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“Have you even asked him?” My mother interjects, “I know there’s a reason. Lance is a good boy. He never exhibits this type of behavior at home.”
Principal Hatter speaks up. “We feel, at this point, he should be evaluated, and you should consider counseling. Despite his punishments, he’s only gotten more aggressive.”
My dad is still standing; I can hear it in the way his voice is pitched. Temper flaring, I sense the accusation in his own voice. “He didn’t want to read a presentation out loud, and you call that aggressive?”
“Mr. Prescott, no need to get upset.”
“You’re right, just like there’s no need to go pointing fingers about bad parenting. We’re raising a man. He’s not some punk kid with an attitude problem. He has a lot of responsibilities at home, aside from his schoolwork. Maybe it’s catching up with him.”
I close my eyes, feeling the guilt of letting them both down. My shit just put them in the position to defend themselves as parents, and honestly, I couldn’t think of two better heroes.
My mother speaks up with evident heartbreak in her voice. “Maybe we’ve been working him too hard.”
“Don’t go there, Jeannie,” Dad erupts as my knee kicks up. “He needs a punching bag and a good talking-to, not a fucking shrink. And you can forget about meds. I’m not poisoning him.”
“Mr. Prescott, we don’t use that kind of language in these meetings. Is that understood?”
“Lady, I’m not your student, and my boy may have a little bit of an attitude problem, a temper, but it’s ours to manage. We’re his parents. Get on with his punishment. He’ll serve his time, both here at school and at home, I assure you. He’s not a threat to anyone.”
“Lance, please stop kicking your chair,” Mrs. Estrada, the school receptionist says, peering over at me while pulling me out of the conversation. I hadn’t realized I was doing it. I look down to see my hands balled into fists and stop the swing of my heel against the metal bar of the chair. “Sorry.”
Pulling on my gloves, I can still feel the shame from that day. It was undoubtedly one of the worst. The day I vowed not to let anyone get too close, the same day my girlfriend, Channah, decided to kiss Mark instead of me. But it was also the day my dad changed my life by gifting me my first set of gloves and an outlet. My bouncing knee slowed a bit, my palms got less sweaty, my confidence spiked, and my life changed. I had a place to escape. In the ring, against the bag, I had freedom, a way to even the score with my faceless opponents—embarrassment, shame, anger, frustration.
The day I discovered boxing was the day I embraced a side of me I knew no one else would truly understand. The hardest part to swallow was how much I liked it when I let it take hold. Maybe I am a bit of a freak, but I choose to embrace it.
The day I turned eighteen, I got the barbed wire tattoos symbolizing my fight to keep my inner beast on a leash. And in the ring is where I learned to get along with it, where I let it reign.
Cranking up the music, I tap my gloves together and open the floodgates.
Harper
Sevendust’s “Black” blares throughout the gym as I unlock the door and make my way towards my half of the sandbox. When I turn the corner my breath is stolen by the sight of Lance ripping into the bag. Powerful arms deliver precise and devastating blows making the bag jump on the chain. Covered in a heavy sheen of sweat, his face drips with exertion, his focus undeterred by my presence. He’s not dressed in his usual attire. Tonight, he’s jean-clad in an old faded grey TGU T-shirt and sneakers. It seems as if he couldn’t be bothered to change into his clothes in haste to get to the bag.
Something’s…off.
It’s clear he came to vent, and I can feel the anger and frustration emanating from him, even from my side of the room. It does something to me that I’m not prepared for. At a machine-gun pace, he lands one solid blow after another, the music fuel. Anyone on the receiving end of those punches wouldn’t be standing at this point, I’m sure of it.
I stand back, stunned, listening to the words of the song as understanding washes over me. He’s not some jaded, entitled jock. In this moment, he seems to be the only person he’s waging war on. If the lyrics are any indication of his situation, he’s in a place of complete and utter turmoil in his own skin. I’ve heard the saying ‘battling demons’ a thousand times or more in my life, but I’ve never seen such a physical example. The heavy guitar rift rattles the walls, the floors, me, as I watch him exhaust himself, never giving up the fight, but owning that he could never win it.
Guilt for some of my agitated word vomit upon meeting him comes to the surface as I watch his struggle between vulnerability and anger. It’s so blatantly obvious there’s a lot more going on with Lance Prescott than he lets on. A fierce and unexpected need to protect him washes over me as I round the room when the song begins to fade. He leans in hugging the bag, his breaths coming out ragged, his eyes closed as if he’s just come down from an uncontrollable high.
I grab a water bottle from my bag and approach him with it out in offering. “Are you okay?”
When he opens his eyes, I’m startled by what I see—a mix of hurt and defeat.
“Not a good time, Priss.” His voice is chalky, his gaze sliding to the floor between us as if he’s ashamed of himself in this state.
“I know. That’s why I’m asking. Drink this.”
He nods and then starts to work his gloves off, ripping at the Velcro with his teeth. I still his efforts and take one of them in my grasp, unlatching the wrist strap and free one hand.
He remains silent, just watching me, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“So metal, huh?” I say with a small smile, braving a glance at him as I work to get his other glove off. “That’s your bag?”
“Old Metal and Rock. I grew up on it.”
Gloves off, I hand him the plastic bottle and he thanks me before draining it.
