It was another beautiful morning in Tel Aviv. I was sitting on the terrace of my grandparents’ home, having breakfast with my grandmother. I helped my grandmother set the table with bread, cheese, delicious vegetables and fruits. Twenty minutes into breakfast. I heard the whir and whine of the stairlift my grandfather uses to go up and down the stairs. He shuffled out onto the terrace leaning heavily on his cane, his expression stern, his thinned hair disheveled. With some effort he sat down at the table, grunting as he fully transferred his weight to the chair.
My grandmother presented him with his morning Nespresso. It will be the first of many he drinks throughout the day. He ate slowly while reading the newspaper, bought earlier that day from the cramped newspaper and toy store down the block.
He finished breakfast, but remained seated as the dishes were cleared and the food was put away, and continued to read his newspaper.
I watched him, ninety-three years old and wrapped in a royal blue satin robe with a hood. It was odd. Bathrobes are usually made of cotton.
“Papy," I asked, "Why do you wear that robe?”
“It was in my closet, and it is comfortable.”
“But why do you have a satin robe to begin with?”
“It was my fighting robe.” He said, nonchalantly. He went back to reading his newspaper.
This made no sense. Fighting robe? Like what boxers wear before a fight? I had never heard about this. If this had happened when he was in his twenties or thirties, then the robe would have been in tatters. Instead, it shimmered youthfully.
“You were a fighter?”
“Yes. A boxer.”
“But how? When? Why?”
My grandfather, a man of few words, folded his newspaper carefully and set it aside.
“When I retired from work, it was bittersweet. I had enjoyed the routine of going to work everyday, seeing and chatting with my work friends. Now retired, all of that was gone. Your grandmother, as always, would invite and host a constant stream of visitors, and take me with her when visiting our friends. It was enjoyable, but I missed the routine, the rhythm of work, the shared purpose of colleagues.”
“On one of these visits, I talked to Benek. Do you know Benek?”
“I think so. Did I ever see him here?”
“Maybe. He moved to Israel a few years ago.”
“So, I was telling Benek that my life felt unmoored, and that without work, I had all this pent up energy. It’s strange to have pent-up energy when you are about to turn eighty. He told me I needed an outlet, and since I had so much energy, I should do something physical.”
“This was all good and well, but what’s a physical outlet? You, you can go play sports with your friends, and do manual labour if you need to. But me? My friends and I were already struggling to walk quickly, let alone run. Our reflexes and reaction times were glacial. And manual labour? Who would hire a man past retirement age who moves slowly, when able-bodied youth are a dime a dozen?”
“I kept thinking about what Benek said. I could not make sense of it, but it stuck in my mind. Then one day, a few months later, I realized that though I could not be active, I could watch people being active. I’ve always been fascinated by boxing, and loved watching it. I could go spend time in a boxing gym. Not train, mind you, just be around the punching, the fancy footwork, the exertion. Sit on the side with my newspaper, all the while drinking in the atmosphere.”
“I found a boxing gym near home that would allow me to sit there while people train. So I went, and it was great. I even enjoyed the smell of sweat. It was so real. I was in the action.”
“So the gym, or members of the gym, gave you the robe as an honour?”
“No. After about two weeks of me coming into the gym daily, Jan, one of the trainers at the gym, approached me. He asked me, was I really happy just sitting on the side? Didn’t I want to move and punch also?”
“I told him I was quite happy, thank you very much. But he kept pestering me every day until I finally relented. He helped me wrap my hands, gave me an old pair of gloves, and taught me how to box. I can’t even begin to describe how thrilling it was. Imagine me, having sat at a desk for over fifty years with little to no physical activity, boxing.”
“So, in addition to reading my newspaper at the gym, now I was doing speed-bag work, heavy-bag work, and pad work with Jan. I improved, and my punches started to look like real punches. Compared to the young guys, I was a laugh. But for someone my age, I thought I was doing pretty well.”
“A few months went by. I started sparring, with everyone going fairly easy on me. But it was still a thrill. There’s a certain rush you get when you get hit lightly, not to mention the rush of landing a good hit on someone else. Only in the ring. I’ve never gotten in fights outside. You shouldn’t either.”
“One day, Jan brought up the subject of entering a proper match. I thought he was being ridiculous. Who was I going to fight? A guy less than half my age? I had no interest in being beaten senseless. ‘No’, he told me. ‘There is a boxing league for people like you, men between the ages of 80 and 85.’”
“I still thought he was ridiculous. I did not need to fight. I had nothing to prove, to myself or others. But it gnawed at me. And I realized, I also had nothing to lose. I did not have to think about how all this was going to affect me when I get older. I was already old. I told Jan to set it up.”
“And just like that, a few months later, I am squaring off against this rangy, mean looking man around my age. Definitely weighed less than me.”
“What about weight categories?”
“Oh, right. The rules of boxing are different in that league. If there were weight classes, they wouldn’t have had enough fighters. So, everyone fights everyone. The fights are five rounds, ninety seconds each, sixty seconds between rounds. Eight ounce gloves.”
“Was Mamy ok with you fighting?”
“She was not thrilled. But she understood. And she was going crazy with having me around the house, getting in her way.”
“So? How did the fight go?”
“I won. By decision. Almost all the fights end by decision. People just don’t have the power for a KO win in the league.”
“After that win. I wanted to fight again. It was so thrilling, I loved the energy of the crowd.”
“There was a crowd?”
“Yes! The gyms these fights take place in are always packed. People love the league! It’s a great gambling game. People are really enthusiastic about whoever they bet on. Some fighters develop a following.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. They called me the King of Krakow, due to my Polish roots. Not to brag, but I was pretty good. I had a 12-1-1 record. I went out on top, and retired when I was 84.”
“Jan gave me this robe when I first won the championship belt. It used to have King of Krakow written on the back. I took off the letters, because I did not want to draw too much attention to myself.”
My grandfather went back to reading his newspaper, as if the story he just told me was normal.
I stared for a moment, then looked down at the crumbs of breakfast still littering the table. I sneaked another glance at my grandfather. He had not changed, but I could never look at my grandfather the same way again.