Cornered
Soundless, focused and slightly enraged, he sat, engulfing the chair and awaiting the firm yet gentle, quick but wise hands of his devoted coach. His mouth-guard was pulled from his mouth, water squirted at his lips, Vaseline smoothed over his cut eyebrow and words of wisdom were spoken at him but drowned out by the crowd’s elation. Red had been his lucky corner but looking through the white haze in his eyes, he could have been in the blue corner, no, red. Colour could afford not to be noticed as long as he was quick to avoid the weighty bags thrust into his head and body over the course of the evening. He didn’t have to think too much as his grueling training had made blocking and attacking come as subconsciously as flicking the indicator when he drove.
Several rounds had passed and the breaks between rounds grew faster and faster. Like poetry his mouth-guard was eased into his gripping teeth; those quick, wise hands encouraged his cheeks and shoulders, moving in time with the coach’s mouth. He heard only a blurred silence, grew from his seat to his standing position and a bell groaned twice from near the ring. Clenching his fists and hammering his gloves together in a clap, it was surprising that his own hands weren’t crushed. Each glove containing five robust logs decorated with their knots, twists and wear of time. Between the canvas floor and the bottom rope he saw the face of his newborn child with its newborn fingers and nose, oblivious to the pain and suffering that could be felt. He promised his girlfriend that the fights would stop once the baby was born and this was to be his last fight, much to the promoters’ disappointment.
Those close enough to the ring could hear the snapping slaps being exchanged and those who were even closer could hear both fighters breathing bullets with each sudden movement. With both fighters slowing and tiring at a similar pace, fists became heavy and found it harder to find their target. Their feet stamped slowly towards each other and both fighters embraced, their fatigue pushing each chin onto the others shoulders. They continued to push their gloves intermittently into each other during this time and the referee quickly pulled them apart.
Looking down toward his girlfriend for inspiration through his narrow, swollen eyelids, he saw a person with a baby and assumed it must be her. It wasn’t so much that he wanted the title, the recognition or even the prize-money, he just wanted to go out a winner. His body filled with desire and he grew once more. As they met in the middle his opponent also seemed taller and they both glistened under the bright lights with renewed fury. They fought like lions, both wanting to be respectably crowned the king.
Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. A shot got through and connected with his jaw and left cheekbone. He stood still except for a slight rock like a boat moored in a calm harbour. His thoughts were slurred and he looked once more to his girlfriend but could only hear the cries of a young baby and sounds of distress echoing from it’s mother. His body wanted to fill with desire but he only felt himself shrink. A blue glove grew in size in front of him and if it wasn’t for his sideways stumble, it would have shattered his nose and his dreams of winning. Feeling the edge of the glove graze his temple and squash his ear, he grew once more. It was one of those strange moments like a wounded dog biting it’s rescuer, a chicken running around headless or even a stranded mountaineer coming back from the dead. His muscles inflated and his gloves were weightless once more. Unleashing his newfound fury in a raging whirl, gravity became too strong a force for his opponent and it rescued him to the canvass. After seven seconds his courageous opponent rose and, mumbling his words like a mental patient, pleaded his case for continuing with the referee. The opponents coach had the white towel resting on the blue corner pad. The referee let the fight resume and those weightless red gloves seemed to have a significant effect on his opponents head. Only the coach of his wavering opponent saw the tooth leap from his head and no one saw the blood spill all over the red glove. The white towel surrendered itself from its blue perch and was thrust forcefully into the ring. The referee was to stop the fight and the red corner was to win.
He didn’t see the towel or the referee. Those eyes only saw one object and those ears were too focused to hear anything. With the referees hands coming between them he was a wounded dog once more and unleashed on his opponent. A left blow to the ribs cracked four, pushing two into his lungs and was followed instantly and autonomously by a right fist to his opponents head. It may have been his eyes that rolled back first but it could have been that crunching, snapping sound coming from inside his neck which would have left him paralysed had he survived.
Still unsure of what happened, he felt the referee, his opponents coach and those familiar hands of his own coach pushing and pulling him away.
His fury dropped to the canvas with his opponent, as did the faces of both girlfriends and the medic. For so many years he had been involved in this game but winning had never felt like this. The newspaper reporters looked stunned and excited, trying to devise the best angle to take on this story. This time the back page would definitely make it to the front.
Several rounds had passed and the breaks between rounds grew faster and faster. Like poetry his mouth-guard was eased into his gripping teeth; those quick, wise hands encouraged his cheeks and shoulders, moving in time with the coach’s mouth. He heard only a blurred silence, grew from his seat to his standing position and a bell groaned twice from near the ring. Clenching his fists and hammering his gloves together in a clap, it was surprising that his own hands weren’t crushed. Each glove containing five robust logs decorated with their knots, twists and wear of time. Between the canvas floor and the bottom rope he saw the face of his newborn child with its newborn fingers and nose, oblivious to the pain and suffering that could be felt. He promised his girlfriend that the fights would stop once the baby was born and this was to be his last fight, much to the promoters’ disappointment.
Those close enough to the ring could hear the snapping slaps being exchanged and those who were even closer could hear both fighters breathing bullets with each sudden movement. With both fighters slowing and tiring at a similar pace, fists became heavy and found it harder to find their target. Their feet stamped slowly towards each other and both fighters embraced, their fatigue pushing each chin onto the others shoulders. They continued to push their gloves intermittently into each other during this time and the referee quickly pulled them apart.
Looking down toward his girlfriend for inspiration through his narrow, swollen eyelids, he saw a person with a baby and assumed it must be her. It wasn’t so much that he wanted the title, the recognition or even the prize-money, he just wanted to go out a winner. His body filled with desire and he grew once more. As they met in the middle his opponent also seemed taller and they both glistened under the bright lights with renewed fury. They fought like lions, both wanting to be respectably crowned the king.
Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. A shot got through and connected with his jaw and left cheekbone. He stood still except for a slight rock like a boat moored in a calm harbour. His thoughts were slurred and he looked once more to his girlfriend but could only hear the cries of a young baby and sounds of distress echoing from it’s mother. His body wanted to fill with desire but he only felt himself shrink. A blue glove grew in size in front of him and if it wasn’t for his sideways stumble, it would have shattered his nose and his dreams of winning. Feeling the edge of the glove graze his temple and squash his ear, he grew once more. It was one of those strange moments like a wounded dog biting it’s rescuer, a chicken running around headless or even a stranded mountaineer coming back from the dead. His muscles inflated and his gloves were weightless once more. Unleashing his newfound fury in a raging whirl, gravity became too strong a force for his opponent and it rescued him to the canvass. After seven seconds his courageous opponent rose and, mumbling his words like a mental patient, pleaded his case for continuing with the referee. The opponents coach had the white towel resting on the blue corner pad. The referee let the fight resume and those weightless red gloves seemed to have a significant effect on his opponents head. Only the coach of his wavering opponent saw the tooth leap from his head and no one saw the blood spill all over the red glove. The white towel surrendered itself from its blue perch and was thrust forcefully into the ring. The referee was to stop the fight and the red corner was to win.
He didn’t see the towel or the referee. Those eyes only saw one object and those ears were too focused to hear anything. With the referees hands coming between them he was a wounded dog once more and unleashed on his opponent. A left blow to the ribs cracked four, pushing two into his lungs and was followed instantly and autonomously by a right fist to his opponents head. It may have been his eyes that rolled back first but it could have been that crunching, snapping sound coming from inside his neck which would have left him paralysed had he survived.
Still unsure of what happened, he felt the referee, his opponents coach and those familiar hands of his own coach pushing and pulling him away.
His fury dropped to the canvas with his opponent, as did the faces of both girlfriends and the medic. For so many years he had been involved in this game but winning had never felt like this. The newspaper reporters looked stunned and excited, trying to devise the best angle to take on this story. This time the back page would definitely make it to the front.
posted by Darren Jaye at 4:19 am
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