Blake took two aggressive steps forward, driving his gloved index finger inches from my nose, making sure every parent in the bleachers heard his decree:
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“If you think you're smarter than I am, Damon… take off those muddy boots, step onto this canvas, and show me what you've got. Full contact. No points. No rounds. Let’s see if daddy can take what his little boy couldn't handle.”
A murmur rippled through the parents. A woman in the second row gasped, whispering to her husband: “He’s going to kill him. Damon works on septic lines—Blake is a professional fighter!”
I didn't answer with words.
I stepped backward to the edge of the mat.
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I sat down on my metal folding chair. Slowly, deliberately, I untied the worn nylon laces of my Red Wing boots, slid them off, and placed them side by side beneath the frame with military alignment.
