Chicks Heart Fights

I was five years old and at my grandparents’ house. Sitting on my grandfather’s lap, he put his hands up. Right on cue, I started punching them. My tiny fists hit his huge hands, and he instructed me “Cover your face! Watch your thumbs!” I could barely read, but I could correctly throw a punch because my Papa had taught me how.

My Papa, the boxer

John Lullo, Sr. was a boxer. His brothers all had perfect Roman noses, but John’s nose was squished across his face from being broken so many times. John never became a champion, and fought in mostly local fights. Eventually, he gave up boxing and became a husband and a father, marrying his wife, Florence, on her lunch hour. (It was 1931, and she would have lost her job if she would have taken off work for a wedding.) He raised three kids, and a bevy of grandchildren.

Papa and Rocky Marciano

John never forgot his love of boxing, though. He and his brothers befriended Rocky Marciano, and cheered the champ on through all his victories. He watched how boxing changed through the years, and enjoyed every match he could. Wanting to make sure his grandchildren were well protected, he taught every one of them how to throw a punch. This must be where my love of pugilism began - sitting on my Papa’s lap, jabbing at his hands.

My Papa and I

He died in 1990 of cancer, just a few months after Mike Tyson had lost his title to Buster Douglas. A fighter until the end, when the chemotherapy made him delirious, he would lay in his hospital bed and shadow box. I still wonder what he would think of MMA. I doubt he’d like the jiu-jitsu and ground and pound, but he would appreciate strikers like Michael Bisping, and the heavy hands of Rampage Jackson.

Today is his birthday. I always thought it was so fitting that my grandfather, someone who brought so much light to my life, was born on the day of fireworks. Thank you, Pa. Thank you for opening the door for this Chick to love Fights.