I’m Still Seventeen

Written by Peter Wood:

There’s no more fighting,
at least in the ring.
And no more punching,
and that’s a good thing.

There’s no more anger
and no more pain,
I punched it all out
of my battered brain.

And what a relief
I have to admit,
I hated the grief
of getting hit.

A boy in the past,
inside of the ropes,
his blood ran fast
with burning hopes.

He lived his young life
inside the ring.
It was worth the strife,
and worth the sting.

Punching out anger
and coming out clean,
soaking in sweat–
I was seventeen.

My punch is still strong,
my hook still cracks,
but when life goes wrong
I’ll never go back.

To step in the ring
and punch someone’s head?
Why would I cling
to a me that’s dead?

The air of the past
is old and stale,
I would never last,
I’m old and frail.

A paper tiger
is what I am,
a former fighter,
soft as a lamb.

Boxing’s a game,
ugly and pretty,
it’s tough and tame,
sublime and gritty.

I still dream about
the boys I’ve beaten,
and try to forget
the punches I’ve eaten.

There’s no meaning
to it anymore,
but I’m stuck back there
in yesterday’s war.

I sit on a chair
and watch TV,
who’s ever fighting–
I only see me.

I watch the fighters
and I bob my head,
I’m thankful to God
that it’s them instead.

I bob my head
as they get hit.
The danger is gone
and I safely sit.

I was tough back then
but not so much now.
I’d do it again
but wouldn’t know how.

I look in the mirror,
my face is still lean,
my old nose is straight,
And I’m still seventeen.

(Peter Wood was a 1971 NYC Middleweight Golden Gloves Finalist and was selected to represent America in the 1976 Maccabian Games held in Tel Aviv, Israel.)