JEREMIAH POV
The second the ref blows the whistle, I raise my gloves. They were a hand-me-down from my father-cherry-red, slightly worn, but still in good condition. His lucky gloves, he'd call them, the ones that won him fights; now they win mine.
My opponent circles me, trying to look intimidating. It doesn't work. He moves like a rookie, too wide of a stance, hips too low, gloves too high-I already know who's winning this fight, and it's not
him.
I circle him back, each movement slow and deliberate. Everything I know about boxing, I learned from my father, the best of the best. I was in second grade when he first taught me how to punch. By third, he'd taught me how to fight.
My game plan is always the same: one step, one move, one punch at a time. When you try to cheat the game, wh
