Actually, never. My dad and I weren't all that close when I was growing up, and my stepfather wasn't the type to inspire fantasy, if ya know what I mean.
They came together with a terrific SLAP! of muscle on muscle, their arms locked around each others’ heads and shoulders. Some part of me noted, “Oh, that’s a collar and elbow tie-up,” but the rest of me was intent on the fight. I’d never seen my dad in action before, and I was surprised to feel that the wood I’d sprouted on the mat was still there—and centered on the fact that Dad was fighting another man.
Dad and Mr. Anderson were scuffling back and forth, first one driving the other one back a couple of feet, and then the other getting the ground back and gaining some of his own, but neither able to get the upper hand. Grunts and the occasional curse word filled the air. Finally, as if by mutual consent, they broke off the collar and elbow and stood there with their arms at their sides and their chests heaving, glaring at each other.
“That all you have?” Mr. Anderson growled.
“Come find out.”
He did. Dad and Mr. Anderson went at each other again, this time their fists up and ready to strike. Sharp jabs flicked back and forth between the two of them, some of them missing, but most of them hitting the mark. Within a few minutes, both of their faces were red from the impact. But then Dad threw one that was just a hair too hard—and Mr. Anderson caught his arm before he could pull it back.
Mr. Anderson yanked, hard, and Dad was pulled right into a solid shot to the gut that doubled him over. My heart leaped up into my throat as Mr. Anderson grabbed Dad’s head with both arms and threw a couple of Thai boxing-style knee smashes. I could see Dad’s legs getting a little wobbly—and when Mr. Anderson lifted Dad’s head and threw a right cross, Dad spun around before dropping to his hands and knees, breathing heavily.
Mr. Anderson strutted over to where Dad was down, his hands on his hips, a mocking smile on his face. Anger flared inside me; I wanted to get on the mat and pop him right in the mouth, but I knew that Dad would kill me if I interfered. Mr. Anderson bent over and asked, “How you feeling, there, Taylor?”
Dad didn’t respond.
Not with words, anyway.
His hands shot out and grabbed Mr. Anderson by the ankles. With a tremendous yank, Dad pulled Mr. Anderson off of his feet and down to the mat, and before I could blink twice, he was on top of him, hammering Mr. Anderson’s face with his fists.
All of a sudden, I felt something wet on my trunks. I looked down, and was shocked to find a slowly spreading stain across the front. I couldn’t believe it. I was leaking over my friggin’ dad having a fight!
ringhombre (5)
17/4/2014 10:09to the author: did you always want to see your dad fight or wrestle? Você precisa efetuar login com seu usuário e senha para visualizar a galeria de fotos.
JiminQueens2 (51)
17/4/2014 22:09(em resposta à...)
Actually, never. My dad and I weren't all that close when I was growing up, and my stepfather wasn't the type to inspire fantasy, if ya know what I mean.
JiminQueens2 (51)
16/4/2014 18:06They came together with a terrific SLAP! of muscle on muscle, their arms locked around each others’ heads and shoulders. Some part of me noted, “Oh, that’s a collar and elbow tie-up,” but the rest of me was intent on the fight. I’d never seen my dad in action before, and I was surprised to feel that the wood I’d sprouted on the mat was still there—and centered on the fact that Dad was fighting another man.
Dad and Mr. Anderson were scuffling back and forth, first one driving the other one back a couple of feet, and then the other getting the ground back and gaining some of his own, but neither able to get the upper hand. Grunts and the occasional curse word filled the air. Finally, as if by mutual consent, they broke off the collar and elbow and stood there with their arms at their sides and their chests heaving, glaring at each other.
“That all you have?” Mr. Anderson growled.
“Come find out.”
He did. Dad and Mr. Anderson went at each other again, this time their fists up and ready to strike. Sharp jabs flicked back and forth between the two of them, some of them missing, but most of them hitting the mark. Within a few minutes, both of their faces were red from the impact. But then Dad threw one that was just a hair too hard—and Mr. Anderson caught his arm before he could pull it back.
Mr. Anderson yanked, hard, and Dad was pulled right into a solid shot to the gut that doubled him over. My heart leaped up into my throat as Mr. Anderson grabbed Dad’s head with both arms and threw a couple of Thai boxing-style knee smashes. I could see Dad’s legs getting a little wobbly—and when Mr. Anderson lifted Dad’s head and threw a right cross, Dad spun around before dropping to his hands and knees, breathing heavily.
Mr. Anderson strutted over to where Dad was down, his hands on his hips, a mocking smile on his face. Anger flared inside me; I wanted to get on the mat and pop him right in the mouth, but I knew that Dad would kill me if I interfered. Mr. Anderson bent over and asked, “How you feeling, there, Taylor?”
Dad didn’t respond.
Not with words, anyway.
His hands shot out and grabbed Mr. Anderson by the ankles. With a tremendous yank, Dad pulled Mr. Anderson off of his feet and down to the mat, and before I could blink twice, he was on top of him, hammering Mr. Anderson’s face with his fists.
All of a sudden, I felt something wet on my trunks. I looked down, and was shocked to find a slowly spreading stain across the front. I couldn’t believe it. I was leaking over my friggin’ dad having a fight!
irishpunknyc (9)
16/4/2014 18:48(em resposta à...)
Yeahhhh, this is the stuff.