“BLOCK, ROSIE," MY FATHER ORDERED. HE THREW A ROUNDHOUSE at me in one of the mirrors he set up against the walls of our finished basement to watch himself box. My hands flew up to my face. I squealed and nearly toppled off the hassock.
His face got dark. “Don’t scream,” he hollered. Then his forehead got crinkled. His mouth turned down. He ruffled my hair. “Sorry I hollered, Rosie. Do like this,” he said, softly. He raised up his arm, bent at the elbow.
I copied him, “Good,” he said. My face felt like it would break from smiling.
Dad kept blocking as he threw punches. His eyes were narrowed and his mouth was tight. His muscles were like mountains that could move. He was wearing his boxing trunks and laced-up brown shoes with soft soles. He sprang this way and that, fists jabbing the air. He threw a left hook and Mirror-Dad came at him with a right. Sweat ran down my father’s broad forehead. I liked watching him box more than I liked eating a Humorette. I even liked watching him box more than I liked playing chopsticks on the landlady’s piano.