My Boxing Days

Every day at the B & R Ranch was
a trip. We got to play the Hatfields
and the McCoys sometimes; the whole
camp turned into some real terror scenes,
kids rendered helpless by a barrage of
machine water guns and water balloons.
If you messed up, the Board of Education
was brought out in front of all the kids,
a spanking and a demoralizing act one
didn't soon forget. The thing I remember
most is boxing. Counselors tied kids to
each other with ropes so they couldn't run
away. Stuck them inside a ring made of
thrown-away buoys, and Ding!
came the spoken bell. Once
after we'd just begun, I popped this
kid right in the nose. I said, "Oh, I'm
sorry. Are you all right?" Counselors
quickly descended upon us. "No,
that's not what you're supposed to say.
This is boxing. You don't say you're
sorry. You're not really sorry, are you?"
Of course I couldn't admit to it.
Though I knew the other kid was
really pleased with my apology. Fair play.
But everyone would have been calling me
a sissy within minutes if I'd conceded
that I really was sorry. Decades later,
it still puzzles me that civilized people
would be prone to egg on beatings
while claiming the whole time to be
better than all that. We're not friggin'
cave men for crying out loud,
I can hear the counselors saying.
But who doesn't enjoy a little
bloodshed every now and again?

(2007)