A Quote by Fabio Gatti

I don't know how my mother did it, but I had boxing gloves on my hands when I was born! — © Fabio Gatti
I don't know how my mother did it, but I had boxing gloves on my hands when I was born!
My mother gave me boxing gloves; I wanted boxing gloves. I liked to box. So I still have them. They're still in my bookcase, very old, tattered, and they were cherished.
There's a family tradition of fighting in the Kansas City Golden Gloves. My older brother, Tim, did, and so did my father's two youngest brothers, Trent and Troy. They all won the Golden Gloves. So when my mother asked me to keep the tradition going, I did.
I was a gorilla boxer. I had a full gorilla suit on with boxing gloves. I had an amateur belt on. No one knew that it was me in the costume and I was going into stores and scaring people and boxing on them. It was fun.
The brutalities of a fight with bare hands, the crushed nasal bones, maimed lips, and other disfigurements, which call for the utter abolition of boxing in the interests of humanity, at once disappear when the contestants cover their hands with large, soft-leather gloves.
I have so many boxing gloves around my house that I would get them confused with other gloves.
My father went to college for drama in Pittsburgh, and so did my mother, and then my mother was a steadily working New York theater actress. They kind of quit when I was born. They did that for, like, 10 years before they had kids and then I was born and they were not into that lifestyle for kids.
For some reason, I was drawn towards boxing. Or maybe boxing drew me towards it - because once I put those gloves on, after about six months, boxing was my life.
I tried the gloves on, and it just felt so natural. From that moment I became so embedded in boxing. I found a friend in boxing.
I do wear gloves for things that sting a lot or prick a lot. But I just like to feel with my hands. I find gloves cumbersome and uncomfortable and I've got tough old hands so the old cut doesn't matter.
My dad loves boxing, so he used to hold up his hands when we were little kids, and we would punch his hands, and he slowly got us little gloves, and little punching bags that he'd always hold for us.
I've had boxing gloves on since before I could walk and been in gyms all of my life.
I'm getting asked a lot, 'You don't have kids, so how do you know how to act like a mother?' I know nothing could compare, and I haven't had that experience, but when my niece was born, I felt like I would jump in front of a car and die for this little person I didn't even know yet.
I actually study boxing - my dad was a Golden Gloves champion so I learned how to fight at a very young age. Growing up in Brooklyn you always had to watch your back, so I pretty much learned to protect myself.
If your mother did not know how to love herself, or your father did not know how to love himself, then it would be impossible for them to teach you to love yourself. They were doing the best they could with what they had been taught as children.
'Who was your mother?' 'Never had none!' said the child, with another grin. 'Never had any mother? What do you mean? Where were you born?' 'Never was born!' 'Do you know who made you?' 'Nobody, as I knows on,' said the child, with a short laugh. . . . 'I 'spect I grow'd.'
All of my life had been spent in the shadow of apartheid. And when South Africa went through its extraordinary change in 1994, it was like having spent a lifetime in a boxing ring with an opponent and suddenly finding yourself in that boxing ring with nobody else and realising you've to take the gloves off and get out, and reinvent yourself.
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