No Bell

Lorenzo was a Golden Gloves boxer from New York. He was a typical male in every sense. Around the world, boys fight, grow older, fall in love, or find a suitable partner. Then they get married, have kids, and buy a house– not necessarily in that order. This being the case, Lorenzo met a young lady in his 20s, had a child in his 30s, and bought a house in his 40s.

And, as most men do, Lorenzo walked into his midlife with a suit and tie and left hobbies in his past. But, as most men do, he brought his past with him into his future. He could probably make it through one whole conversation without mentioning the “good old days” if he had tried.

His basement was a shrine to his old life. Faded competition posters from regional bouts curled at the edges, yellowed by time and humidity. Some were autographed in marker that had long since bled into the paper, like fine wine blending with age. A few championship belts hung on nails, gleaming beneath a single bare bulb like relics in a forgotten museum.

His old gloves sat on a shelf, cracked and stiff, resting beside a Polaroid of him posing in a boxer’s stance—young, fit, fists poised to punch, intensity in his eyes.

When his son, Peter, was old enough to walk, Lorenzo began constructing his very own boxing ring in that basement. It was reminiscent of the gritty brick establishment that he used to train in. He even took the one rule they used back then and carved it into a block of wood to be displayed on the basement wall. “No bell.”

Back then, they were warriors. They fought like they were fighting for their lives. There were no rounds. Nobody would throw in a towel. No coach was allowed to stop a fight. It would last until somebody was down.

This is the philosophy that Peter was formed under. Now 19, he was the picture of strength, much like Lorenzo in his prime. He descended into the basement, gripping the rickety banister and ducking under the low doorway as a habit that started when he hit a growth spurt at 14.

He looked at his father, who was now in his 50s. He stood in the ring, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his head bobbing with each shoulder roll. The old man was still solid, even though his slowing speech and trembling hands hinted that his boxing days were long gone and his sparring days were numbered. It was hard to tell how many matches he had left.

Peter smiled nervously as he got into the ring. His father stared at him as if he were “Lightning” Leo Bartolo from the Brooklyn Brawl 25 years ago. He had always been like that. It could be a prize fight or a sparring match. It could be a stranger or his son. It didn’t matter. Lorenzo’s intensity didn’t discriminate.

Peter warmed up, shaking his arms and pacing the mat before leaning momentarily against the ropes. He had never won a bout against his father, but he had a plan this time. One that required precision and timing. It would take just three seconds to execute, creating a two-second window of opportunity.

Lorenzo watched Peter intently through his discolored gloves. With a head nod to replace the opening bell, they moved toward each other, dodging and jerking, bobbing their heads in rhythm, each trying to become an unpredictable target.

The father struck first, throwing two sharp jabs. Peter moved back, circling the ring before swinging and missing. Lorenzo seized the opening, stepping in with a powerful blow that landed squarely. Another punch knocked Peter’s smirk off his face. He raised his arms to block the onslaught and tried not to clinch. His father hated clinching.

At this point, Lorenzo was wailing on Peter. His punches landed with distinct thumps, pops, and thuds. He exhaled sharply with each one. The sound carried upstairs to the kitchen. Whenever Peter’s mother, Pam, was cooking dinner or a midday snack, she would hear those familiar rhythms. Because of how many times she had visited Lorenzo at the gym, how many matches she’d attended, how many nights she stood at the top of those basement steps listening to the two of them go at it—she could always tell how her son was doing.

She would usually interrupt after a succession of those heavy sounds, calling down with some made-up excuse. She needed help with something. Uncle Eduardo was on the phone. He was late for an important event. And whenever Peter made his way upstairs, she’d be there with a smile and a wink.

The first few times she did this, it was a needed relief, but it made Peter feel less than. His father wasn’t just a bruiser, not just a bully with gloves. He was a man trying to teach his son something the only way he knew how: through contact, through pain, through grit. There was love in the lesson—even if it was buried beneath years of silence, and sweat, and blood. And Peter felt emasculated, like he was shirking his duties as a man by having his mommy save him.

But now, he wished his mother would call. He wished he didn’t have to finish this fight. His father kept punching as Peter looked up, half-listening, hoping for any excuse to stop. When no voice came, Peter refocused, getting his head back in the game. He dodged one of his father’s familiar strikes and landed a firm punch to his face. It stopped the blow dead, like hitting a wall—but this time, it was as if Peter could hear the studs rattle, the sound of dust and drywall crumbling behind the impact.

Lorenzo stepped back, taking a moment to recover. He touched his nose with his glove, then tried to pull up his shorts, forgetting his fingers were unavailable.

Just as easily as Pam could pick out Lorenzo’s sounds from an audible lineup, so too could Peter. But Peter saw more than sounds—he saw signs. Visual cues. Subtle habits Lorenzo had developed over the years, like the way he’d touch his nose with his glove, or sometimes step his right foot just a little farther back than usual.

Right now, Peter was watching for one thing: the moment his father relaxed his guard. It happened quickly, almost imperceptibly, usually in sync with a single deep breath. And every time, it preceded one of Lorenzo’s most deceptive punches.

It never looked powerful, but it was. The way he shifted his weight and stepped into it, using the full force of his body, made it devastating. The mechanics were similar to Bruce Lee’s one-inch punch—chaining together muscle groups with perfect timing to generate explosive force. Anything in the way of that fist was bound to fall.

Peter had learned that the hard way at seventeen. He didn’t know how long he’d been out after that punch. All he remembered was coming to and seeing his mother crying over him. The only time he’d ever seen her cry. His father hadn’t stayed. He’d left Peter there on the mat and gone to the bar.

From that day on, Peter made sure to dodge whenever that punch was coming. He’d studied it endlessly—the way Lorenzo lunged and missed, the way he recoiled his arm like a tape measure snapping back. And most importantly, he studied his father’s face.

He had watched the disappointment in his eyes. They would roll back slightly and look away, and right there, between dissatisfaction and regrouping, right before his brain and body collected itself, there was a vulnerability. A lack of awareness.

But while Peter pondered, his dad sensed his lackluster focus. He had always told Peter to fully engage himself with his opponent. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking. He was supposed to be fighting.

As a lesson, Lorenzo jumped forward and began pummeling his son. Some of the hits were so hard, it made Peter’s block work against him, causing his defending arm to slam against his head, almost as if playing that cruel child’s game where the bully would say, “Stop hitting yourself.”

Lorenzo exhaled sharply as his gloves snapped against Peter. The boy looked up, half expecting his mother to call to him. He wanted to go upstairs, receive his mother's wink, and hide out in his room. That was their thing. It’s the way they dealt. It was like a little game they played. But as the punches continued, he knew his mom wouldn’t save him this time.

Peter had to bait Lorenzo. He moved away from the barrage, throwing a few quick blows of his own. Lorenzo shifted into defense, dodging and juking, reading his son like a seasoned pro.

Peter kept hopping back into a wide stance after each exchange, but he stayed just a little too far out. Lorenzo wouldn’t take the bait—not yet.

So Peter stepped in. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough to be within his father’s reach.

The old man lowered his gloves. Then lunged.

There it was.

Peter dodged, and Lorenzo missed—his punch slicing through empty air. As the old man pulled his arm back, he rolled his eyes and glanced away in frustration.

That was the moment.

The 19-year-old burst forward, aiming for the chest with surgical precision. He leaned in with his shoulder, his elbow launching his arm like rocket thrusters.

He struck—not to hit, but to break through.

It was the very lesson his father had taught him: never punch the opponent—punch through them.

Lorenzo tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t come. His knees buckled and struck the mat with a hollow thud, knocking a strained, crackling gasp from his lungs.

He reached for breath again, grasping for that invisible substance we take for granted—but his airway felt like a collapsing tunnel. Something was wrong. Deeply, fatally wrong. His vision blurred as he looked up, eyes wide, searching for help.

Peter didn’t move.

Instead of helping, Peter looked over to the one rule carved into the wood. Lorenzo turned his head to it too before looking back into Peter’s eyes. It was almost as if he knew.

Peter remembered the last night his mother called to him. He played it over and over again. How his father and he sparred that night. How he couldn’t catch his breath as his father was beating on him. How his mother called to him. The sound of her voice. Strained, sorrowful, mocking at a nonchalant urgency that never existed.

That night, Peter had stumbled upstairs, arm trembling as he clung to the rickety banister. His mother greeted him with a sandwich and a wink. He took it, then retreated to his room, just five minutes—before heading to his friend’s house.

When he came home, his mother was dead.

They said she fell down the stairs. “An accident,” they called it. But Peter had seen the bruise on her cheek—dark, swollen, unmistakably from a bare-knuckle punch. They said that wasn’t what killed her.

But Peter knew what that meant.

To them, she was Lorenzo’s property. “Them” being his father’s friends—cops, lawyers, morticians. Old-school men who believed you don’t arrest a man for breaking his own chair. And you sure as hell don’t arrest him for hitting his wife.

That very night, while Lorenzo drank at a bar, Peter went back to his friend’s house. Down in the basement was one of those freestanding arcade punching bags. He stepped up and hit it with everything he had. 740. Again—746.

He kept punching. Harder. Faster. No knife. No gun. Nothing that could be traced.

Just the same fists he used to spar with his father..

This was more than a memory to Peter. He thought about that night constantly. He dreamt about it. It wasn’t just the past—it was something that changed him into what he had become. It had led him to this moment. Standing over his lifeless father. No rules. No democracy. No back and forth. There was a problem. He didn’t use complex psychological or legislative tactics to work with the problem so that it could correct itself. He simply corrected the problem.

Peter gnawed at his gloves and let them drop next to his father. He walked past the block of wood with its carved inscription. He ascended the basement stairs, ducking the low doorway for the last time.