[ WP ] Your archenemy is an inanimate object

`` Go sit in your corner, Zane,'' Dad said. `` And take this with you.'' 
 
 He tossed me his heavy gym bag, which I dutifully lugged to my little space, next to a set of disused weights. While I perched on the wobbly, three-legged stool there, he stripped off his jacket and began wrapping cloth around his knuckles. 
 
 `` You brought your homework, champ?'' he said. 
 
 I nodded and held up my notebook. `` Dad, can we have ice cream later?'' 
 
 He grinned. `` Sure thing, but only if ol' Buster gives me a good workout.'' 
 
 Buster, for his part, watched our exchange mutely. He hung on his chains from the ceiling nearby, stout and cylindrical, presenting a stoic face with his red leather skin. Because Dad had been bringing me here for the last three years, I'd learned to associate certain characteristics with him. 
 
 Dad called him his training buddy. 
 
 `` He's gon na make your pops a champ.'' Dad usually said that just before he slammed his fists together and roared, `` Bring it, Buster!'' 
 
 While I laid my notebook on my lap and began doing my algebra exercises, Dad began his warm-up routine. Several laps around the gym, during which he would greet the other regulars, sometimes stopping for a word, and then some upper-body stretching. After that, he'd do a few skips while shaking his shoulders loosely. 
 
 And then, all limbered up, he'd unleash his fury on Buster. 
 
 Dad never shouted at me. Nor did he ever raise his voice at Mom, before the cancer took her. I'd never even heard Dad swear. 
 
 But when he fought Buster, he was a different man. For the first few months, I could n't bear to watch. The way he attacked the bag, the flurry of jabs and punches he threw, all with a snarl on his face, turned him into a different man. 
 
 Dad knew what it was doing to me, but he had no choice. He had to train, and he could n't leave me alone at home. Over time, we chatted while he fought. 
 
 `` How's Mrs. Lee's knee?'' he said, circling the bag with his fists raised in front of his face. 
 
 `` Much better. She did a little twirl in class today, and we laughed about it.'' 
 
 `` Good to hear.'' With a huff, he landed a vicious right hook that set the bag swinging. `` When am I supposed to go to school again?'' 
 
 `` Next Tuesday,'' I said, watching the nearby ring. Two women were in there, lithe and tall. They were sparring, kicking and grappling at each other. Noticing my gaze, Dad turned to look as well. 
 
 `` Pretty solid footwork on the redhead,'' he said. `` But the black's gon na win.'' 
 
 `` How so?'' 
 
 `` Just focus on your work,'' he said. `` C'mon Buster, that all you got?'' Three powerful punches landed on the bag's side in quick succession. `` I got a big match tomorrow, Buster! I need you to gim me your best. I'm gon na be a champ!'' 
 
 There was a heavy thump, followed by a snarl of pain. True enough, the black-skinned lady had her opponent's arm locked behind her back. The redhead slammed her palm on the mat, and they broke apart. 
 
 `` I'm the champ!'' Dad threw a straight jab with such force that the *whump* echoed through the gym. 
 
 *** 
 
 `` Go sit in that corner,'' Dad said. `` Do n't go anywhere, and do n't talk to anyone except Mike.'' 
 
 `` Good luck,'' I said. Mike, dad's manager, gave him a thumbs up. 
 
 Dad gave me a hug and a kiss on my forehead before trotting toward the ring. The crowd was roaring both his name and his opponent's, a bald man almost a head taller than my father. His muscles looked like boulders, but I was n't worried. Dad had been in fights with men bigger than him. 
 
 `` Let's go,'' Mike said, steering me toward our seats. `` I'd rather Samson does n't bring you along, but if he thinks you're old enough—'' 
 
 `` I am old enough,'' I said indignantly. 
 
 `` Seven is n't quite—look, just sit down and I'll go get us some popcorn. Okay?'' 
 
 While he went off, I watched Dad prepare. He was sitting with his back to me, taking sips of water from a plastic bottle. I called out to him, but he did n't turn around. The crowd was too loud. 
 
 On fight nights, especially when Dad was fighting, more than a hundred people would turn up at our local gym. Tonight brought in an even larger crowd than usual, because of the visiting boxer, a champion from a neighboring city. They called him Max, apparently short for `` Maximus''. 
 
 `` Beat him up, Dad!'' I yelled as both fighters stood and approached each other. The umpire blew his whistle, and then they were at it. 
 
 Like most fights I'd seen, it started very passively. Each fighter would throw a couple of jabs to test their opponent, staying in range yet holding themselves back. Dad dodged a swing, and ignored a second jab, which I'd learned was a feint. 
 
 `` How do you know if your opponent's going to feint?'' I'd once asked him. `` Buster ca n't feint.'' 
 
 He'd snorted and said, `` In life, you learn that to stay ahead of people, you need to read them. Whether in school, behind a desk, or in the ring, if you can read someone, you'll win. You'll come ahead. And the truth is, people are easier to read than Buster here. Can you tell me what Buster's thinking?'' 
 
 Mike's voice snapped me back to the fight. `` Here, a Coke for you. Watch the popcorn, it's still fresh.'' 
 
 `` Go, Dad!'' I shouted, ignoring him. Dad had finally begun his attack, he was pressing Max into a corner, attacking relentlessly. An uppercut slipped under the other boxer's guard and snapped Max's head upward. Next moment, the umpire was there, pulling them apart. 
 
 `` He's doing well, but he looks tired,'' Mike said, a touch of worry in his voice. `` I've never seen him panting so early in a fight.'' 
 
 `` Dad trained really hard yesterday,'' I said. `` He's probably still a bit tired.'' 
 
 The fight resumed shortly after, and again, Dad scored several blows on Max. His face was serious, eyes fierce, as he circled his opponent. However, Mike did have a point. He looked a little pale, and was drenched in sweat. Despite being on the losing end of things, Max seemed comparatively fresh. 
 
 Without warning, Max's hook connected with Dad's left cheek and sent him reeling. Smelling a chance, the boxer waded in, driving blow after blow at my father. 
 
 `` Dad, fight back!'' I shouted. `` Do n't let Buster and me down!'' 
 
 Instead of counter-attacking, or even guarding, Dad seized his chest and toppled to the mat. Max looked shocked, as the umpire and a paramedic rushed to Dad's side. 
 
 `` What's going on?'' I said, standing up slowly. `` Why's Dad lying down? The fight's not over. Get up, Dad! Get up!'' 
 
 `` Stay here,'' Mike said, pushing me back onto my seat before rushing into the ring. 
 
 `` Dad, the fight's not over! Max is still there; you've got to fight!'' I cupped my hands around my mouth as I shouted. The crowd was no longer cheering; it seemed that every voice had been silenced but mine. `` Come on, Dad! Win this!'' 
 
 *** 
 
 I endured the next hour in a daze, as people went in and out of the ring. At some point, white-uniformed men came and took Dad away on a stretcher. I saw the umpire and Mike talk; Mike was shaking his head, a hand over his mouth. 
 
 Nobody noticed when I got off my chair, walked out the rear entrance and sat in the alley. 
 
 Why? That word kept repeating itself in my head. Why had n't Dad won? Why had he given up so soon? Did n't Buster train him to be the best, to win? 
 
 My limbs were freezing by the time I went back into the gym. It was dark inside; only the ring remained lit. No one was in sight. Quietly, numbly, I made my way to where Buster was. 
 
 `` Why did n't Dad win?'' I asked him. `` Dad said that as long as he fought you, he can fight anyone else. What happened?'' 
 
 Buster did n't answer. 
 
 I drew my hand back and punched him, as hard as I could. That action released the floodgates. Tears running down my cheeks, I pounded the punching bag with every bit of strength I could muster. 
 
 `` You lied,'' I screamed. `` You lied to Dad! You tricked him, and you tricked me! I hate you. I'm going to break you!'' 
 
 On and on my barrage went, until my knuckles were bleeding and my arms ached. Finally, my trembling legs gave way, and I fell beneath Buster. 
 
 As I lay there, crying and cursing him, I heard a faint rustling on the floor. Stretching out my hand, I was surprised to discover a trickle of sand coming from Buster. 
 
 *** 
 
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