The Roots Of Aggression, Part One
March, 1984
One of my earliest childhood memories is of boxing with my father. I was about five years old when we started doing that. I remember that the gloves were brown and smelled like new leather. They were too large for my hands, and they were hot and heavy to tote around the living room. "Come on, Ace," my father would say as we circled each other. Jab, jab, jab, light punches into my face, nose-stinging, scary. There was no way I could reach him, but I tried. "That-a-boy, come on.&quo...
