The sucker punch
He'd trained for it. Blood and sweat and glints of tears for it. He was focused, every day building on all he has learned; each punch, every combination to put those very punches into motion, the footwork, the speedwork. Switching between punch bags with ease like a drummer can switch grooves on his drum kit until it was engrained in his brain. To no longer think about, he would just do it, he could react, he could take control. On the bags, in the ring, in the gym and in the shadows. Building and gathering a rhythm on the jump rope, dodging and weaving with sparring partners off the ropes of his battleground.
And now here he was, shuffling out, alternating little hops and jumps on each foot, his fists wrapped neatly and tightly in his gloves that gleamed in the spotlights as he made his way through the crowds of the arena. His head shrouded in his hood, his gaze firm and blazing out of it like the Grim Reaper. Confident. Focused. Pumped. Focused. Nothing could deter him from moving forward. He had worked hard for this, suffered for it. His body had ached and his mind had nearly broken so many times on his way to this fight of his life.
He was not here for comfort. He had made a promise to himself, even when his body is heavy and tired, that he would push through.
His song blared out in surround sound: Underdog by Kasabian. The accompanying soundtrack along the trajectory of much of his life. That guitar riff grinding and hacking along, keeping him afloat, always telling him, always grounding.
Life in technicolour, Sprayed out on walls,
Well I've been pounding at the pavement, Until there's nothing at all.
He pounded and he had been pounded. He had been left with nothing. Yet he was still here.
Keep myself riding on this train
Keep myself riding on this train.
Keep on keeping on.
Bowing under the rope as if weaving under a jab, he enters the ring. On his toes, shoulders rolling, gloved fists always at the ready, a pivot and a shuffle, awaiting his opposition.
He almost didn't hear his name announced by the ringmaster. Before he knew it, he was face to face with his opponent under the instructions of the referee. Respect and acknowledgement stood present. Walking back to his corner, the last words of encouragement from his people, and then he was on his own. He had to do this now, nobody could do it for him.
The Kasabian guitar riff hacks back in to his mind.
Kill me if you dare,
Hold my head up everywhere,
Keep myself riding on this train.
The bell chime strikes through the electric ambience, he moves forward to his adversory. No way back, only forward.
There was not going to be a first round knockout win. This would be a long haul. He had always been in for the long haul. He had to be accountable for that. He had to quickly weigh things up as did his opponent of him. A jab, another, keep it working, keep your guard up, keep moving, stay in the moment. Stay in the power of now.
Another bell, then another round. Stay here, keep on keeping on. Work the jab, throw the combinations when the moment presented itself. Weave, move, adapt. Heading in to the fifth round he had done just that. He established the centre of the ring as his, the other fighter had to move around him, he had managed to control the flow of the fight and he knew he was getting ahead on points. He knew he could do this.
And then came the sucker punch. From behind him, another adversory jumped in the ring from nowhere and landed a four-slab combination to his head. He stumbled forward to his knees from the impact. The spotlights dashed his eyes, his senses overloaded. The crowd muffled.
What the f....? How the hell...? You can't do that! That's not what's supposed to happen! That's not Queensbury rules!
Oh really? Well it did happen. Rules...ha. Suck it up, buttercup.
With his weight on his padded fists, he lifted a knee and he slowly edged around in a crouch position. Through a moment of daze, he looked up. There he was; a legit-looking figure standing menacingly over him, his black boots dull compared to the sheen of his black boxing shorts, pumped and powerful with gloved fists of no pity. Regaining his focus he saw the white, ruffled elastic waistband with the boxer's initials emblazoned in black across them. G.R.I.E.F. Spelt out in capital letters, just incase it wasn't clear enough.
All the training, all the time spent preparing. Everything he had learned and how he had dug deep and pushed through. Yet nothing could have stopped those punches coming in from nowhere, even when he felt he was in control of the bout.
Still crouched, he looked in all directions for the referee. He was nowhere to be seen, yet the stoney faces of the ring-side judges remained, still taking score, oblivious to any invading thrird-party. High up above, the digital clock countdown had turned off so he had no idea how long was left in the round. The other boxer stood off and looked so much smaller compared to this towering, black-clad and brutal, unwelcome other.
He caught his breath, holding it for a moment, hissing it back out through his gumshield before biting back down on it. Recalibrate. Reset. Getting his bearings, he searched all four corners for his own, they were all still there, but they couldn't come in the ring to assist as much as they wanted.
Get up, and when you go down again, you get up again, damn it. This shit ain't over. Cassius is gonna dance around you and wear you down, while Iron Mike will hit you like a sledgehammer. Honour the moment, honour life. Keep punching, keep moving, keep getting up, keep on keeping on.
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