It had to stop!

I was close to 16 years old. My friend Tyson and I were pretty good friends. Tyson and his brother Mike were both fighters.

My stepdad Dick had been beating on me and abusing me. He was making my life pure hell. It wasn't just physical abuse but mental and emotional as well.

No one really liked Dick. Even my grandmother, who was my earth angel, the most heavenly, soft-spoken, compassionate person in the world, didn't even like him.

My grandma did say at one point, and I quote, "Someone needs to beat the shit out of Dick!"

Now, Dick and my mom always accused me of just running the streets and doing drugs. Someone had to take the brunt of the abuse, and it was me.

My friends Mike and Tyson invited me to the boxing gym. Back then, it was called the 6th Street Boxing Club.

When I walked through the doors of that boxing club, it was the perfect place for me to be. The coaches were mesmerized.

They wanted to know where I had boxed before. They said that no one comes into their gym with that kind of talent. I told them that I had never boxed before.

The truth of the matter is, all those Tuesday night dates with my grandpa watching the Tuesday night fights were more than that.

I would get up in Grandpa's living room, and I would try to imitate the boxers. Grandpa would allow it, and he would also correct me.

In the sport of boxing, shadow boxing is some of the best training and experience you can get. I think it was my third time at the boxing gym; I was sparring with what would be some of St. Joseph's prize fighters.

Not only did I have raw, natural talent, but I also had rage in my soul. Boxing was a perfect sport for me. I learned to defend myself while also legally hurting people.

My stepdad Dick always thought I was out running the streets. He would talk trash to my grandparents about me running the streets and being a drug-sucking loser.

A couple of months into boxing, I knew what I was capable of. I got back to their house one evening, and my stepdad Dick, like many times before, came charging at me.

This time, I let my hands go. His eyes were swollen shut. His nose was shattered. He could not talk or eat for a few days. The poor bastard even missed a couple of days of work.

This would be the last time anyone has ever put a hand on me. He thought I was running the streets. I was running circles in the boxing ring.

We beat the shit out of him, Grandma!