He steps back, bounces on the balls of his feet, and punches the air. The movement of his body is a work of art, everything turning with machine-like precision.

“A punch is ninety percent mechanics and ten percent force and strength, and even power comes from technique. You gotta stay balanced. Look, look at the way I’m standin’. Feet planted, shoulders parallel. Do it.”

I try mirroring him. He comes over, repositions my feet, then my body.

“Like that,” he says, tucking my chin.

“Whatcha doing over there?” my mother yells, still behind the bar.

“Nothin’,” he yells back, again waving her off.

“Yer supposed to tell him to stay out of fights, not show him how to fight.”

“Mind yer own business, woman.” He turns back to me. “Okay, before throwin’ a punch, you want to be loose, but firm. Then, in the very moment you throw from your shoulder, all the weight in the back comes forward, centered on your front leg. Your torso pivots, and though yer weight’s movin’ forward, you always, always, keep yer back foot planted. And then you imagine everything inside of you is in the fist yer throwin’.”

He does it slow for me to observe. I try doing the same.

“Keep yer elbow tight. You can’t let it flail out like that. You’ll dislocate yer shoulder, have less accuracy, and little force.”

I do it again, focusing intently on doing it right.

“Perfect.”

Then he teaches me to jab. “Unless yer a boxer and practice throwin’ a jab, very few people ever take the time to learn how. It’s just awkward for’em. But if you practice and learn it yourself, then you’ll have the upper hand. After a while, after practicing how to do it, you’ll be able to throw a hard punch from any angle regardless of how yer body’s positioned. Then you’ll be a damn dangerous man, just like your pop,” he says and cuffs me in the back of the head a second time, and pretty hard, too. “Aim for the nose. You hit a man square in the nose, and he’ll be momentarily blinded and worthless. Right here,” he says, pointing at the bridge of his own nose. “Now hit my hand again.”

I do it, this time hitting it dead-on. He pulls his hand away and shakes it. “Atta boy, you’ll be punching like Mike Tyson in no time,” he says. “You just have to practice like a motherfucker. Boxing’s one of those things you have to drill over and over and over again to get good at. Ah hell,” he says for no apparent reason, and then walks to the bar. I don’t hear what he says to my mother, but she reluctantly gives him a few bills and he struts back. “Come on, we’re getting out of here,” he says.

“Drive carefully, damn it,” my mother yells from behind us.