Cus

I’m not happy being victorious. I fight my heart out and give it my best, but when it’s over, there’s no Cus to tell me how I did, no mother to show my clippings to.

—Mike Tyson

The first punch I ever threw was out of fear. When you’re a two hundred pound mamma’s boy with a fondness for pigeons and good night kisses, people tease you. But after that punch, I found myself. I learned that if I could make a man’s jaw buckle, I could make him respect me and give me his wallet. Mamma prayed for me ‘til the blood in her legs clotted and her heart stopped. Then came Cus. He cared the way mamma did. I can still feel his gangly fingers, massaging my back through sweat, and scars that had nothing to do with boxing. He saw my fear, smiled, “Fear is like fire Mike. If you can control it, you can use it to heat your home, but if you can’t, it will destroy you.” He’s gone too. I’m still scared, screaming, like a man doused with sulfur, while I swing, and swing, and swing, hoping one day to set the world a blaze.