Free Yok by Tim Davys

Mom, but
while I soon made the loss into a part of my personality, it remained painful
for Dad. He talked about her often, and thanks to him she was still part of my
growing up.
    The stuffed animals in and around Fresco became my
family. Dad was quick to take an interest in young boxers, and when he
accompanied them to other parts of the city for important matches in the
evening, Charlie, the sloth, always took care of me. It was a quarter hour’s
quick walk to the boxing club from home. When I was eight or nine we went there
a few evenings a week, and we always hung out there on the weekends. We seldom
had any real reason to be there. It was more that we passed by, had a cup of
coffee, chatted a little. Dad might help someone with technique or tactics, and
then we went home again. For me it was as routine as the hours I spent at
school.
    If Dad’s nearness and openness when I was really
little had created a relationship between us that was closer than for most
fathers and sons, the respect that everyone showed him at Fresco contributed to
my growing admiration. A father doesn’t need to do much to become his cub’s
idol, and in my case it was enough that a couple of times he showed what he
could do with the punching bag or the jump rope. Dad himself was the first to
admit that his talent had not extended very far in the ring, but when he said
that everyone at the club objected, and soon even I believed that he really
could have gone much further.
    â€œYour dad,” Charlie sometimes said, “is the nicest
stuffed animal that has ever been produced.”
    And so he was, I could do nothing but agree. At
school there were many who were afraid of him; he could be a strict teacher. But
that he was the most considerate and loving dad you could imagine, I had always
known.
    W hen I
was twelve I started training at Fresco. I’d wanted to start earlier, but Dad
advised me to wait. He let me roam around in the big, light gym, jump rope if I
wanted, or punch one of the sandbags until I was worn out; there were always so
many active stuffed animals in there that no one minded. But he never encouraged
me. It was too soon. It had to do with coordination and maturity, he would say.
Boxing is like chess. If you’re too little you should only play around, not play
for real.
    But when I started sixth grade he thought it might
be time, and he set up a cautious training program. It included everything: diet
and endurance, strength and flexibility; but above all it was arranged so I
would not get tired. How many cubs had he seen come down to the club and burn
their powder in one season? But my enthusiasm knew no bounds. To me being able
to start boxing was a sign that I was big; I was no longer a little cub. It had
never been about whether I would start or not, it had only been a question of
when.
    On Sundays Fresco ran a beginners’ group for cubs
who had turned thirteen, and after having struggled alone with Dad for a whole
year it was amazing to start training with those my own age. In my class in
school no one boxed, and even if Dad was always around I realized, when I met
Adam Llama in the Sunday group, that I really had been missing someone. For Adam
boxing was only one activity of many. He played badminton on Saturdays and went
to rhythmics on Wednesdays, because his mom forced him. For me there was
suddenly someone to compare myself with, someone to complain with, and training
became more fun.
    Adam was strong, and that served as a spur. If we
were doing pushups he managed fifty when I could do forty, he was always a
couple of steps ahead of me when we did interval training, and I got tangled in
the jump rope when he could always keep going a few more minutes. Dad seldom got
involved when I trained with Adam; he realized that it was a different kind of
training, and that the camaraderie was just as important as the training
results. He liked my new friend, and often spoke of him in