Boxing Day
Kindergarten was cool. That’s where I met my first best friend, Mickey. She was a real tomboy’s tomboy: fun to play with, and fun to look at. We were soul mates, destined to make each other happy for the rest of our lives. At that age, of course, I didn’t know what being a lesbian meant any more than I knew how babies were made. However, I knew I could be myself around her, and that was a novelty for me. She loved to play baseball, wiffle ball, football, and boxing. Like me, she refused to wear dresses, preferring blue jeans and T-shirts like her older brother, Sunny. Unlike me, she did not think the purple Tough-skins were cool. She liked her blue jeans blue.
Mickey and I were the two best female athletes in our grade. Looking back, it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to declare that she was the best overall athlete in our class, regardless of sex.
We were pioneers in our local Little League baseball squad. I believe we were the third and fourth girls, respectively, ever allowed to play baseball with the boys. I batted clean-up and played second base; Mickey’s third base prowess would have had A-Rod swooning, for sure.
We hardly ever hung out together in our homes. Mickey’s mom ran a flower store out of her home, and her dad was a welder, often fixing metal contraptions in the garage. The last thing they ever wanted was a couple of girls throwing a Nerf football in the house while they were working. God forbid we knocked over a vase of daisies or knocked the blowtorch out of her father’s hand. We loved to play outside, so none of this mattered to us much.
One day, we decided to go into Mickey’s room. She wanted to show me something that her brother had given to her. Wow!, I thought, we’ve been friends a whole three years and I’m finally going to see her bedroom! We climbed the stares to her cramped room. She lived in what must have been the attic before she was born (she was the youngest of four). I remember wondering what it was that her brother had given to her that would illicit an invitation to her ‘bat cave-esque’ bedroom. I stretched her Stretch Armstrong doll to full potential tautness while waiting in anticipation as she reached under her bed and pulled out a pair of old boxing gloves.
“These were Sunny’s. He said I could have them as long as I didn’t tell mom about it. She’d kill him for this!”
“Wow!” I replied as I took the gloves from her hands. “I love watching those karate movies where they fight, and stuff. These are really cool! I’ll sting ya like a bee!”
“Yeah,” Mickey took the gloves back. “So, you wanna box?”
For a split second, my heart went a-flutter. The thought of getting all sweaty and heated right in close proximity was too much for me to bear. “But there’s only one pair.”
“That’s okay, we’ll each wear one glove.” She handed me one of the dilapidated gloves. “No punching with the other hand!”
I examined my glove a little closer. It was worn, with old shoelaces on the inside of the wrist, and ‘Everlast’ stitched on the outer wrist area. We both tied each other’s glove, and then Mickey threw her first punch at my left arm.
“Ouch!” I yelled, and then countered with a punch to her ribs.
She doubled over; “No hitting in the ribs!” then threw a right hook right into my left temple.
“Hey! That really hurt!” I screamed as I put my arms around her and tackled her to the ground. I pinned her to the ground with both arms.
“No fair tackling! Get off me! You can’t do this in boxing!” she screamed.
Time stood still. Everything was in slow motion, just like when my beloved Bionic Woman ran through the wheat fields. It was as if I was having an out of body experience. I thought to myself, “I’m never getting off of you. This is where I want to be for the rest of my life!”
“Get off me, damn it! I’m gonna beat the hell out of you when I get up!” I had forgotten about Mickey’s temper. It wasn’t wise to get her mad. On the other hand, I reasoned, she might just be mad enough to wrestle me to the ground and stay on top of me for awhile. I un-pinned her and stood up.
She wiped the sweat off her brow; no such luck with being pinned by her. She threw another punch at my arm. I ducked when I saw her right arm heading towards my head again. I feverishly wrapped both arms around her torso—hey, I thought, boxers do this all of the time! The only problem, from Mickey’s point of view, was that there was no ref to get me to break my hold.
“Let go!” She began to punch my back. I let go. I didn’t want to get her mad again, as she may never have wanted to box with me again.
We boxed for another half hour. I think I pinned her to the ground seven times. By the end of our bout, she swore that she would never box with me again if I wouldn’t stopfondling wrestling her to the ground. The thought of that broke my heart.
We had one more bout before her mother found out and took the gloves away. I told Mickey not to worry—I had the solution to our ‘no more boxing’ blues.
“Mickey, why don’t we just wrestle?” I exclaimed with my eyes beaming and heart racing at the thought.
Mickey knitted her eyebrows. “I don’t think so. That’s boring”.
(BORING?!)
“Come on…it’s three o’clock,” she proclaimed. “Let’s go watch Batman.”
Even the thought of Batgirl riding her purple motorcycle couldn’t erase the bottomless pit that sat where my stomach used to be.
Mickey and I were the two best female athletes in our grade. Looking back, it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to declare that she was the best overall athlete in our class, regardless of sex.
We were pioneers in our local Little League baseball squad. I believe we were the third and fourth girls, respectively, ever allowed to play baseball with the boys. I batted clean-up and played second base; Mickey’s third base prowess would have had A-Rod swooning, for sure.
We hardly ever hung out together in our homes. Mickey’s mom ran a flower store out of her home, and her dad was a welder, often fixing metal contraptions in the garage. The last thing they ever wanted was a couple of girls throwing a Nerf football in the house while they were working. God forbid we knocked over a vase of daisies or knocked the blowtorch out of her father’s hand. We loved to play outside, so none of this mattered to us much.
One day, we decided to go into Mickey’s room. She wanted to show me something that her brother had given to her. Wow!, I thought, we’ve been friends a whole three years and I’m finally going to see her bedroom! We climbed the stares to her cramped room. She lived in what must have been the attic before she was born (she was the youngest of four). I remember wondering what it was that her brother had given to her that would illicit an invitation to her ‘bat cave-esque’ bedroom. I stretched her Stretch Armstrong doll to full potential tautness while waiting in anticipation as she reached under her bed and pulled out a pair of old boxing gloves.
“These were Sunny’s. He said I could have them as long as I didn’t tell mom about it. She’d kill him for this!”
“Wow!” I replied as I took the gloves from her hands. “I love watching those karate movies where they fight, and stuff. These are really cool! I’ll sting ya like a bee!”
“Yeah,” Mickey took the gloves back. “So, you wanna box?”
For a split second, my heart went a-flutter. The thought of getting all sweaty and heated right in close proximity was too much for me to bear. “But there’s only one pair.”
“That’s okay, we’ll each wear one glove.” She handed me one of the dilapidated gloves. “No punching with the other hand!”
I examined my glove a little closer. It was worn, with old shoelaces on the inside of the wrist, and ‘Everlast’ stitched on the outer wrist area. We both tied each other’s glove, and then Mickey threw her first punch at my left arm.
“Ouch!” I yelled, and then countered with a punch to her ribs.
She doubled over; “No hitting in the ribs!” then threw a right hook right into my left temple.
“Hey! That really hurt!” I screamed as I put my arms around her and tackled her to the ground. I pinned her to the ground with both arms.
“No fair tackling! Get off me! You can’t do this in boxing!” she screamed.
Time stood still. Everything was in slow motion, just like when my beloved Bionic Woman ran through the wheat fields. It was as if I was having an out of body experience. I thought to myself, “I’m never getting off of you. This is where I want to be for the rest of my life!”
“Get off me, damn it! I’m gonna beat the hell out of you when I get up!” I had forgotten about Mickey’s temper. It wasn’t wise to get her mad. On the other hand, I reasoned, she might just be mad enough to wrestle me to the ground and stay on top of me for awhile. I un-pinned her and stood up.
She wiped the sweat off her brow; no such luck with being pinned by her. She threw another punch at my arm. I ducked when I saw her right arm heading towards my head again. I feverishly wrapped both arms around her torso—hey, I thought, boxers do this all of the time! The only problem, from Mickey’s point of view, was that there was no ref to get me to break my hold.
“Let go!” She began to punch my back. I let go. I didn’t want to get her mad again, as she may never have wanted to box with me again.
We boxed for another half hour. I think I pinned her to the ground seven times. By the end of our bout, she swore that she would never box with me again if I wouldn’t stop
We had one more bout before her mother found out and took the gloves away. I told Mickey not to worry—I had the solution to our ‘no more boxing’ blues.
“Mickey, why don’t we just wrestle?” I exclaimed with my eyes beaming and heart racing at the thought.
Mickey knitted her eyebrows. “I don’t think so. That’s boring”.
(BORING?!)
“Come on…it’s three o’clock,” she proclaimed. “Let’s go watch Batman.”
Even the thought of Batgirl riding her purple motorcycle couldn’t erase the bottomless pit that sat where my stomach used to be.
tags: humor, about me, sexuality, A Little Bent
©2006 Marcy_Peanut. All rights reserved.
posted by Unknown at 2:46 PM
31 comments
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