fight game

My boy likes to play "fight game," holding his fists, turned sideways, in front of his chest. He punches and exaggerates the follow-through while making "pow-pow" sound effects. He landed several on my chest, hard, short, chops, but then hit me in the mouth. It wasn't that hard, but it caught my attention. My lips were slightly parted, teeth 1/4" apart, but the blow forced both shut.
He then fell to the ground, in slow motion, reaching behind him making sure he wasn't falling on anything. He stretched himself out on the floor, eyes closed, mouth open, out for the count. The slow fall wasn't for dramatic effect, he's just careful about not laying on top of anything, not wanting to hurt himself. He does the same thing when he throws a fit, carefully making sure the floor is clear of any debris before he throws himself down.
I was reminded of my father, of when I was in my teens and we would fight. Or rather, when he would hit me and I would stand there, taking the blows. Was he trying to get my attention, trying to teach my a lesson, or just lashing out at my apathy?
A quick backhand to the mouth, full of braces, was enough to bring my attention into full focus. If he hit me hard enough, there would be a moment when all consciousness was centered in my lips, then my teeth. The taste of blood mixed with a burnt taste toward the back of the tongue. A hard blow to the nose would fill my mouth with that burnt, spent taste--oxygen gone bad, forced into the recesses of the mind.
Face shots were usually open-handed, but body shots were closed-fist, in the back, the kidneys, the gut. A hard punch to the mid-section would knock the wind out, doubling me over from the lack of air, the pain in some unseen part of my anatomy. I don't know what he hit, but damn it hurt.
The boy has always been solid, big for his age, physical. He wrestles and tackles and now punches. He throws a basketball with his whole body, throws like nobody's business. He used to throw his empty bottles at us, hit my wife and I in the head a couple of times, before we broke him of that habit.
I don"t know where he learned this new game--if he saw it on t.v. or if one of his uncles or siblings taught him how to punch. He has been mimicking everything he sees and hears, dancing, singing, fighting, and playing, copying the physical and the vocal.
This boy is fearless, so unlike my wife and I at times. His physicality, even at this early age amazes us both. He is very headstrong and self-centered, though at his age, I'd worry if he wasn't. Strangers have commented that he is a charmer, but also a "taker" as someone put it.
This stranger went on to explain that there are takers and givers in this world, and that my son was definitely a taker. I never heard those terms before, but it's probably some new age psycho-babble that Oprah featured on her show recently.
I can see why someone would categorize him as such, but he was born into a family of givers. This one won"t give and it might have worried me 5, 10 years ago, but it doesn't really now. I'll love him no matter what, and I'll learn to love a taker, because he's my son. But who he is, the person I see him becoming, is still lovable, despite whatever direction he may choose to take in his life.
This child that is me, but beyond me, will take his fight game out into the world someday soon. He and I won't have the same problems my father and I had---I was too timid to know what I wanted. He'll know and he'll tell me, without much fanfare. This giver was by no means innocent, probably deserved most of the smacks, slaps and punches through the years. And on some level, I kept prodding and pushing my father to react the way he did, as some sort of moral victory over him.
No such games do I see with this little one, but who is to say which route is better or worse? My father, my father's father---we were all givers, reluctantly, wishing we were something else. This son of mine will be what he is, with no apologies to anyone.