text: 8 pounds 3 ounces. At least that’s what the birth certificate said. But I have a feeling that could’ve been wrong. I mean, the nurse had already messed up my name so I wouldn’t put it passed her. Instead of ‘Jon Tranton’ she decided my name would look better with an ‘h’ shoved into the first half. So now, on this piece of paper that’s supposed to set up the rest of my life with all this hope and potential, there’s an ‘h’ crossed out by the red pen my dad had in his pocket that day. There are a lot of things I wish I could cross out so I guess an ‘h’ on a silly piece of paper seems pretty inconsequential, but still, I’ve always thought it represented how my life has panned out pretty well. 47 pounds. Just 3 pounds shy of the little league weight cut off for that year. I had played catch all summer with my dad in preparation for the new season. He even got me a new glove. Taught me how to break it in with shaving cream and everything. I went home crying that day. My dad wrote a letter to some league officials, but nothing ever came of it. 78 pounds. I was at this amusement park not too far from home. It was that kind of park that looked like it was from late 1800s. Everything was wood. Even the rides were wood. They had to weigh you to see where on the cart they would put you. I was pretty small for a 6th grader so I had to sit next to Jim Morrison. Not Jim Morrison from the Doors, I think he was dead by then, but there was this 8th grader named Jim Morrison. I remember he was so fat that his belly kept creeping out of the bottom of his shirt. He smelled like some sort of cheese. I remember thinking brie, but I doubt it was brie. 105 pounds. The doctor needed to take some measurements before giving me the anesthesia. I remember thinking that he had taken my weight wrong or that he would give me too much by accident. Something like that. I just remember thinking I wouldn’t wake up. But after I started counting backwards from ten, I think I got to six, I woke up with one less appendix than I went to sleep with. 121 pounds. I remember my coach asking me to put on some weight for the upcoming match in Milwaukee, but by weigh in, I had actually lost a pound. I had only been boxing for a few months by then, but I was pretty good. I had won 3 of my 4 fights. The kids on my team used to call me “Jon the Lionheart” because I never got tired. I’m not so sure why they chose ‘Lionheart’, but I guess it sounded pretty cool. I went up against this guy from South Florida. Probably Cuban. He was a little shorter than me, but stocky. I remember when I met him I could see the top of his head. He had buzzed hair and a long scar that went from the back of his right ear up to his hair line. I asked him how he got it, but he didn’t speak English. 12 minutes later he punched me so hard I felt one of my molars fall loose in the back of my mouth. 172 pounds. A pretty late growth spurt junior year. Almost 4 inches. I jumped 3 weight divisions. I was fighting at a tournament near Chicago. I remember looking at my first opponent, he was big guy, but you could tell it was mostly fat. I thought I would dance circles around him. When we stepped into the ring he had that sort of scowl that some fighters put on to intimidate their opponents. It didn’t work. I caught him with a right hook under his jaw 17 seconds into the fight. He dropped like a stone. Hit the floor so hard I thought it was going to cave in. My next fight was the following day. I went against this guy I had fought before, but now, he had a snake tattoo wrapped around his arm. I had beaten him before so I wasn’t too worried, but at the start of the second round, I started feeling tired. I didn’t usually get tired. He won by split decision at the end. He probably deserved it, but I remember getting really pissed. 168 pounds. I had been coughing for some weeks. I had to wear one of those masks you always see people from Asia wearing. I heard that they wear the masks there to protect from all the smog and pollution. But then why do they still wear them when they come over here? I think that theory’s full of shit. I think they’re just scared of getting sick. I think everyone’s scared of getting sick. I know was scared of getting sick. 160 pounds. The doctors called it acute granulocytic leukemia. I must’ve had it for months before going in for a checkup. I knew I was losing weight, but I figured it was just from some combination of stress and boxing. I remember sitting in the waiting room watching a mom try to corral her twin daughters. They were playing with some toys that were put out for them. I remember a doctor opened the door and walked into the waiting room without taking his eyes off his clipboard. He called my name and when I responded he looked up. His eyes sort of widened out of shock. He told me I looked much thinner than I had the last time I was in there. I told him I knew that. 145 pounds. I hadn’t been that thin in years. When I bent over, you could see the outline of my ribs through the back side of my shirt. I’d been told the chemo was working. It didn’t feel like the chemo was working. I stopped boxing after the diagnosis, but I asked my coach if I could still come to practice. I just wanted to be around it. He let me come a few times, but after he caught me crying in the corner he told me he thought it would be for the best if I stayed home for a while. I stayed home for a while. 140 pounds. The doctors said they had never seen a faster remission. I was cancer free. I still am, for now. I let my coach know and basically begged to be let back on the team, but he insisted I waited until the next year. I was still so frail. Sometimes I traced my cheekbones with my fingers. My little sister said I looked like a skeleton. Not like a scary skeleton though. My coach did invite me to the next tournament, just to sit ringside, but that was enough for me. I half expected it to be some sort of packed super-stadium celebrating the return of a fallen boxer, but it was just an ordinary high school boxing event. I don’t much remember watching the fights. I think one of my teammates ended up third overall, but not much else. I do remember seeing someone though. That Cuban guy I fought a few years earlier. He was sitting across the gym, behind one of the rings set up near the back. I started walking over to him. I wanted to catch up. I never got to congratulate him on knocking one of my teeth out. But once I got close enough, I could see he was sitting in a wheel chair. I figured he had hurt his legs somehow. That stuff sometimes happens if you get knocked out and fall in a weird way. I couldn’t quite remember his name so I just yelled out “Hey man!” expecting him and only him to turn around, but almost everyone, including 2 of the judges, turned my way. He did turn around though. Well, kind of. His neck seemed to strain while the rest of his body stayed absolutely still. I knew pretty much immediately he hadn’t hurt his legs. I read about some kid who had to be sent to the hospital from being hit so hard. The story didn’t really give anything away, but I’d put my money on this being that kid. I wanted to ask him what had happened. I wanted to tell him what I’d gone through. How I’d been out of boxing for a while. How I was hoping to get back in the ring as soon as I could. How I could relate to the struggle of not being able to do what you love. How it feels to have your body fucking destroy itself. But then I remembered he didn’t speak English. So, I just nodded and waved. And he just nodded. I went back to where my team had been and sat down for a while. I started thinking about everything. About how I was the kid who got cancer and how, somehow, I was still the lucky one. 152 pounds. I never did get back into boxing. I’m feeling better now, but I think that part of my life’s done. Sometimes I think about that Cuban kid. Sometimes I remember how much it hurt when he hit me in the face and sometimes I try to imagine how much more it must’ve hurt when he got hit. I wish I got his name. I bet at least his birth certificate doesn’t have some stupid crossed out h. But then again, I guess I’d rather have that.