My dad used to box when he was younger and still bears the scars — a cauliflower ear and a perforated eardrum. He tried to teach me the noble art when I was younger, him on his knees showing me how to guard my chin with my fists and my body with my elbows.
He wanted to make sure I could look after myself when the rough and tumble got out of hand. I quickly discovered though that it was an even better idea not to put myself in that position in the first place and I managed to get through school without ever being the subject of the chant: “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Read more ›››