Immovable Object

My father, William T., was an accomplished boxer. He fought for the Golden Gloves championship of Michigan three times before he turned nineteen. One Christmas, the sons got boxing gloves. We quickly went into training in the basement. Only seven or eight years of age at the time, my record quickly advanced to zero and nine in a weeks time. Taking a jaundiced view of the game, I tossed in the towel for good. Number two contestant, Butch (JD), took to the sport with a holiday spirit, as did Mike, the oldest son.

Later, our family moved to an urban area, and JD began running the streets. One night, he climbed down the tree from the second story to further investigate night life. At the end of the evening, when he climbed back up the tree to return home, little did he suspect William T. would be waiting for him. An irresistible force met an immovable object.