Muse: The Boxer and the Inn

Before the boys with cars and secrets, there was Ross — my first real crush. He was twelve, maybe thirteen, a Golden Gloves boxer with a grin that could light up the whole gym. I’d sit with his dad in the bleachers, cheering until my voice cracked, pretending I understood anything about boxing beyond the sound of the crowd and the rush in my chest every time he landed a punch.

Ross’s parents owned the local inn, and it became the weekend hangout for a group of us — a mix of kids chasing freedom and trying to feel older than we were. We’d sneak into the bar when no one was looking, giggling and pretending we belonged there. That’s where I had my first sip of liquor and smoked my first cigarette — coughing through the smoke but acting like I had it all figured out.

There were always the older kids around — only a year ahead of us, but at the time, they seemed like they’d seen the world. They were the ones who taught me how to inhale, blow rings, and yep — smoke weed. I hated it from the first time I tried it. Eventually everyone just accepted that I didn’t get high; I was just there for the laughs and the feeling of belonging. Alcohol would end up being my poison, but back then, it all just felt like part of growing up.

There were plenty of faces that drifted in and out of those nights, but Ross and Mike were the ones who felt like home base — steady, familiar, safe in their own way. I’d ride my bike five or six miles just to be part of that world, hair tangled from the wind, heart pounding with the kind of excitement that only comes from being twelve and alive and certain nothing could touch you.

Looking back now, I see how innocent it really was. There was no heartbreak yet, no double life, no shadows — just a group of kids finding their way, one summer afternoon at a time. And forty-three years later, Ross and Mike are still in my life — proof that not everything from childhood fades away. Some friendships — and a few memories — stay golden.