Title Fight

A dad's night out invitation for the evening the back lawn becomes a ring. Two corners get chalked near the fence, four lawn chairs stand in for ropes, and the cooler at the edge holds ice before it holds anything else. The gloves are sixteen-ounce and arrived in a plastic bag from the sporting goods store. The two cousins have been talking about this since a cookout in June.

The bell is a phone timer, held by whoever is least invested in the outcome. The first round is long. The second round is ninety seconds of two grown men breathing. Then the belt goes over somebody's shoulder, the grill gets lit, and the man holding the ice pack explains what he would have done differently, at length, until dark.