The Boxing Match(Lark L Pogue) “Boys, both of you come in here. I got you something,” their father called.
Filled with dread at the sound of his voice and simultaneously excited about a gift from him—something that had rarely happened in their young lives, both came from different directions to stand in front of him on the dirty orange shag carpet.
“Hold out your hands, Spike, my boy.” Spike was the nickname he had given Greg, the son he considered his best chance at being a tough guy.
The seven-year-old eagerly held his hands out, palms up.
“Turn ‘em over.”
He did as he was told, and out of a bag came a pair of boxing gloves, which his father proceeded to tie onto his hands.
“Now you, Scott.” Scott was nine by this time and knew not to hesitate, even though he didn’t like the looks of this.
“I’m going to make men out of you two, even you, Scott.” Scott was used to this kind of slur from his father and had already started believing, if subconsciously, that he was lacking in some masculine way.
“Both of you, hold up your hands and stand like this,” their father said as he assumed a boxer stance. “Get ‘em up, Scott, like Spike.”
The smell of whiskey and tobacco was heaved into Scott’s face as his father reached over and arranged his arms.
“You gotta protect your face while you hit the other guy. Punch straight out.” He demonstrated, moving his weight with the arm movement while turning his hand into a rolled fist and stopping it inches before Scott’s flinching face.

Wham! Scott was knocked backward by the unexpected punch from his brother. Tears welled in his eyes as his father gave praise, “That’s it! Way to go, Spike! I knew you’d be a fast learner. Get up, Scott. Fight like a man.”
Scott stood up, blood already trickling from his nose.
“Get your hands up. Protect your face.”
Wham! This time, his brother hit him in the stomach, knocking Scott’s breath out as he stumbled backward and into the old space heater. He began to cry, and his mother appeared from the kitchen.
“Stop it. He’s hurt,” she said hesitantly, though she didn’t dare approach Scott on the floor.
“Shut up and mind your own business. It’s your fault he’s such a sissy boy. That’s gonna change today. No son of mine is going to be a crybaby. Get up, Scott. Now!”

Scott got up as his father said to his brother, “Spike, let him try to punch you. You just keep your hands up and defend yourself. Do it, Scott. Punch him!”
Scott punched, but hesitantly. Even after his brother had hurt him, he didn’t want to do this. Greg stopped his punch easily, following his father’s instructions.
“Again! Harder! Step into it.”
Scott tried again, this time knocking his brother’s hand away from his face and grazing his ear. Greg responded by coming at Scott, mimicking his father’s bobbing movements. He landed another punch, and Scott’s nose streamed blood.
Scott was crying hard now, and his mother came to him. His father grabbed his mother by the arm and flung her backward into the doorframe, then grabbed Scott’s arm and pulled him up. “You fight, or you get a whipping.”
Scott began slinging his arms and rushing at Greg, tears and blood streaming. Greg fell to the floor, got back up, and began to fight back, but Scott was mad now and used his anger to pound his younger brother until their father pulled him off.
“Not bad for a sissy boy,” the man said.

Then he walked out of the house laughing, leaving two crying boys, a terrified wife, and two little girls cringing in a corner, at least one of them determined to kill him.

---