Squaring Up

When I was thirteen and crimping my first quiff

Dad bought me a pair of boxing-gloves

In the hope that I would aspire to the Noble Art.

But I knew my limitations from the start:

Myopia, cowardice and the will to come second.

But I feigned enthusiasm for his sake.

Straight after tea, every night for a week

We would go a few rounds in the yard.

Sleeves rolled up, collarless and gloveless

He would bob and weave and leave me helpless.

Uppercuts would tap me on the chin

Left hooks muss my hair, haymakers tickle my ear.

Without glasses, only one thing was clear:

The fact that I was hopeless. He had a son

Who couldn’t square up. So we came to blows.

Losing patience, he caught me on the nose.

I bled obligingly. A sop. A sacrifice.

Mum threw in the towel and I quit the ring.

But when the bell goes each birthday I still feel the sting

Not of pain, but of regret. You said sorry

And you were. I didn’t. And I wasn’t.