Boxing with My Father Essay -- Personal Narrative Writing

Boxing with My FatherMy make was 30 years ancient when I was born. The fact meant nothing to me for most of my young life, but took on a special meaning one solar day when I was fourteen. It was the day he decided to teach me to box.You might think that transmitting this scientific discipline was evidence my father and I had a close relationship, but our wedge was distant, ephemeral, and bound together by a single if resilient thread. My parents had separate when I was a kid, and my father had go throughation rights. Hed prove up at our front door every other sunshine and take me out with him. Our destination might be the zoo, a park, a baseball game or, to a greater extent usually, his house in Far Rockaway, a half-hour drive from my mothers place in Brooklyn. but it wasnt where we ended up that elated me. It was getting there that make it a thrill.He wasnt uniform the resident fathers of my neighborhood friends. some(a) seemed accepting and resigned that they had lost the ir youthful vigor. They worked in banks or delivered the mail. Others tried to oblige a certain urban toughness, but their deportment brought the image of discomfiting salt to my mind. I wasnt too fond of either variety. On weekdays, some six, Id see all of them amble home toward my flat tire building, shoulders hung low, a folded copy of the Daily News pinched between catch and forefinger.My fathers energy was of an entirely various nature. He was quick, strong, and lean, with colored shoulders and a narrow waist. He had a certain grace of performance that made me feel secure, even pleasurable. Sometimes hed visit after coming off work at the Brillo Soap roam factory where he was employed as a machinist, and he seemed to be revved up enough to do a second shift. The way he talke... ...aying a Puerto Rican father trying to raise a son. Seeing the far-famed actor in personwithout the intermediary of the cameragave him a different demeanor. He moved about the tip in quick and graceful strides. Suddenly I had a eureka moment. DeNiro on breaker point was just like my father same movement, same stature, same speech. I turned to my mother whose eyes were focused on the performance.Mother, I said. Doesnt he remind you of my father?My mother looked at me, then to the stage to render her opinion.Yes, she said. He does. Like your father.It felt good to feel my fathers presence once again, even if it was second-hand. Of course, it would have been much more fulfilling to have had that conversation with him, the one where hed tell me what it was like in the old days. But, like so many people both today and back then, I take what I can get.