Under a ripe night sky, my dad and I ended up at an obscure Mexican restaurant. It sat on the edge of a lonely shopping center that was lost deep inside a broken down neighborhood. The small block had seen better days. The parking lot, even in such darkness, lost its black color to layers of dust and strands of tissue paper littered across the area. The lines marking each parking space seemed to have been swallowed by potholes bigger than my head.
The restaurant’s exterior looked slightly better than its surroundings, but its mute, gray paint drowned any sort of appealing factor. It bordered two sides of the parking lot in an L-shape and tightly squishing some of the businesses together. Despite its flaws, I was truly appreciative to finally find a place to watch the boxing match of the summer. It was also the first time my dad and I were doing something alone together.
We had parked on the opposite side of the restaurant to avoid the unnecessary traffic after the match. As we made our way to the entrance I noticed two security guards, each standing in front of one door. Their uniforms seemed too big for them and I wondered if they had ever worked as security guards before. The shorter, pudgy guard with a thin black mustache opened the door, and I hesitantly walked in first.
The inside of the restaurant was bigger than the outside made it seem. There were booths lining the walls and tables in every spot possible. Nothing in the room matched, but it wasn’t all bad. Traditional Mexican decor was splashed around the restaurant with bright, festive colors that jumped out and grabbed your eyes. The waitresses, who were speeding around tables and dodging small children, wore the same bright colors with complementary smiles warm enough to remind anyone of the old villages in Mexico.
A young waitress led us to a small table by the bar, it was one of the last tables open. Had we arrived a few minutes later, we wouldn’t have found space here either. After ordering a couple of beers, I looked around and noticed all of the families that were here to watch the match. Then I looked at my dad. I really looked at him, for the first time in a long while. His face had changed—there were wrinkles in new places; the skin under his eyes seemed to carry more weight and drooped a little more.
He seemed better though. Humans tend to fear aging, but looking at my dad I saw pride in the hardness that replaced the softer skin of youth. There in his hands I could read all the experiences that had grazed his body, and although he seemed to be falling under gravity’s influence, his shoulders were straight, his chest proud and strong.
Ding, ding, ding!
Before I knew it, the match had commenced and people were immediately at the edges of their seats with their chins propped up under tense arms. I watched the two fighters begin to size each other up on the TV screen closest to me. The chants of many people could be heard, making the ring tremble as it moved up the feet and into the hearts of the two men who held the pride of a whole nation on their shoulders. Every muscle in their bodies seemed to shine with sweat under the spotlights, expanding like a bull’s heaving chest.
Suddenly, my dad slammed his fist on the small wooden table we were seated at. Round six and the budding Mexican fighter seemed to be struggling. Each punch caught air and nothing more.
“He’s too nervous,” my dad said. “That’s the problem with young people. So much energy but they want to waste it all in one take.”
I laughed—I’d heard that plenty of times throughout my years. Sometimes it was directed at me or my brother, but most times it came I the form of a soft exhale that wasn’t meant to escape his lips. I knew it was just his way of giving a bit more of himself to us.
Round 10 began and the restaurant began to expand with heavy curses and restless feet. The Mexican fighter had managed only a handful of direct hits, while the U.S. fighter, with grace from years of experience and gained wisdom, punched with the accuracy of a mighty lion. After the 12th round, the young fawn fell short and lost.
Most of the families began to leave with deflated hope, but I felt something warm lingering. It could’ve been the alcohol, but then my eyes caught my dad’s gaze.
“You know, you’re allowed to make mistakes,” he said. “Cheers!”
He called the waitress and ordered two more beers.
