It was a beautiful spring day in Riverton where I first lived in this life. A knock came to the front door of our very humble home, which was next door to my grandparents. It was my next-door neighbor, who proceeded to invite me to attend my first-ever birthday party. My family had very little money, and the idea of a birthday party was thrilling. It was right in the middle of the great polio scare, and nobody knew exactly what caused it. My cousin one house away lived his early life confined in an iron lung as they called it.
It was designed to help him breathe and stay alive. It scared most of us to death not knowing whether we would be next to contract the disease. In spite of the fear that lingered, we all went to the elementary school and had our polio shots, complete with a big pink rabbit painted on our arm where the long needle was inserted.
We walked out feeling a little safer and ready to go to the big birthday bash. My neighbor had invited a young, little-known boxer from the town just down the road, West Jordan, to be the guest of honor.
One of the great thrills of my early life was about to take place, even though I had no idea it was coming. The birthday boy called the party to order and all of us guests lined up for a magical moment in time. The West Jordan guest of honor stood to speak and explained that he was going to give anyone a terrific prize if they could make him flinch by hitting him in the stomach.
I was a pretty big lad and had no fear of anything at that age. One by one everyone stepped up and launched a great punch to his mid-section. The young fighter did not exhibit as much as a twitch. He was carved out of stone, or so it seemed. I stepped up with my one chance to take on the champ and I did my best to blast forward. It was with great pain that I found myself mystified at what in the world could make this man feel like steel.
