Punch, Umaru! Punch!

I

 "Hhnph! Hhnph!" That was the sound my mouth made as I'd breathe when hitting the bag with all of my strength. It was black and had a "Tapout" logo on the front with "Mixed Martial Arts" on the back. It weighed a good hundred or so pounds. It was a real pro-grade training bag I've had for as long as I can remember. My father bought it for me when I was but a young lad. As a child, I was small; not only in stature, but also in weight. That, mixed with me being an outcast, led to me being bullied and picked on most of my young life. I never told my father about it. He was a scary man. He stood at about six foot, six inches, and weighed around two hundred-sixty or so pounds. That alone was relatively scary, but what was scarier was that it was all muscle. My father used to be a rather famous mixed martial artist. That had led us to be set for life. Well, him for life. He always believed that a person should make their own living and if his kid was spoiled, they would never understand the true price of a dollar. It was understandable, though not my first choice as to how I was raised. He always told me, "Justin, you need to understand that everything I have, is from hard work. You too will need to learn what hard work is, if you want to get to this point." So I could never really go to him about anything. Me and my father were always distant from each other. I was always closer to my mom which is why, when they got divorced, I chose to go with her and away from my father. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't hate the guy, I just strongly dislike him compared to my mother. She was more caring and it felt as if I could actually talk to her if I needed her. She was always there when I needed her. My father was always more focused on work, or other things, other than me. The only thing I even remember him getting me was the punching bag. After I had got into my first fight, I was beaten up badly. I had a broken nose, a black eye, a busted lip, and a chipped tooth. My mother cared over me as I recovered, and my father, for once, seemed to actually care, though, in a different way. He seemed upset that I didn't try to defend myself. "WHY DIDN'T YOU FIGHT HIM OFF?!" he had screamed. I began sobbing. "STOP CRYING. YOU'RE A MAN, AREN'T YOU?" I didn't know how to respond. He was always calm and uncaring. Laid back, unwillful to care. This was an all new side of him. Something I had never seen before. His seized up expression scared me to a new level. He lifted his open hand, held it in the air with force pulsing through it for a second, before folding it into a fist and striking me directly in the face, leaving a scar which will now never go away. This defining moment left a pure, unadulterated dislike for my father in my heart. At this time, I was about ten or so. My parents didn't get divorced until my seventeenth birthday. That was the best gift I could have gotten; away from my father.