Boxer, boxers, and all is right in the universe.

My father was a prizefighter. Growing up in the 'hood in west Louisville I was always reminded of that. Before Cassius Clay (aka Muhammad Ali) he was the most popular fighter who had Louisville roots. Cecil Payne fought for the featherweight championship of the world. He was good and made a lot of money and like most other 20 year-olds, he blew it on parties, women, and alcohol. But he lived. He lived large.  He lived until I was 8 years old; and then he died. He died at age 51, 6 years younger than I am now. He died of leukemia, a relentless, unforgivable, untreatable cancer of the bone marrow. White blood cells grow inexorably, replacing platelets and red blood cells like republicans infiltrate tax cut rallies in DC. That sucked. But we persevered.

In my neighborhood, fisticuffs was respected. No knives, no guns, just good threads and a good left hook. Watch the movie "A Bronx Tale" and you will see me and my neighborhood there.  A boy's (man's) respect was measured by not backing down from a diss (although that was not a term invented yet). I had the (mis)fortune of hanging with guys 4 years older than me. That was the demographics of 32nd Street. Any strange 9 year old who happened by was challenged by my friends to a fight, and I was the dedicated terminator. I took on kids literally twice my size, and they often left crying. I was a bad ass. That has followed me all these years, and it's been a part of my make up. That's why curse words are used as exclamation points. In the early 60's,  Adler socks, Flag Brothers shoes, and pegged pants were au couture.  Life was good then. (Although I do have to digress and remind myself that Billy Donohue kicked my ass on the front porch of those apartments long gone..I deserved it).

My fathers legend still permeates the Payne family tree and everyone associated with us. My father-in-law Joe remembers my father well, and I think is still in awe that his daughter married me. More about Joe in a future blog. He deserves a separate, special recognition. That said, legends die gracefully, but they tend to fade away. Erica decided that there was a need to extend the story at least a dog's life. So she purchased Cecil, the boxer. The kids, like all kids needed a dog. So it was fate. Cecil is 9 months old, now a tripod (thanks to a congenital absence of a hind femur) but he's perfect. He pees when he sees me. I like him. A lot.

*In the pictures above you see Debbie massaging Cecil's good leg. He loves that. When he sees her, he flops down in front of her. It seems that the good leg enjoys special attention from a hot nana.
In the other picture my dad is beside the poster of one of the best heavyweights of all time. In fact after my dad retired, he referreed a Dempsey fight. Those were the golden days of boxing.

**My boxing career ended in a record of 2-1. I was trained by Joe Martin, the retired cop who discovered Ali. It's probably better that I went to school. I probably couldn't carry my dad's jock.

***Im told that chicks like bad boys, so there you have it.