sign we were done. Donât know much more of the big guy I couldâve taken.
âHow your hands?â Malloy wheeled over to me.
âSore,â I replied, pulling off the gloves and unwrapping layer after layer of the white tape Malloy always wrapped around my fists. He said it would toughen up my hands, but it didnât seem to be working.
Jamaal quickly tossed his equipment in a duffel bag and zipped it shut. He didnât say nothing. He just looked at me and Malloy, nodded, and headed for the door. He never hung around and helped clean up or talked trash with us. He just showed up, beat up on whoever was there, and rolled out.
Malloy shook his head, sort of confused, but instead of making some slick comment about how strange Jamaal was, he focused back on my hands.
âLet me see,â he said, the cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. I held them out. âThis one here is swollen.â He pointed at the middle knuckle on my right hand. âI donât know how many times I have to tell youââ
âI know, I know, keep my fists tight. Squeeze
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