“No, Dad, no!” I screamed while my brother, tenacious as fuck, pummeled him from behind till Dad swatted him onto his ass. The Claw! With fingers splayed, he grabbed my chest, digging into the flesh as if he could rip out the heart, still beating. My mom, dishes done, passing us on her way up the stairs, would chastise him.

I was sure my insides were going to come out of my mouth or into my pants. The Scissors! Lying on his side with me between his thighs, he squeezed downward, crushing me in the middle. My dad, on his knees in sweats, gigantic mitts at his side, had a variety of assaults, which he would announce with monstrous growls. Swarm, then clasp our tiny bodies to his great one, hoping to drag him to the ground with our weight. In our corner at the foot of the steps, my brother and I would huddle, ready to rush him. But occasionally, according to some calendar our childish minds couldn’t fathom, he agreed, and we’d take up position in the living room. Most evenings he said no, choosing instead to do push-ups and sit-ups or, more often than not, watch the news. My family ate dinner early, and when I was about 8 and my brother 4, we would beg Dad to wrestle after we cleared our plates. Hugs were scarce, and cuddles not an option for “big boys.” When I was a child, it seemed my dad only touched to hurt. Brian Gresko | Longreads | June 2018 | 14 minutes (3,488 words)