by Rob Stanley

The first punch hits me in the left ear and it actually feels good, invigorating. I duck around the next few but the second one to connect hits me in the jaw and it hurts a lot. By the time the third one hits me in the forehead the sweat and moisture gathering on the faux leather gloves has a stinging effect, and that, combined with the actual force of the blow through my neck and spine, leaves me reeling.

“You hit like a girl,” I mutter as I step back and roll my head low across my chest a couple of times, my chin tucked in a defensive position the whole time.

My brother smiles. Even he finds this funny.

We’ve been combatants like this for most of my thirteen years, but this battle is different than the others. Tho others are usually fought inside, on our paper-thin carpet during miniature versions of sports we see on TV; knee hockey in the living room, sponge-ball tennis in the upstairs hallway; full-contact mini-hoop basketball against my brother’s bedroom door. Those are battles. Sometimes just for fun, but most times they have an undeniable edge that my mother hates seeing in us. This boxing thing today though, this is fun.

“That’s enough,” my brother says as he extends one of his gloved hands to cup my shoulder. The air is warm and we’re both sweating.

There in our driveway, perched on a hill amidst a hay field that never seems well kept, we draw deep breaths and eye each other. In years past I might have cringed at the prospect of my brother delivering a sucker punch at this point, but Billy and I have changed a lot recently and the thought of a sneak attack doesn’t cross my mind.

I step into his embrace and let my shoulders slump in a sign of respect to my big brother. This male-affection thing is something we do now, ever since he got back.

“You want some more?” I ask with just enough sarcasm in my voice for him to know he shouldn’t take me seriously.

He grins again and doesn’t even bother responding. We both know his sinewy strength is more than my pudgy frame can bear, especially considering the fact that he’s three and a half years older and four inches taller than I am.

To me it seems as if those final few inches have been added in the past few months, during the time when Billy was away. That’s probably not true, but I’m shocked at how grown up he is right now and can’t settle in my mind why it is I’m viewing him in that light. It’s only been two months since we last saw each other, but it seems like years.

I’d been surprised back in the Spring when I’d heard that he was planning on heading to Toronto for the summer. Mom has family there, and the idea was for Billy to head to one of their homes to enjoy the big city as well as the much larger minimum wage that jobs in Ontario offered. It’s 1988 and the only job prospects awaiting any of us here in New Brunswick all seem oddly beneath him. I felt oddly excluded from that decision-making process and very much left behind when he left our rural Eastern Canadian life for the city that I’d only heard about in stories from my mom.

We didn’t know much about Mom’s family. The bare minimum, really. We knew there were lots of aunts and uncles, and that the word abuse often got thrown around whenever the topic of Mom’s absent father came up, but the whole scene was sheltered in some urban dream for us.

Billy though, was ready for that sort of trip. Dreams didn’t scare him. There was always a sense of largeness and destiny about him, and most of us knew that he wouldn’t be in New Brunswick for long. He spoke of travel, of the army, of radio technology school; all large dreams in their own right, but each of them seemed firmly within his reach. He’d always been blessed with an innate sense of accomplishment and likability. Friends gravitated toward him, teachers loved him and young women flocked to him. Even at a young age, he radiated a quiet warmth and a sense of safety that people just found endearing. The trip to Toronto then, wasn’t some flight of fancy, it was the first step in an unfolding plan that most of us thought would end very well for him.

I just wish he could have somehow explored those sorts of dreams without leaving me behind in the process.

On this day in the driveway all of Bill’s goodness and quiet strength of character, the things that now define him most to me, aren’t on display. This time, it’s brute force that’s called for. Having been manhandled in that department by him, I move away from the battle and I’m immediately intercepted by the lone spectator who has taken in our match – our father.

Before I have a chance to protest, he emerges from the windowed porch door and wordlessly lifts one of the gloves off my hand to place it on his own. His eyes are on Billy the whole time, and as he slides the other glove onto his hand you can see that both of them are very much relishing what’s about to happen.

Billy has Dad’s body down to a T, save for the thick padding that years of office work have added to my father’s midsection, and they both share quick feet and great eye hand coordination. Right now they also share the same bemused look of concentration and outright fear, part cocky grin and part studied intensity. This is in good fun, yes, but there’s a lot riding on this and we’re all beginning to sense it.

A rush of warmth fills me as I step back from the fray and realize that the grown-ups have let me be here to see this. No one is telling me to run along, and no one is holding back so I won’t be adversely affected in some way. I’m a participant in this, even if it’s just as an occasional brow-wiper and potential referee. It’s a huge step for me. Heck, Mom wasn’t even invited.

Before I have time to dwell on this for too long, I’m snapped back to reality by the first wave of punches. Billy and Dad are circling each other and straight right jabs are flying. Only straight right jabs, the safest of all the punches. Each volley is cautious and aggressive at the same time,. Skinny arms extending for a quick sting but never venturing too far from a defensive position. As the seconds roll by, the feeling-out process evaporates into the late summer air and the punches extend. They’re longer, a tad slower, but a hint of menace accompanies each one. Adrenaline crackles with every slash, and each one is yearning for some damage.

The cars on the road well below us pass by every so often without even a hint of recognition of what’s happening on the hill above. The waves lapping against the shore of the rocky beach just beyond the road continue unabated as well. All is at it should be, yet a seismic shift for our family is happening right here in the open.

A constant patter of nervous laughter and semi-audible grunts fly back and forth, but the punches aren’t matching the ferocity of the verbal assaults. No one is really connecting, and I’m rather proud of the fact that my bout with Billy had a lot more action than this. Less emotion, but a lot more action.

Just then, a punch lands. Then another. Then there’s a spirited reply that’s none too polite. Eyes are now slits and the mood changes. Another punch lands. My adrenaline begins to flow and the warmth of simply being there evaporates. The action spills into my face and I’m forced to recoil to move away from them.

They don’t even notice me.

Another punch.

Another.

Soon my hands are flailing in front of me, trying in vain to deflect the action and voice some protest, but nothing stems the tide. My heart pounds and I realize that this is inching toward the danger zone when a shriek pierces the melee and I cringe from its fierceness.

“God, Bill! What are you doing?”

My mother’s voice jerks us back to reality, and for a moment we pause awkwardly and by instinct try to look as nonchalant as possible. Our hands fall, our backs straighten and the pained expressions ease from our faces. Frozen in time, we all try our best to deflect the intensity of the past few moments.

Mom though, isn’t falling for it. She missed the run-up to the bout because she’d been busying herself deep inside our farmhouse, and now all she saw was her entire family, all three of us, flailing and spitting at each other in the driveway.

Her shoulders sag incredulously and a look of complete bewilderment causes her mouth to gape wide open. She bores a hole in my father with her gaze, and an elongated blink and a shake of her head is all she leaves with him as she closes the porch door and retreats to the safety of the home she’s created for us.

We’re still frozen in place. Dad is the first to relent, removing his boxing gloves just as silently as he put them on, and handing them to me without even so much as a gaze in my direction. He steps toward the void in the doorway where Mom stood seconds before, knowing that any sort of comment would be fruitless. This is going to warrant a longer conversation than that.

Billy and I stand staring, transfixed on his back as he walks, wondering if there might be repercussions for us here too. As he steps up into the doorway he uses the shift in weight as an opportunity to glance back at us over his shoulder. We immediately catch his eye.

A slight grin crosses his face.

It isn’t a defiant look, or one that could be misconstrued against Mom in any way. It’s simply a man speaking through a look to two other men. Nothing more needs to be said.

Dad disappears into the house. Billy and I shuffle for a second, then realize that we should busy ourselves with something else. We go our separate ways, both filling time with nothing.

I think I ended up listening to Aerosmith, probably Permanent Vacation, and reading an Archie comic. I don’t really remember. For me, the beauty of the day had already been cemented.

About the author

Rob Stanley is a normal guy who finds himself drawn to re-telling his life’s events for others to enjoy. He lives near Toronto, Ontario with his wife and kids.