I'd get into a bottle and take it out on him. Guess he reminded me of the better parts of myself. I didn't see him, I saw me, twenty-some years ago, waiting to take my place in the world. Maybe it was the part of me that always wanted to fight. I wanted him to hit me back. He never did.
And probably it was that he could see himself. Every glare and glance and punch I threw his way he saw him in me. Saw a taller, bigger, stronger, weaker, broken, balding him, looming in the darkness, lurking in pain. And every swing and contact and cut and drop of blood brought back the old childhood taunt: Why are you hitting yourself, why are you hitting yourself, why are you hitting yourself?
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