Mittens and the Meaning of Defeat

When I was seven years old, I wanted to be Muhammad Ali. Not a real boxer, mind you–not like those wiry fellas who could take a punch and keep grinning–but a pretend one.

I blame my Grandpa. He let me watch Ali fight Ernie Terrell on his black-and-white TV one Monday night in February–and by Tuesday morning, I’d already made myself a championship belt using cardboard and aluminum foil.

The only thing missing was an opponent.

That’s where my brother Adam came in. He was three years younger than I, and I convinced him that we should have a title match in the backyard, and he agreed.

Now, I’d like to tell you I trained for that bout, that I ran laps around the yard and shadowboxed in the mirror like Ali. But I mostly just strutted around the house, tripping over my feet.

The day of the big fight arrived. Grandma handed us each a pair of her old crocheted mittens to wear as gloves. That should’ve been my first warning sign. Adam pulled on his with a look of vengeance in his eye while I was still admiring how mine matched my socks.

We squared off. Adam hunched like a bulldog, and I bounced on my toes like a lopsided trampoline. I took one step forward, threw a jab that missed by a foot, and Adam clobbered me right in the stomach.

Now, it wasn’t hard–not even enough to bruise—but it did knock all the wind out of me. I stumbled backward, fell over a tricycle, and lay there blinking up at the clouds, wondering if this was what the end looked like.

I could hear Adam hollering, “I won! I’m the champ!”

And I let him be. I didn’t even get up.

That was the first and last time I ever attempted anything resembling combat sports. My faux-boxing career lasted only 30 seconds, and I hung up my mittens after that.

Later that day, after the swelling in my pride went down, Grandpa sat me on the porch. He didn’t say anything right away—just sat beside me for a while, slow and easy.

Then he said, “Tommy, if you think you’re beaten—you are. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with gloves or jabs or which boy got knocked over a tricycle. Most times, the loss happens long before the first swing.”

That stuck with me.

So, I never boxed again, but I did try out for the track team, ran for class president, and lost, then took up writing stories no one asked for. The thing is, I didn’t stop just because I got knocked back once or twice. I might’ve been beaten that day by my little brother, but I’ve made sure not to lie down so easily since.

Still, now and then, I’ll see a pair of mittens and feel a twinge in memory, and I can’t help but smile.