Brandon Thomas was a teenager when he got into boxing, training up to five days a week even as he grew older. His mother, Theresa Thomas, recalls heading to gymnasium in New Jersey, the way its atmosphere hung heavy with the smell of stale sweat and the silent intensity of the impending match.
When her son stepped into the ring, he puffed out his chest with his chin held high, confident and swaggering.
As soon as the match began, she was blown away. Brandon won, which shouldn’t have been a surprise since he did it often, but Theresa left that match with her chin held high too. “It touched my heart because I didn’t know he was that good. I felt proud.”
Despite his intensity in the ring, he was gentle at home, with an easy smile and his infectious laugh. It was one of those that could warm a room, inviting and happily disarming, Theresa says. She sometimes catches herself wanting to call out “Hi, Brandon!” when she opens her front door.
He had been living with her when he told her on October 8, 2022, that he was going to the grocery store and would be back soon. He hugged her goodbye, as he often did, with the casual kindness of someone with an overabundance of love to give.
Brandon was always someone with a lot of love to give, especially for his family, and especially for his mom (momma love he called it—“I need some momma love right now”).
Later that night, Brandon was shot on 800 East Price Street in East Germantown. The violence was rumored to have been the fallout of an argument between Brandon and an acquaintance over something Theresa described as “small” and “not worth it.” Police rushed Brandon to Einstein Medical Center where he later died. He was 24 years old.
To his mother, Brandon was a “good little boy” in his youth who “always had a smile.” To his neighbors, he might have been the happy kid running around the block and messing around with friends, but always on the quieter side. Everyone knew him as someone who was sincerely genuine.
He attended Martin Luther King High School in East Germantown and afterwards became involved in the Job Corps. He excelled in both math and reading and was working hard after a brief incarceration to remake his life. His sister, Latiafha Thomas, says he had just landed a job in the week before he was shot.
Brandon was close with all his siblings, a bond encouraged by their mother. Theresa knows he would have “given his shirt to any of them.”
Latiafha, the oldest of the Thomas clan, considered him her best friend. She often compared him to Roscoe, the lovable, snotty nosed kid from the television series, “Martin.” He was pestering at times but he made her laugh, and although she was older, Latiafha considered him her “big little brother.” Like Theresa, Latiafha was always confident he would be there to stand up for her or any of the siblings if they needed it.
“I just wish I could hold him in my arms again,” his mother says.
She misses being able to tell if he was coming or going because of how hard he slammed the door. She misses these signs, no matter how small, of him being there, with her.
In her basement, too, she has all his old boxing trophies and medals. They sit in an untouched lineup, a shrine to the hard work, the grit and the passion of her late son.
He is survived and remembered by the family he cared so thoughtfully for in his lifetime. His survivors include Theresa, Latiafha, and siblings, Tamaya, Christiana, Brianna, and Christian Thomas, among others.
On Brandon’s birthday, July 16, his first one gone, Theresa reflected on the needlessness of the shooting. “I would advise young people that life is too short, you don’t have the time for any of that, because, you know, he was just a sweet person. You wouldn’t have thought what happened would happen to him. It was an argument that went too far. We are still grieving.”
Resources are available for people and communities that have endured gun violence in Philadelphia. Click here for more information.
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