BACK IN THE ’80s, teenagers were addicted to television, a bulky appliance which served the same purpose as today’s internet in that it distracted us from realistic cogitation, though it was, admittedly, less convenient than my son’s smart phone. One cannot fit a TV into a pocket.
Among my favorite programs were The Wide World of Sports and Bonanza. I once watched a young Mike Tyson flatten Smokin’ Joe Frazier’s son with an uppercut, then for several days I fantasized about doing the same to my best friend. Bonanza reruns featured a revolving cast of evil rustlers constantly breaking chairs over Hoss’s flinty head; in turn, Hoss would toss evil rustlers onto shattering tables and through imploding windows. From the comfort of my air-conditioned San Fernando Valley living room, fighting looked exciting, fun, and (so long as I did not identify with rustlers or Marvis Frazier) painless.
Sonny Ward—who earned a three-sentence paragraph in today’s LA Times—was the toughest guy I ever knew. Not that I knew him well. Though Sonny lived in the neighborhood, and he was in my class, I never actually had classes with him. As a nationally ranked amateur boxer, he spent a lot of time travelling around the country to compete in tournaments, so his school attendance was sporadic. When he was in school, Sonny was assigned to remedial courses.
Nobody ever suggested that he was stupid. That would have been both dangerous and inaccurate. After all, he was brilliant in the ring, and that counts as intelligence. I once had the dubious honor of seeing his brain in action, up close, and it functioned quickly, effectively, and decisively. Also, I recall teenage Sonny Ward having a succinct wit, as his one-liners never failed to make us laugh. But then, who amongst us possesses the courage to withhold our mirth when the toughest guy in the room asks for a chuckle? There’s a lovely man in my running club—a six-foot-five, three-hundred-pound colossus named Melvin—whose jokes are a source of mass hilarity. Yet when I go home and repeat them to my son, who has never stood in the shadow of Melvin’s preponderance, he does not laugh. Maybe Sonny was witty. Maybe not.
In all the years I knew him, there was only day we spent in each other’s company, amounting to little more than an hour of my life, which nevertheless looms inordinately large on this particular morning. As I remove my coffee cup from the sports page—immediately regretting the circular stain it has left behind—I recall the prosaic event that precipitated our brief, significant, encounter.
CLIFF SCHWARTZ AND I WERE inseparable enemies; best friends who loathed one another. Looking at him was like gazing into a truncated mirror. We read the same books, watched the same movies, listened to the same music. Being sixteen, I secretly hated myself, so it followed that I would secretly hate my doppelganger with a passion that I hadn’t the moral courage to direct at myself. Whenever Cliff made an arrogant comment, reminding me of something arrogant that I had previously said, my fingers would curl into fists, and I’d fantasize about uppercutting him. Emotionally, it was easier than uppercutting myself.
I do not recall what we were arguing about that day, but surely it was cultural. Music, film, literature. It wasn’t that we had dissimilar tastes, so much as we both possessed that one, insufferable trait of having to be the smartest person in the room. If I opined that Let It Be was the Replacements’ best album, Cliff would instinctively lobby for Tim. When Kubrick was the subject, Cliff would specify 2001 as inarguably his best work, so I’d spitefully argue for Dr. Strangelove. We were both deep into Herman Hesse that year, so perhaps we were debating the merits of Demian and Siddhartha. While other boys were in the hallway talking about the Lakers and Laker Girls, we were shouting at each other about a dead German romanticist.
“Siddhartha is his best work,’ I would’ve said, brushing back my feathered hair. “It’s a frigging playbook for how to live your life.”
“That’s so frigging absurd,” Cliff might’ve scoffed. “Life has no playbook!”
“That’s Siddhartha’s frigging point, dumbass!”
“Siddhartha shmiddhartha; give me Demian any day.”
“Demian shmemian!”
“Demian’s about the frigging duality of man!”
“Duality shmuality! Man can’t be reduced to two frigging facets! We’re multifaceted, you jackass!”
Sonny Ward approached with a contingent of other boys, their curiosity fomented by fraught words (dumbass! jackass! multifaceted!) and the furious proximity of two conflicting bodies. In their proximity to a feared pugilist, the other boys appeared tougher than they likely were, which threatened my masculinity. Being larger than my doppelganger, I compensated for feelings of inferiority by pushing my little friend into a locker. Cliff–unwilling to accept abuse from one he despised exactly as much as he despised himself–pushed back. Sonny and his crew edged closer.
Cliff flashed the sort of crazy eyes that I often flashed when pretending to be tough, which infuriated me, because I knew that he/we was/were being a poser. I pushed him again.
When Sonny stepped between us, I figured he was going to break it up, which was fine by me since I was ahead two pushes to one. But Sonny merely glanced at us—left, right—like a ref checking for mouthpieces.
“You boys wanna play rough,’ he drawled, “someone’s gonna have to go fetch the principal.”
Everybody, Cliff and I included, laughed. It was the smart thing to do.
Steve Poe, a red-faced prick who lived in the house behind mine, said: “Hey, Sonny. I’d like to see these douchebags fight each other in Buddy’s ring.”
Everybody in the neighborhood knew that Sonny’s dad, Buddy, had constructed a ring in their backyard. When Sonny was in grade school, Buddy paid intrepid middle-school boys five-dollars-per round to box his only son. But now that Sonny had advanced to winning national tournaments, the Wards had to find sparring partners at professional gyms, and the backyard ring was being used primarily for classes Buddy taught to neighborhood children.
“We can make that happen,” Sonny said. “Buddy will referee.” Addressing Cliff and I, he asked breezily: “You guys game?’
“I’m as game as they come,’ snarled Cliff, doubling down on the crazy eyes. “Just call me Monopoly.”
Unable to come up with a witty rejoinder, I pushed Cliff one more time, taking an insurmountable three-to-one lead.
BUDDY WARD WAS THE MOST FAMOUS PARENT in our neighborhood, and not just for being the trainer of a boxing prodigy. Buddy was also an actor–a stuntman of some repute–ubiquitous in action films. He’d exchanged punches and kicks with Bruce Lee, Chuck Norris, and several James Bonds. Though the exchanges were often inequitable, with Buddy routinely playing the fall guy–his perplexed face the frequent recipient of beer bottles and kung fu feet–word on the street was that, in real life, Buddy was tougher than all those action stars. With his high cheekbones, prominent brow, and squinty, deep-set eyes, he looked the part, and he was instantly recognizable to moviegoers all over the San Fernando Valley, if not the world.
Sonny looked exactly like Buddy, only hungrier. Between daily exercise and weight-cutting, the younger Ward resembled a muscular corpse. Buddy was husky.
Cliff and I were scheduled to spar on a Saturday morning. By this time, we were back on good terms and actually walked to the Ward home together, two young buddies anxious to see what old Buddy had in store for us. We both imagined a light, invigorating romp around the ring, somewhere between a Tyson fight and a Three Stooges routine. Our arrival was marked by little fanfare, as Steve Poe and friends all overslept.
We found Sonny alone in his backyard, shirtless and shadowboxing in the ring. Shuffling and pivoting, leisurely making defensive moves with head and hands, he suddenly exploded with several rapid-fire combos accompanied by staccato snorting noises, as if the violent exhalations of his nostrils added power to his punches.
“Hey, Sonny,’ I called out, heralding our arrival. ‘We’re here to spar. Just like you said.”
Sonny did not acknowledge my salutation. Cliff, giving me side-eye, said: “Don’t talk to a pugilist when he’s in the ring, dumbass. He’s focusing on his boxing technique.”
“What do you know about boxing technique?” I countered.
“I’ve been reading,’ he said. ‘You should try it sometime.”
“See how much reading helps your frigging face,” I threatened, “when I’m frigging uppercutting it.”
“I’m going to rabbit punch you in the throat,” vowed Cliff.
Thus, we stood brooding in the shadow of the ring, hating each other just in time to punch each other.
Buddy emerged from the garage behind the house, jammed a couple of fingers in his mouth, and whistled. Sonny immediately ceased shadowboxing and exited the ring.
Striding right up to us, Buddy impressed me as a most direct conversationalist: “You ladies ready to fight?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Ward,” I answered politely, just like my mom had taught me.
“You a tough guy?”
“No, sir, Mr. Ward,” I said, a wide grin on my face, “but I sure am one hell of a stud.”
Buddy stared at me, unamused. Confused, actually. Apparently he hadn’t seen Midnight Cowboy.
“It’s a line from my favorite movie, sir. Midnight Cowboy.”
He spat on the ground. “The one where Jon Voight plays a sissy traipsing around New York? I’d kick that guy’s ass; easy.”
Maybe he had seen it. Just not as many times as I had. He had also, apparently, drawn different thematic conclusions than I had.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Ward.”
Buddy and Sonny stared blankly at me for several beats, then the latter followed the former back to the garage.
“You’re such a buffoon,” whispered Cliff, shaking his head in mock sympathy. “Mr. Ward? Sir? Everybody calls him Buddy. Even his son calls him Buddy. Pull your head out of your frigging ass.” Cliff walked away from me and began performing calisthenics.
Buddy returned carrying black head gear and a pair of puffy black boxing gloves; Sonny carried the same accoutrements, but in white. Silently, he began gloving me, while his temporarily taciturn father gloved Cliff.
When they had finished, Buddy put his hands up and shouted: ‘One-two!’ Cliff eagerly punched Buddy’s palms–left, right–then casually dropped his hands to his side. Buddy cuffed him roughly on the ear.
“Ow, Buddy!”
“Ow? Keep your guard up, sister.”
Cliff, touching glove to ear, lodged a protest. “These gloves are heavy. How much do they weigh?”
“Sixteen ounces,” said Buddy.
“Do you have lighter ones?”
Buddy’s expression was incredulous. “Lighter than a pound?”
I laughed. Both Wards glared at me. Not a joke. I stopped laughing.
“Either you ladies bring a mouthpiece?”
Unfamiliar with boxing parlance, I said: “My lawyer?”
“No, you twit. A mouthpiece!” Buddy repeated, pointing angrily at his own crooked teeth. He turned to Cliff. “You?”
“Buddy,” Cliff sighed, “I am, obviously, not a lady.”
“We’ll see about that, pal. Did you bring a groin cup? Huh? Cause in Buddy’s ring,” said Buddy, his voice rising, “every man wears his own groin cup!”
“I did not,” Cliff answered with a joyous smile, having finally been anointed a man.
Next, the Wards put on our headgear. The effect was not unlike wearing our school mascot costume–an enormous-headed huskie–or what I imagined it’d feel like working at Disneyland as a Mickey Mouse or Goofy impersonator. Lacking peripheral vision, I was compelled to rotate my entire body when I wanted to see a speaker not positioned directly in front of me. It was in this comical state that Buddy ordered me into the ring. “You first, Kareem-Abdul,” he said, ostensibly making light of my height.
On hands and knees, I began my ascent.
“What’s he doing?” asked Buddy.
“Crawling into the ring,” said Sonny.
“No shit. What’s he doing that for?’
“I have limited upper-body strength,” I confessed, rotating to address Buddy. “My dad says I’m more of a leg man.”
“I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with your old man,” said Buddy, “but nobody crawls into Buddy’s ring. Leg-man, ass-man, I don’t give a shit. Everyone here either steps between the ropes,” he explained, gesturing at Sonny (who demonstrated by lifting the top rope and gracefully entering the ring beneath it), “or goes over the top.”
Sonny exited the ring as he’d entered, then re-entered by propelling himself over the top rope like a… well, like a boxer.
I stood up, leaned forward, tumbled over the top rope, and landed on my crown. Thank God for headgear. Looking up from my supine position, I watched Cliff vault into the ring over the top rope. I’d forgotten that he’d taken several years of gymnastic classes. My confidence (and self-esteem) took a big hit.
Next, Buddy stepped up onto the ring apron, turned away from the ropes, then backflipped into the ring.
“Nobody likes a showoff,” commented Cliff, which actually elicited a brief smile from Buddy Ward.
Motioning us to the center of the ring, he said: “I’m gonna ask a stupid question. Either of you ever spar before?” We shook our heads. “In Buddy’s ring,” explained Buddy, “the first rule is that virgins go seventy-five percent, meaning you try to beat the other guy’s ass but don’t try to knock him unconscious. But Sonny says you two got beef, so I’m throwing my Virgin Rule out the window. Do what you gotta do, ladies. Any questions?’
Cliff raised his glove. “Do you have to keep calling us ladies, Buddy? It’s demeaning.”
“I don’t gotta do nothing I don’t wanna do. Now go to a neutral corner. Three two-minute rounds. Anybody quits early, they gotta finish the round with Sonny. Them are the rules, ladies.’
Speaking of ladies, at that moment two of them came dashing out the backdoor of the house, advancing purposefully toward the ring. Thank God, I thought, The womenfolk are here to put an end to these senseless shenanigans, The pounding of my heart, you see, was beginning to frighten me. I was shocked to discover myself a coward. I hadn’t been one when I was watching Mike Tyson or Hoss in combat. This was truly an existential crisis. I wanted to go home, turn on the TV, and forget this ever almost happened.
The two ladies—Buddy’s wife (Mama Ward) and daughter (Cindy Ward)—pulled up lawn chairs and sat ringside to watch the fight. Apparently, all the Wards were boxing enthusiasts. It was like Fight Night at the Forum. The ladies were all dolled up, snacking on peanuts and cracker jacks, sipping cocktails, probably betting on the outcome. A bell rang, and they began hollering.
“Work behind your jab, Ali!”
“Bob and weave, Frazier!”
Quickly gleaning that I was Ali in this relationship, I pushed my right hand out, and my white glove stopped some six inches short of Frazier’s bemused face.
“The other jab!” shouted pretty Cindy Ward. “Jab with your lead hand, Stretch!”
I pushed out my left, and the white glove extended through the opening of Cliff’s headgear, connecting directly between his fawnlike eyes. They began to water, and I wondered: what’s the big deal? It didn’t feel as if I’d broken anything in him; my fist hadn’t pushed his nose up into his brain, as Tyson used to say. Emotionally, it was both exhilarating (accomplishing what I’d set out to do, i.e. jab Cliff’s face) and disheartening (violating a person’s manhood, i.e. jabbing Cliff’s face).
While these thoughts were occupying my attention, Cliff leapt into the air and punched my cheekbone. Now I felt violated. Also, my cheek was making a furtive throbbing sound that apparently only I could hear. All at once, I wanted to run away and hit him back.
Apparently, Mama Ward had money riding on Cliff. “That’s what I’m talking about!” she cheered. “Floyd Patterson with the leaping left hook! Get ‘um, kid!”
“Float like a butterfly,” Cindy implored me. “Then sting like a bee!”
I began skipping around the ring, like I imagined a boxer would do. The floor began to creak, and I stared at my feet, worried that the ring might collapse beneath me. Apropos of nothing, Cliff suddenly lowered his gloves and shook his head. Gingerly hopping in place, I stared at him.
“Fuck this,” he said, then turned away, walked to the ropes, and ducked between them.
“Boo!” cried Mama Ward, tossing peanuts into the ring.
“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Buddy.
“Home, Buddy.”
“What’d he say?”
“Home,” said Sonny.
“No shit,” said Buddy. ‘But why?”
“Because this is stupid,” said Cliff. He started toward the gate.
“Sonny,” growled Buddy. “Get that kid back in here.”
Stone-faced Sonny planted himself between Cliff and the front gate. Cliff stopped, looked around, then turned and sprinted toward the fence at the back of the yard.
“Get ‘um, Sonny!”
Cliff was halfway up the fence when Sonny pulled him down by his belt, then steered him back toward the ring by the seat of his pants. “You’ll be fine,” he assured Cliff. “That guy couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag.”
Cliff sobbed. “I don’t wanna be a boxer!”
“Ain’t no danger of that happening,” said Buddy.
For his part, Sonny continued to murmur advice into Cliff’s ear. “You gotta finish what you start. Go around making promises and not keeping ‘um, nobody will take you seriously, kid. You won’t take you seriously.”
It struck me as good advice, but poor Cliff couldn’t hear it above his own fretful sobbing. Then I got a funny idea. I opened my mouth and said:
“I’LL FIGHT SONNY.”
There followed a long, excruciating silence.
“What’d you say?” said Buddy.
“I don’t know,” I answered remorsefully.
Sonny squinted up at the ring and yawned. “He said he wants to fight me.”
Of course I didn’t want to fight him. But neither did I want to fight anybody who didn’t want to fight me. For a brief, self-destructive moment, Sonny seemed the more ethical of two crappy choices, and I was just brave (or dumb) enough to say so.
After Sonny gloved up and entered the ring—between the ropes, no showoff he—Buddy called us to the center. “Don’t punch his face,” Buddy told Sonny. Then he turned to me and stared, like he didn’t know what to say.
“Same with me?” I asked. “Don’t punch his face?”
“You won’t exactly have a say in the matter,” explained Buddy. “But go ahead and try.”
We touched gloves. Sonny began gliding around the ring like he had when he’d been in there all alone. It occurred to me to do the same, but I felt like any movement I made would look preposterous in contrast to his manly grace. So, I just stood there with my hands up and my mouth open.
Cliff stood in my corner, outside the ring, his tiny head peeking over the edge of the mat as he shouted desperate, inane advice. “In and out! Bob and weave! Zig and zag!”
Sonny feigned a jab to my face, inducing me to close my eyes and shield my head with my arms like a child hiding from a nightmare.
“Oof!”
Sonny punched me in the belly. Again and again. Even though I knew he wasn’t allowed to punch my face, every time he feigned a jab, I closed my eyes, hugged my head, and got punched in the belly. Then he maneuvered me around the ring, trapped me in corners, and shouldered me against the ropes where he cuffed my ears (which apparently weren’t off limits).
“Rabbit punch him in the breadbasket!” cried Cliff.
“This fucking kid!” Mama Ward laughed inconsolably. “Who the hell rabbit punches a breadbasket?”
My shoulders ached, hands too heavy to lift, lungs on fire, and I hadn’t even gone one round. The only part of my body still working was my legs–Dad was right–which were happy to run the rest of me away from my tormentor.
“Don’t turn your back on your opponent,” Sonny reminded me several times. “You gotta see what’s in front of you.”
Somebody, somewhere, rang a bell, and Buddy steered me to my corner.
“You made it,” he said, sounding a little surprised. “Next round, how about throwing a punch or two?”
“I don’t want to make Sonny mad,” I panted.
“Mad ain’t got nothing to do with it. You’re boring the hell out of him. Sooner or later, he’s gonna hit you for real just to break the monotony. Believe me, the more you punch him, the less he punches you.”
“That was only seventy-five percent?” I gasped. “Felt like two hundred.”
“That was twenty-five percent,” said Buddy, an amused smile on his face.
Second round, I tried punching Sonny but only hit air. He would simply shift his weight subtly to the side, and my glove trudged harmlessly past his ear, or he’d take a little step back, then pivot off at a slight angle like a matador, while I pitched forward onto my face or stumbled into the ropes. When I became too tired and too embarrassed to throw another punch, Sonny–as Buddy had forewarned me–unleashed a rapid barrage of body punches. And he began to snort.
Pulling me into a clinch, Sonny whispered in my ear: “I’m gonna throw a left hook off the break, kid. Duck.”
“Break!” said Buddy.
Stepping back, Sonny unfurled his left glove in a wide arc, so I closed my eyes and ducked directly into his right uppercut.
“We got a bleeder!” cheered Cindy Ward, who had apparently moved her wager to the opposite corner.
Buddy hooked Sonny’s arm and said: “I said stay away from the face.”
Sonny shrugged. “He shouldn’t have ducked.”
Thus, Sonny taught me my first lesson in the ring. Never take advice offered by your opponent. Especially if he’s bored.
The third round was, complexly, both the hardest and easiest of the three rounds. My feet were blistered. My arms were wet noodles. My lungs felt like they’d consumed a thousand cigarettes, and my stomach rumbled as it had been struck by Montezuma’s Revenge. Yet I was closer to the end than the beginning, and that inspired me. It was a lesson that would benefit me years later, when my leg cramped on the fourteenth mile of my first marathon, and I had to choose between limping forward another twelve miles to the finish line or limping back another fourteen to the beginning. Despite the lack of oxygen entering my brain, I could do the math. Besides, there’s unexpected freedom in disorientation. When your brain isn’t functioning properly, you rely on your heart. Mine told me to finish.
“Jab the face!” Cliff shouted.
“No,” said Buddy. “The head moves. Jab the body. Body don’t got eyes.”
Sonny spread his arms wide and nodded at me, allowing my fists passage to his hard midsection.
“Again!” he said enthusiastically. I hit him again. “Harder!” I hit him as hard as I could. Once, twice, thrice. When I dropped my hands in exhaustion, Sonny cuffed my ear. I took a knee. “Get up!” I stood. “Hands up!” Sonny cuffed the same ear, but this time my glove absorbed his slapping strike. I stumbled but did not go down. “Bend your knees!” He cuffed me again. I didn’t stumble. “Punch the body!” I punched his body and got cuffed again. Struggling to stay up, I fell into the ropes. “Hands up after you punch!” I punched his body–once, twice–then blocked his left hook with my right glove. Sonny smiled and nodded.
“Thirty more seconds!” announced Buddy. “Show ‘um your heart, kid!”
The ladies cheered. Sonny moved in, snorting. The rest was a blur. Punching and being punched. I felt like I was giving all I had, fighting back, and taking everything that Sonny offered. When the bell rang, I doubled over and puked.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” groaned Cindy, abandoning her ringside seat and returning to the main house.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Mama Ward shouted
I staggered back to my corner and looked down at Cliff. “I did it,” I said.
“Did what?”
“I gave him some good shots, right?’
“No,” he shook his head. “Not really. But you tried.”
“But I took his best shots, right?”
“No,” Cliff assured me. “Not his best. Any idiot could see he was holding back. But you didn’t get knocked out. And he couldn’t take away your dignity.”
“Last rule of Buddy’s ring,” said Buddy, forcing a towel into my hand. “Every man cleans up his own puke.”
SENIOR YEAR, CLIFF AND I had an argument and never talked to each other again. I don’t remember what it was about. Elvis Costello’s best album? Sometimes I think that if we’d boxed those three rounds in Buddy’s ring—or even better, if we’d trained with the Wards—we would’ve remained friends. Think about it. Outside of the ring. Sonny never got into fights. Boxers rarely do. They’re too confident to worry about proving their manhood, and they work their aggression out in training.
I recall bringing it up with Cliff—hey, we should go back next weekend and ask Buddy to teach us—but he brushed off the idea as absurd. Frigging absurd. In his mind, Buddy was a psychopath and Sonny a neanderthal. Thus, I blamed Cliff for preventing me from learning how to box. Called him a coward too. But he wasn’t. Certainly, he had the courage to refuse to fight. It had to be principle. Cliff wasn’t scared to fight me. Like Sonny said, I couldn’t punch my way out of a paper bag.
I never returned to Buddy’s ring, because I lacked self-discipline. Boxing is hard. Waking up early every morning to run. The endless push-ups and sit-ups. Getting beaten up—often in front of witnesses—and not quitting. Imagine how many hours of excruciating work it takes just to attain competence. Who has the discipline to do that every day? It’s easier to watch Bonanza.
Nevertheless, those six minutes in the ring with Sonny Ward made a difference. I’d never been so exhausted in my life, which frightened me. I never wanted to feel that vulnerable and helpless again. So I began running. Senior year, I joined the cross-country team. After high school, I ran 5ks, then 10ks, and finally marathons. I still do. It’s easier than fighting.
Prior to his dropping out to pursue a professional career, Sonny and I occasionally crossed paths in the hallway, blushing at each other like a couple of goofy kids who’d once gone on a date that hadn’t quite worked out and now shared an intimate, if vaguely embarrassing, memory.
Or maybe he was just thinking: There’s that kid who puked in Buddy’s ring.
All the sportswriters thought that Sonny was going to qualify for the Seoul Olympics, but Buddy turned him pro instead. He was undefeated for a few years, then quickly got a title fight against Toney. It’s hard to fathom that there are fighters out there who can dominate the toughest guy you’ve ever met, but that’s what happened. Toney destroyed him. But he couldn’t knock Sonny out. Sonny took his beating like a pro, went the distance, and he was never the same afterward. The sportswriters blamed his father for rushing him. If he’d only fought in the Olympics they said, if only his career had been guided more judiciously, if only Buddy had thrown in the towel instead of allowing his son to take a prolonged beating.
Maybe they were right. If different choices were mad, perhaps he would’ve garnered a full page in the obituary column this morning, instead of three lines in the Times’ “Today in Sports” column. But what do I know about boxing? What I do know is that Buddy still lives in the same house, right down the street from my parents.
***
Jeremy Kaplan owns a used bookstore in Los Angeles. He used to teach special education and martial arts to children. His short story, “Confessions of a Soccer Coach” is featured in the current issue of Aethlon Magazine, and prior to that his stories have appeared in NELA Arts News, Clinch Magazine, and elsewhere.
