Thanksgiving Wrestling

My dad was a famous wrestler in Iran. He never failed to demonstrate this to me. All it took was a little goading. Maybe, a slight shove before he grabbed me, shouted PUSH! PULL! and knocked me on my ass.

In order to compensate for his incredible skill and speed, I'd stand 3 feet away from him during any wrestling extravaganza. If he got too close, I'd punch him in the face. He hated that. I got a mean fist, and it does me justice.

"Shahin, quick!" he'd shout. "Get me ice."

So ended our wresting moments. My youngest brother is not as bright though. He still thinks size makes a difference in a wrestling match.

"I can beat you now, Dad," he says. "You're so little."

My brother flexes his 300 pound, 6' 2" frame, and waits for my dad to take the bait. I can even see him pull his fists up unconsciously. He's ready. At least he thinks he is. My dad snaps his arms together with one hand, and pops them forward and up into his face.

"Ow, Dad!" my brother shouts. "You got me in my eye."

"Panauh, you don't realize," my dad smiles. "I reserve 1/3 of my power for God."

I laugh for a while. All the way back to 1952. This male thing of hurting one another, when hugs can't make it through.

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