Gymnanigans

     Being an identical twin often made it easy to freak or fake people out, especially upon first meeting us when it was harder for them to tell us apart. People often stopped in their tracks to peer and point, tilting their heads quizzically at us with bemused looks on their faces. Once in a while, we pulled pranks intentionally, like the time we signed up for the gym's semiannual boxing smoker.

          Naturally, they put us in the same division, and we ended up boxing each other in the first round. We had no idea what we were doing. For three minutes we bounced around the ring swiping and slugging away at each other with equal abandon.

     At one point in the single-round bout, as I pushed and punched Mars towards the ropes, he lost his footing and fell down backwards onto the canvas, landing nimbly on one knee. This made the near-capacity crowd watching from the bleachers roar with excitement.

     It must've impressed the judges too, as right after the fight they declared me the winner. Standing face-to-face in the middle of the ring, they announced my name, and the referee raised my gloved right hand up into the air. I'd beaten my twin in the sport of boxing!

     Marshall had always been better than me at sport. Six or so years earlier, while living in Anchorage, Alaska, our parents had taken us up to the Arctic Valley Ski Area for lessons at the tender age of seven. When we were 10, Mars got the chance to compete in one of the youth league's giant slalom races.

     In the shadow of his stouthearted fearlessness, I chickened out and passed on the opportunity to compete alongside him. The steepness of the slope and the size of the moguls scared me; but mostly, I was afraid to lose against him.

     Mars raced only one time. And as I watched him from the finish line at the bottom of the hill my soul soared with awestruck delight at the very sight of him coming down the mountain. He was fearless, deftly crisscrossing the moguls and flying past the poles with reckless yet masterful exuberance.

     His time, however, reflected a less triumphant result: a fourth-place finish that failed to qualify him for the next round. And as fate would have it, Mars was forced to retire his junior ski helmet after just a single race. That summer our family moved back to San Diego, and just like that whatever shot Mars and I had at developing from a young age into world class alpine racers flew right out the ski lodge window.

     And just like that slalom slope high up in Arctic Valley, I chickened out about going back into the ring to face my next and final opponent. As it turned out, Tony, a 12th-grade bully with a mean streak, was the only other boxer in our division that day.

     At some point before stepping into the ring against Tony, I asked Mars to follow me into the men's locker room. When there was no one else around, I pleaded with Mars to take my place in the fight.

     "I don't want to fight him," I sighed plaintively. "Will you go in the ring for me?"

     "Sure," Mars said without hesitation. We quickly switched the clothes we had on that day—gym shorts and American football jerseys—and returned to the noisy, jam-packed bleachers.

     No one had a clue. Mars stepped up into that ring wearing my favorite No. 77 football jersey to face a kid with a big chip on his shoulder and a barrage of boxing skills to go along with it.

     Mars got licked up pretty good. Tony was bigger, stronger, and had learned how to throw a punch without pulling it. The crowd went wild for the one-sided scuffle, with Tony manhandling Mars like a punching bag all around the ring for about two minutes before they stopped the fight.

     Mars climbed out of the ring and walked over to me with a big frown on his face. "That guy's too tough," he said. "I never had a chance."

     "Nice fight, twin!" one of the spectators sitting behind us exclaimed. "Don't worry, you'll get him next time." We looked at each other thinking the same thing: there won't be a next time.

     Mars sat down next to me, in the front row of the bleachers just below the ring, and together we watched, mesmerized, the remaining bouts, including a main event between two heavyweights that sent the rambunctious crowd into a dizzying, uproarious frenzy.

     I glanced at my twin brother's face many times during the fights, marveling at his gutsiness, his willingness to take my place against an opponent I was too scared to face.

     I doubt it ever occurred to him to question or complain about my cowardice. I felt relieved and grateful for the fact that he never got mad at me for asking him to face Tony in the ring that day.

     That was Mars. My best friend, and the toughest 13-year-old I ever met.