The Guy in the Red Gloves

                                  The Guy in the Red Gloves

                                A Short Story by Frank Sperry

         My grandfather wasn’t a violent man so I never really understood why he always watched the Friday Night Fights on television. He was probably too old to be violent, and I was only seven so I must have been too young. First grade wasn’t a violent place. Whatever the reason we always watched those boxing matches together every Friday night.
         Even before the bell would ring to let you know the first round was over he always made a prediction. He always told me “ I bet the guy in the red gloves will win.” I always looked at him and said “Grandpop, both guys are wearing red gloves.” Once I remember I tried to sound as smart as I knew he was and I told him “ I think the guy in the white shoes will win.” He winked at me to let me know I was on the road to becoming as wise as he was. Both guys were wearing white shoes.
         His favorite boxer was a guy named Mike Tyson, until they sent that guy to jail because they said he hurt some lady. Before that he always won every fight no matter what color gloves he wore. After that when he got out of jail and went back to fighting guys instead of girls, I noticed he always wore black shoes with no socks, and no one, not even my grandfather, could count on him to win every time he boxed. Jail must do something to make you different. My Grandfather said that was true; he said jail usually makes bad guys badder.
         One time there was a boxer who wanted to become a champion but the other guy hit him too many times on his head, and they had to take him to the hospital in an ambulance. The next day the Sport Section of our newspaper said the guy died. My grandfather never watched the boxing matches after that. I felt sorry for that guy, and for his grandfather if he had one. I felt sorry that that guy was still very young but old enough to be a boxer, and not young enough to be in first grade with me.
         We lived in Philadelphia back in those days and every summer my grandfather and our family went to a place near the Ocean called Margate City, which was right next to Atlantic City, where some guy named Donald built a lot of tall buildings where people went on their vacation to gamble. My grandfather never went to those tall buildings. Neither did I, even after I was old enough to get in if I wanted to. I learned when I was in first grade that you can never be sure about the next day or even the next minute, because unless you’re God, you can never be sure what’s going to happen before it happens, not even when you can see if everyone is wearing the same colored gloves and shoes.