In 1974, a secret heavyweight prize fight happened at 1511 Park Drive in McComb, Mississippi. No one attended the match except the participant boxers who had prepared with intensity and excitement. They sported bathing suits in lieu of boxing shorts and elected to fight barefooted. Boxing gloves were not available, so the opponents selected round red and blue balloons to serve as punching devices. My younger brother played the part of the villainous antagonist in this theatrical event, while I cast myself in the role of the beloved underdog universally adored by boxing fans.
Couch pillows marked the corners of the ring, centered in the small den of our home. Wearing pee wee football mouth guards, the two brothers entered from opposite directions with hooded shower robes which were discarded to reveal two skinny bare-chested fighters. I also acted as ring announcer, of course, and began by introducing my opponent in the red corner to loud jeers and boos of pretend watchers. Hailing from some communist outpost, my Soviet enemy aka younger brother had zero supporters on free American soil. Then, after a long silent pause and with great fanfare and dramatic effect, I welcomed myself in the blue corner making sounds of adulation and joyous euphoria from my imaginary throng of followers.
Following introductions, the opening bell sounded, the sound of a spoon hitting a kitchen pot, and the fighters began their dance in the ring. Round 1 did not last long. Multiple rubbery balloon strikes to the belly and then the head pushed my weaker brother to the fictional ropes. He kneeled to the fuzzy shag carpet for protection against my flurry of bouncy bops, and then it happened. My announcer persona in Howard Cosell boy voice exclaimed, “Down goes Frazier!” Little brother could do nothing but cover his head from the never-ending barrage of inflatable latex. In that instant, the dream crowd saw the victor raise both fists in the air, peer down at his vanquished foe and yell, “I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee!” Before the round ended, my third personality, a diminutive Latin referee, waved his hands to end the fight, adding a slight bad Hispanic accent to his words, “Stop! That’s it!” After composing themselves and shaking hands, the boxers (brothers) then stood side by side as the announcer declared my win by TKO at 10 seconds.
Yes, my younger brother played his part well then and many times over and over, never getting a single win in a boxing match. But his exuberance to play balloon boxing never waned.
Quite often, we would take a break from high energy balloon sparring and sit down beside our Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots game. Across from each other, we banged on the thumb levers while red and blue plastic toy boxers punched each other’s heads. In these brutal miniature fist throwing sequences, my younger nemesis regularly landed a kill blow to my man’s chin, ejecting his head upward with a screech to end the match. My sibling had a knack for making his robot throw a quick and powerful knockout uppercut. I suspect the defeats of balloon boxing motivated him for payback as he excelled at robot boxing.
Two brothers. Two boxing games. Lasting memories of multiple “Thrillas in Manila!” Oh, what sweet moments of rambunctious brotherly fun and companionship. It’s too bad not a soul witnessed how easily I dispatched my foes in balloon brawls or came up short in robot battles. My illustrious juvenile career of play boxing conjures the enduring words of Terry Malloy played by Marlon Brando in the movie, “On the Waterfront.” Without a doubt, “I coulda been a contender!”
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Clark Hicks is a lawyer who lives in Hattiesburg. His email is clark@hicksattorneys.com.
