fisticuffs

when i was eight years old

my father coached my little league team.

the other kids loved him,

as he was jovial, lighthearted,

and clearly showed a love for the game.

even then, i wondered where coach went

when we got home.

but one hazy spring evening,

about a week before my birthday,

we’d just swiped a grand victory from

a team at least twice our collective size.

we celebrated in the dugout,

hoots and hollers tore through

the pinkening dusk sky

as the smells of leather, rubber, dust, and glory

filled the swollen-to-bursting damp air.

in proper victory fashion, a buddy and i mimicked

what we knew as a Barry Bonds bat stroke,

and my buddy accidentally hit me

in the stomach with two clenched fists,

knocking the air out of my gut

up through my throat.

i promptly parked on the bench,

panting and gasping through a screen

of tears. my buddy apologized,

but it didn’t matter.

the party was over.

my father entered the dugout,

saw me suffering there,

and without missing a step

his countenance contorted and grew

redder than blood.

he began to roar at his once-adoring crowd.

he struck down at them with the verbal

hammer of Thor,

his pupils now ants under his boot.

all of our eight year old eyes welled in fear.

before my tyrannical father could even ask,

someone sold out my buddy,

perhaps to spare the rest of the gang

any possible pain.

my buddy’s face went sheet white,

his eyes wider even than

my father’s open, screaming mouth.

my father pointed his sausage finger

right in the boy’s face,

shouting every negative word

that wasn't an obscenity.

with all the guts he could muster,

my buddy sat silently, just taking it.

suddenly, in an unexpected turn in my

direction, my father pointed directly

at me.

“hit him,” he said coolly to me.

monotonous and with deadly purpose,

he said to me,
“hit him back.”

never before or since

had my already panging stomach

filled with such sickening dread.

did i hit my friend and obey this marauder?

did i disobey and face his wrath

at our fault-line home?

did i try to explain to this irrational beast

that this boy was my friend,

that it was all an accident and a

misunderstanding?

i rose, tears in my own eyes,

no longer from the blow to the belly,

and looked my friend in the face.

twenty years later,

i am still haunted by his cold look

of betrayal, hurt, and boyish confusion.

i pulled back weakly and struck him

with little effort on his left shoulder,

then quickly returned to my

seat and stared at my dusty cleats,

cleaning small spots of them

with dripping tears.

as if securing some grand territorial conquest,

my father gave the entire team a demented,

bitingly sanctimonious “you-see-what-happens” speech,

packed up and hustled me to the car,

then peeled out of the park,

leaving the other scared kids

and their angry parents in a cloud

of dust and shame.

he drove home silently,

a sick, smug grin of pride on his

fat f*****g face

the whole way home.

my father stopped coaching after that season.

i wasn't able to

look that boy in the eye ever again,

nor was i able to maintain friendships

with a single member of that baseball team.

i never started, won, lost, or even participated

in another fist fight after that,

nor have i ever since given even an ounce

of respect to my father.

but this was merely the first

of many

examples he’d provide to me

and my brother over the years

of exactly how not to be

a man.