Born and raised in a USA Pacific Northwest rural setting, I learned a blend of seafaring and logging toughness balanced out by a heavy dose of positive thinking and a passed-along patchwork of New Age healing practices. My family drew a line between those addicted to bad behavior and those who win by working hard to establish success in a rural setting. Wall Street was never in the picture.
The seafarers of old gathered in the pubs when they got to shore, mingling with the logger types, and fights broke out, fueled by quarrels over women and manly status. When I entered the scene in 2006, fisticuffs were not in my Youth Training Package, and it makes sense that I knocked on the pugilistic doors for access to ancestral knowledge.
Lance and I took boxing lessons from an old guy in a cottage across from the High School, and everyone noticed the changes in our bodies. We had genuine swag, not a flimsy Confidence Cover many teens use. We trained to exchange blows, defend, deflect, and score, and other guys approached us wanting to box, too. One night, after we hit the punching bag around some and shadowboxed in the mirror, we swapped some ideas and came up with Fights At The Fairground. We would organize the event, facilitate matches, and get others to help set up, break down, referee, and blend with the crowd.
