Every morning when I wake my 1-year-old by putting his little head in a sleeper hold. When, and if, he struggles free he has earned his breakfast of Cheerios. Throughout the day, as he toddles here and there looking for his Elmo toy, I sporadically pop out him and deliver a roundhouse kick, which he is finally able to deflect consistently. Don’t tell my wife, but I have Dalton signed up in an underground baby fighting ring. I know it’s wrong and sending him a bad message, but I swear the gambling we do on the fights is just to keep it interesting. At night I put him to sleep by whispering gently, “Sweep the leg, Johnny! Sweep the leg.” I want to raise my son not only as a fighter, but a dirty fighter. The day he grows stealthy enough to stab me in the back is the day I’ll know my boy has become a man.
Though I am training my boy to be a fighting machine, these British people have topped me, because they have their kids kickboxing each other...
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