Funny Guy Friday... Put up your dukes...

Funny Guy Friday is written by my husband Mark.  So, I married a funny (and sometimes sentimental) guy...
    When I was a kid, my brothers and I would fight each other all the time.  In fact, we fought our sisters, our friends, and on at least one occasion, I punched one of my girlfriends right in the face.
     You would think that my father, a very strict man, would have frowned upon this activity.  He did not.  In fact, not only did he not frown upon it, he encouraged it... okay, maybe not the girlfriend pummeling.
     I will go even further.  If we did not strike our siblings and friends with the appropriate power behind our punches or move our feet to deliver a quick follow up punch, my father would act as if we had committed a mortal sin.  These weak efforts would be met with a quick rebuke and an order to resume the violence until we got it right. And we did.  We would go back out and attempt to correctly bash some kids face in.  Occasionally... not too often... we would get our faces smashed in, but either way... my dad loved it!
     You may be wondering why my father raised his boys like we were a pack of pit bulls... let me explain.  My father was the youngest of seven kids. He was raised in Camden, New Jersey, and he told us that out of all the boys who grew up in his neighborhood, he and his older brother were the only two that did not end up dead or in jail.  And from the stories he told, he probably could have met a similar fate.
     He was a fighter.
     He once told me he loved to fight... and was good at it.  I once asked him why he started so many fights and he told me that he never started a fight... but he quickly added... but I never walked away from one either.  
     Since he was so much younger than his oldest sister, he was raised along with his nephews, who were more like siblings to him. He would often remind us that his sister used to nurse him. Ewwww!
     Despite their similar ages, at least two of them were older than he, and still they always referred to him as "Uncle Paul" up until the day he died. When they were kids, his nephews would get teased for various reasons and my father would defend them.  They were not as tough as he was, so he fought for them; he beat up any kid that dared mock his family.  And if he ever thought that he lost a fight to his nephew's bullies, he would show up every day until he thought that he got the better of them.
     He earned a reputation as a tough guy and his nephews became his promoters. My dad would tell us stories of how his nephews used to go to summer camps, arriving before he did. By the time my dad would arrive, his nephews would have already arranged a fight or two with anyone who wanted to take on the challenge.
     When I asked him why would he participate in these fights, he said... Everyone was there, so what are you going to do?
     Walk away comes to my mind!
     At some point in his youth, he took up boxing.  He loved boxing... loved to watch it, talk about it and loved to teach it to his boys.  He would show us how to position our feet and hold our hands.  He taught us how to deliver an effective jab and a powerful right.  He would then put up his hands with his palms facing us and we would bob and weave and throw punches as he moved his hands to avoid our blows.  And if we ever dropped our left hand to deliver a crushing right cross, he would manage to smack us in the face before we could deliver our haymaker. Man, he had quick hands.
     At some point, he purchased a set of 16 oz. boxing gloves. If I recall correctly, they were a Christmas present to one of my brothers.  These gloves were similar to two small pillows that fit over your hands... and allowed you to punch brothers, sisters, friends, and at least one girlfriend in the face.  Don't misunderstand, it still hurt to get punched... just not as bad.
     We had hours of fun with those boxing gloves.  We would rope off a ring in our backyard and invite friends over and go at it. We were not tough kids... not in the sense that we were going to bareknuckle it with some kid at summer camp... but my brothers and I were all pretty good boxers. We knew how to position or feet and hold our hands and throw an effective jab. We had some training  so as a result, we fared pretty well in our backyard ring. My dad would watch and occasionally call us over to tell us to go easy on some helpless sap of a kid or to admonish us for dropping our left when we went to throw our right.
     I had not thought much about those gloves until my nephew posted a picture on Facebook of one of his son's wearing them. That picture brought back a flood of memories.  Some about the boxing in the backyard... but mostly memories of my dad.
     He was the biggest 5 foot 7 man in the history of the world.  Fiercely loyal to his family and especially to my mother.  I once made a smart comment to my mother as I was leaving our living room.  As I walked down the hallway headed to the kitchen, my father met me halfway and pushed me back up against the wall.  He had me lifted up against the front door with one hand under my throat and his forearm against my chest.  He asked me why would I talk to my mother that way.  I panicked and could only come up with... the truth:  I did not know you were home! 
     He tightened his grip and advised that if he ever hears me speak to her again like that I would be... and I quote:  picking up your teeth with a broken arm. 
     I fared better than the Washington Post striker who was picketing outside of a local store.  My dad dropped us off and went to park the car.  As we entered, this poor unsuspecting union worker grabbed my mother by the arm.  Bad move.  One punch later there was one less lucid picketer.
     Yeah, my mom was off limits!  
     My father treated everyone with respect so long as you treated him with respect. He did not always offer his opinion, but if you asked, you'd better be ready for an answer... good or bad!  He was a loyal friend who would be the first to respond in a time of need.  He was a gentleman.
     Remember the story about my punching my girlfriend?  Well, she and I had the gloves on and she started coming at me.  I retreated.  She kept coming and I kept retreating.  She was throwing wild rights and wild lefts.  At some point, I stopped and threw a little tiny jab at her... just to slow the attack.  Down she went.
     Now you may think that I would have been worried that I knocked out my girlfriend.  A little bit yes... but what I was really worried about was how I was going to explain to my dad that I punched a girl!  Luckily, she was okay and laughed it off, and he never found out... and I improved my record to 24 wins and 3 losses!
     You may be wondering why I am writing about him this week.  It is not his birthday.  It is not the anniversary of his death.  It is nothing, really.
      I am writing about him today because I saw a picture of an old pair of boxing gloves.