by Bill Vincent
Well, let’s just say I never had the opportunity. I turn around a corner and descend the stairs. Turning left, I spy sudden movement from the edges of my vision and turn to see two figures struggling with a slight figure between them as they disappear down a dark corner. Running swiftly, I turn the corner and enter an abandoned classroom and there, two guys had a third pinned against the wall and one held his hands up while the others rained blows on him.
I literally see red having been in such situations as this. My rage frightens even me. Roaring in fury, I charge at them and taking one look at me, they both blanch and drop the little guy (guess my face must have been quite thunderous). Licking their lips, they both stand shoulder to shoulder as I charge them within a split second, time slows down to a crawl, everything moves slowly and little movements seem stretched out. At the last second, one of the guys attempts to bolt and without thinking, I stretch out a foot, trip him and he crashes to the floor. The other then squares up to me. He swings and I sidestep his wild swing. It’s totally lacking power, its trajectory is wide and it pushes him off-balance. He somehow manages to right himself and sends out a left hook. Smiling wickedly now, I dodge into the curve of his arms and his entire torso is left unprotected before me, ripe and ready for some punishment.
As in a replay, Mark’s words come to mind as my punch travels through the air, “…Don’t overly commit but switch your weight from the left to right foot, transferring power up from your toes, through your torso, up your shoulders and into your arms. Your whole body follows through and you readjust as you connect, on your toes and ready to dart away from the next….”
I let out a breath as my blows land, a quick left right combination placed below the ribs on a soft wad of muscles (I didn’t want to cause serious damage, just a little bruising as lesson). I do not know my own strength as despite pulling the blows, the guy cries out in pain and crumples to the ground, groaning deeply and clutching his side and I stand there, with ears ringing and time speeds up again.
A little while later, I leave the Counsellor’s office. I was released on the account of the little guy who was being assaulted, testified I was only defending him. As I leave, the two guys were being reprimanded. I guess they would be handed stiff punishment, since the school now frowns at all forms of bullying. Despite the exhilaration I feel, my anger does not dissipate and it instead solidifies into a dense cloud, heavy and dark.
The next day, Mark picks me up in his van and we drive to the venue of my first fight. Although he claims it was just a little thing, the venue is a popular one and I was billed to fight before the main event of the night. Mark took me through a couple of warmups and then I had my gloves bandaged on and I am outfitted in my full gear for inspection by the match official who also tells us the rules. Then, it was on to sitting in the dressing room while other matches went on. I have a bad case of jitters and soon the lights over the doors turns green and it is pulled open from behind and the door sentry says, “It is time.”
Mark hands me my robe and I belt it around my waist. He pats me on the back and says, “I believe in you. This is what you have been waiting for, focus and concentrate.”
We walk through a muted hallway and suddenly, come out through a doorway and into an arena emblazoned with lights. As we appear, a light turns on us, it’s blinding and as Mark’s hand gently pushes me from behind to continue moving, the announcer booms out, “Introducing Davie Boy Hunter, the newest fighter to grace this hall, weighing….”
From there, I no longer pay any attention as I am swamped by the sights and sounds. Everything becomes jumbled together, the introduction, the unrobing, the checking of gloves, and the announcement of previous fight records. Mark notices this, pulls me down and forces me to take deep breaths. “Forget everything around us. Just focus on the fight, and everything we have done to prepare for this moment.”
I focus and the anger offers itself as support. I draw it around me like a cloak and it settles in my veins, pores, joints and muscles. The adrenalin roars through my body and I tremble with rage. I feel invincible and with the confidence of how I beat the two guys yesterday, I stand and move to the centre of the ring. Signalling our readiness, the bell rings and the first round begins.
I immediately approach him and he withdraws towards the corner, shadowing his steps. I close the distance menacingly, within striking distance, I unleash two rapid combinations and the crowd murmurs in approval. He blocks the blows and I step closer even more determined to land the first blow. Feigning a left jab, he shifts slightly and moves his hands to the right. I immediately take the opening and throw a right instead. It catches him on the side of the head and he withdraws even further into the corner, emboldened now and spurred on by the crowd who seemed to love my forwardness and raised the noise levels. I move even closer to him.
At that moment, I remember Mark’s opposition analysis of that morning. “…whatever you do, stay out of his danger zone. He lures his opponents to come closer and then springs the trap. He has a devastating right hand which is very fast…”
As I start to move back, in sudden realization, I hear Mark’s low shout, “Get out, watch out!”
The blow comes out of nowhere and stars burst to life in a beautiful rainbow of colours all along my vision. I see the other blow coming and raise my hands to block but my response is slow and the blow lands on my face. A hot and virulent ringing ensues around my ears and my head feels strangely light. Dimly, I hear the lines of a famous song and the sounds of sheep bleating and then everything goes dark and the last thing I remember is resting on a soft material, it’s completely white and very comfortable.
Chapter Six
I sit by the window. From my position, I can see the traffic on the street, the people as they hurry home after the day’s work, the happy cries of children playing with the water faucet at the corner and delightful smells drift in from the diner across the street. All this my mind dimly registers as we sit in one of the little offices in the gym complex.
“How are you feeling?” Mark asks me quietly.
How am I feeling? I think to myself, I feel horrible. It’s been two days since my disastrous…Better not to think of that now, anyway it’s been two days and I feel terrible and look just as bad. The left side of my face was first a bright red, and then it got swollen and slightly puffy. As of now, the puffiness and swelling are not too noticeable but the area is purplish black.
“Am fine I guess,” I reply. “What really happened to end…I can’t remember?”
Mark understands my half-spoken statement and exactly what I am asking. Leaning forward, he replies, “Well, I guess now is a good time as any to analyse what went wrong. I loved your forwardness in the fight. It showed you were willing to take the fight to him and it’s a nice trait to have. However, you failed to exercise restraint. You got carried away by the mood of the crowd, threw caution to the wind, failed to remember instructions and were too eager to force proceedings. You then moved into his danger zone and exposed yourself to his deadly right hand. He hit you with a sharp left and then his trademark right hook. To be fair to him, he was sporting enough to realize you were out of it with his second and refrained from following up with more blows. You my friend are a class act. You wavered for a few moments after his second and I began nursing hopes that you would shake it off. However, your eyes rolled up, your knees buckled, and down to the canvas, you crashed. You never even moved at all during the countdown and the fight was declared a victory for him by knockout. We got to you soon after. We meaning me, the medical team, our pals from the gym and your aunt who was unable to attend. Quite naturally, we were concerned about you being seriously hurt. But as it turned after tests, you weren’t, just some bruising which were treated and you woke soon after, a little bit groggy and you know what happened from then on.”
We sit quietly as the day wears on and soon Mark says, “We should get going, it’s getting pretty late.” And we leave the gym.
&nbs
p; On the way home in the van, Mark says, “The fight organizers sent our cut today, we made a few hundred from our first fight despite the fact that we lost. They made us another offer and said if we were interested, we could contact them in the next few months.”
I merely nod in acknowledgement.
Soon we arrive at the house and as I get down from the van and shut the door behind me, Mark calls me back. “Keep your head up soldier, it’s not the end of the world, our greatest strength lies in not failing but in picking ourselves up and rising after every fall. See you tomorrow champ, we start training again.”
As he turns, I stand there and watch his taillights as he drives down the street and disappears around a corner. My spirits lift with his last comments and feeling much better, I turn to walk up the stairs and into the house.
However, one thing remains unchanging; the anger has now metamorphosed into red-hot rage. It strains as its bounds and I keep it caged effortlessly. I now had something to prove and a purpose for which it could be employed.
For the ensuing weeks, Mark and I return to the basics and he called in old pals who suggested friends and family for consideration as members of my team. Soon Tim came in as my Glover, and he is reputed for custom-made gloves that fit perfectly and match the fighter’s preference. He was retired but was convinced by his uncle to join the team as a hobby. Mark had a cousin, Drew, who was a Physio and after brief talks, he came around one afternoon. Mark claimed he was one of the best he had ever seen and soon, after conditioning sessions with him which I ended out of breath, covered in sweat and with burning lungs, I acknowledged that he knew his stuff and he knew it cold.
Disturbed at the number of people who I now worked with, I call Mark aside one afternoon for a conversation. “I am not too convinced by the number of people I now have to work with. I was satisfied with only you and didn’t complain. I don’t understand why we need a team of coaches.”
Nodding in understanding, he replies with a smile while putting an arm around my shoulders. “Every man should know his limitations, what he is good at and the places he is gifted in. Everyone should have the courage to acknowledge the places where others are better, this is what I have done. Although I have showed you the basics of everything, the guys are specialists in their aspects and are far better teachers at it than I am as a result. Don’t worry, just listen to all they say and add it to what it you know.”
The last guy to join was Mitch. He is muscular and specializes in shadow boxing, blow patterns, blow consistency and a host of other stuff. As soon as he arrived, Mark put him in charge of drilling me and armed with two blow pads, which he wears on each hand, he teaches me advanced and professional blow patterns.
About a month later, Mark finally gives in to my entreaties for us to accept the fight offer and we are billed to fight a guy who, although was a relatively new arrival on the boxing scene, already had a record of seven knockouts and two wins by unanimous decision.
I return to training with new vigour and painstakingly sharpen my rage to a gleaming point, horned for the fight.
The day arrives and we leave for the fight venue. It’s the same venue, the only difference being that given the low number of fights slated for that month, we are the main event. We go through and the sights and sounds do not faze me as it had done earlier. I am focused and Mark picks up on this.
He sends me in with just a remark, “Watch out and move, use what you have learnt.”
The bell rings and he comes at me at a furious pace. I block the blows as they come thick and fast. Gradually step by step, I give up ground until I am forced almost to the ropes with nowhere left to go. Concentrating hard, I study his blows and discover a pattern. There is a pause between his second left right combination and I exploited this. Twisting slightly for leverage, I unleash a venomous right to his midriff and he stumbles slightly, his rhythm interrupted. Warming up now, I weave to the left and then to the right as he releases short jabs and then reply with a left hook that he scrambles away from. He then cautiously shifts back and a light of grudging respect comes into his eyes. This goes straight to my head and causes me to make a fatal mistake.
The rage comes boiling up, it licks at its bounds with molten lava and I let them collapse. Adrenalin rushes through my muscles and I grin maniacally as I approach him. I feel invincible. Utilizing my longer reach, I stay out of his danger zone and begin pummelling him with short jabs, side feints and when he leaves his midriff exposed, I unleash solid blows on it.
I concentrate and utilize a right left combination, which forces him to shift, and he drops his hands for a split second. Smelling blood, I unleash direct shots at his head and as they connect, the crowd roars with approval. I forget to watch for his hands and my own vulnerability, as I follow through a particularly nasty right hook to the side of his head, his right connects with my jaw and my neck snaps painfully with the force of the blow. Disoriented and not seeing too clearly, I attempt to beat a hasty retreat and shift right into a wicked left hook. The world shudders and then turns into a thin pinprick of light, a drone zooms by overhead and then everything goes black.
Chapter Seven
I
sit on the bench, the garden is deserted, flowers are scattered here and there, a little fountain gurgles quietly into the afternoon and the air is crisp, sharp and tinged with scents. The weather is pleasant, warm and the slight breeze ruffles my hair, caresses my jacket and tugs playfully at my jacket.
Through all this, the sadness does not dissipate, it is born of deep-seated gloom, a sense of shame and bleak defeat, that all I had been through had been for nothing. At that, the old rage stirs, all I do is a give it a glance and it deflates, for now. I am tired of being angry and too far-gone to care about what had made me angry in the first place.
Mark approaches from between the arch in the gardens and walks over to where I sit. We are at his friend’s mansion in the country, and we came over here for the weekend. It’s been two weeks since the disaster that had been my second fight and since then things have not been the same. I have stopped talking to anyone, ate only about once a day which got my aunt pretty upset and although I managed to write my final exams, I can assure you there has been no whisper of a thought carrying the tale of a valedictory ceremony.
Mark came to see me a couple of times and on these occasions, he would sit in my room with me, sometimes for hours, just sitting in silence, either reading a book or just being normal. His silence was comfortable and his presence calming. Gradually, without him saying anything, I once again began to heal and slowly, got better.
The days passed and yet, the sense of defeat persists until Mark suggests a trip out to the countryside and I accept. I didn’t really have anything I was doing and definitely had no immediate plans for the future. We arrived on Friday evening in Mark’s van and his friend welcomed us. He informed us that his family was out spending the weekend with some friends and wouldn’t be back till Sunday. He then showed us our rooms for the duration of our stay and I leave him chatting animatedly with Mark to wear clothing that is more comfortable.
After dressing, I feel no urge to leave the room and lay back on the bed thinking of nothing in particular. Mark soon comes to get me for dinner and it was a sumptuous affair. Over dinner, Mark tells me about Ted. His friend often added spicy bits of his life Mark forgot and didn’t add. From their interactions, I could tell that they were best buddies and my suspicions were soon confirmed. They had been childhood friends and had kept in touch since then. Ted had hit it big as a software engineer and he developed solutions for companies who sought his expertise, in return, they paid him well and he lived comfortably.
He had two kids, Erin and Mina. Erin was overseas studying while Mina, the girl was around my age and out for the weekend with their mother, Lucy. I left for bed as soon as dinner was over. As I climbed up the stairs, I could hear Ted asked Mark in a concerned voice, “He doesn’t look happy, seems pretty sad and somewhat far aw
ay. What has he gone through?”
I am bit far to catch Mark’s reply but I do not stop to hear his reply, rather, I plod on and collapse on the bed, pulling the blankets over me. I curl into a ball and watch the night sky through the glass windows.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Mark says while snapping his fingers and smiling at me. I let out a deep sigh and pull back from the well of recollection. “I have given you time to work it out and it seems that you are finally ready to understand what has caused your failure this time,” he starts and I listen quietly. Reaching a hand into his overall, he feels around and finally pulls out a picture out of its many pockets. Handing it to me, he says, “That was your uncle. His nickname Lightening wasn’t gotten from his reflexes, it was first because of his quick flashes of anger. In a moment, he could go from being cool to a magma hot rage, despite this; he was always in perfect control. Others might talk of a centre of calm, a rock that keeps other emotions at bay but you and your uncle are different. You have no centre of calm, always angry, but what you do have is a switch, and you can turn it on and off. The stream and flow will always be there, what you have is the control to choose the moments it has a channel to erupt, think about this.”
Patting my shoulder, he stands and walks back the way he came.
Throughout the day, I stay quiet as his words run through my mind. At dinner, I reply to the questions asked politely and retire to bed early. I doze soon however to my surprise.
The next day, Sunday, Ted drove us to church and I enjoyed it.
We got back to see that Ted’s family was back. Mark and he both rushed out of the car, all eager to be the first to greet and I walked at a more sedate pace behind them.