Ding ding ding!
“Keep your head moving, and assert the jab, fight for the center. You have two more rounds to win this fight.”
I can hardly hear my trainer. My ears are ringing so loud I can practically hear my own thoughts. The welt under my right eye has resumed its bleeding, a pasty purple forming on my cheek. I just need to survive for six more minutes.
I stumble out into the center of the canvas.
Jab-cross-hook-slip-duck-parry-
SMASH
The can cries out for help as I squeeze the air out of its fragile aluminum lungs. With a satisfying clank, I toss it into the nearest trash can, hoping to avoid the embarrassing walk that will ensue should I miss. This time, my aim is true, and the metal lies to rest in its plastic grave. I always crush my soda cans.
I have no choice in this ritual. It is a habit formed of repetition, with an origin I can never know. I am frequently unaware that it even happens; my body is pulled by an inertia I do not feel.
One. Two. Three. Four.
My eyes explode open. I breathe in and out, each inhale piercing my lungs like sharded glass. Was that his right or his left hand? By the time I’m on my feet, I can hardly remember why it matters. Sweat and blood mix with salt. The crowd becomes an ocean, each face melting into the others.
My hands move like bricks and hit like pillows. I find the ropes, dodging and weaving through an endless onslaught.
Slip left-slip right-duck-jab-cross- right hook- uppercut-
BOOM
I raise my guard a second too late. I fall back asleep on the canvas.
DUDE, SHE JUST LEFT THE CLASS! GO!
Today has been a long time coming. I swore I would ask her out a couple of weeks ago, and my friends have been prying at me to go up to her for so long. I have no choice. I have to go. I’m in seventh grade, and I need to act like it.
I lace up my shoes and speed walk to our conveniently adjacent lockers.
“Hey! Um, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, what’s up!” She replied, her earnestness bleeding in her voice.
“Do you want to maybe get food, or just, like, maybe hang out sometime?”
Her face morphs between shock and fear, utterly dumbfounded.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.
Water is poured over my head.
“You trained for a year for this fight. You can make it another three minutes. Try not to get knocked down again, and for the love of god, keep your hands up.”
My vision is starting to swirl. Why exactly did I agree to this opponent? Twitter spent a year telling me I was going to get knocked out. Can I still fake a hand injury? Maybe he has plaster in his gloves? I want him steroid tested. There is no way that ogre is natural. Hopefully, he just goes away.
Is there any way I can sit on this stool a couple of seconds longer?
Ding ding ding!
Against the wishes of my mind, my legs rise. I put my hands up. A half-hearted jab springs out from my left arm. He parries it effortlessly.
Slip-slip-roll-pivot-lead hook-uppercut-jab-cross-parry-
SMACK!
I hardly even feel the hit as my eyes roll back, my brain turning to scrambled eggs. This is going to be the worst hangover of my life. I wonder how I got here.
It is all over! The unified champion has added another knockout to his record. Providing the color commentary tonight, my name is Max Kellerman. Congratulations to Tyson Fury, managing to close out the fight before making the distance. After a slow start, a strong 11th round made victory never a doubt. A valiant effort by the challenger, but tonight was not his night.
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