A couple of months ago I had gone home for a short leave, showed Dad my red boxing trunks with “Kid Dennis” stitched on the bottom left. He eagle-eyed my trunks with jealous know-it-all eyes, but when I showed him my eight ounce gloves he held them in his hands like they were newborn pups, carefully feeling the fine leather and laces. Then, for whatever reason, I said, “Here Dad, you can have them. I’m not fighting for the Army anymore, no how.” He looked up at me from the couch he was sitting on, rubbed his index finger back and forth around his thumb and said, “Then, next time ya come, bring another pair and I’ll spar with ya.” Well, I’ll be damned, I thought. That son of a bitch still isn’t done hitting me. Hah! “Denny Dennis,” the once carnival boxer doesn’t stand a chance.
from “No Hill for a Stepper”- Chapter One