I was first introduced to the sport of boxing at a very young age by my father, who fought in the New Jersey State Golden Glove Finals in the 1960’s. I would spend hours in the basement of our home watching him go through the motions of his workout as he shadow boxed, skipped rope, and hit the heavy bag, the wooden rafters of our home creaking as the bag swung back and forth with each explosive punch. These sights and sounds of the training routine eventually became a source of comfort for me, as well as a means of connection between me and my father.

On that same carpeted floor in the basement where he would train daily, he would teach me how to box. He would hold his hands out in front of him and instruct me on how to throw a straight jab, how to throw a right cross, and the importance of always keeping my hands up. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, in retrospect it was a beautiful experience through which my father passed down a craft and a ritual that taught me the seemingly old-school mentalities of discipline, masculinity and individualism.