On the Ropes

by Christa Cervone

  We make our way to the locker room. On the way, we’re stopped several times by audience members telling us how great our fight was and how they look forward to watching me train here. Graciously, Jimmy thanks them for their compliments while I scan the crowd for Salem. I’m interested to find out if she enjoyed our fight like the rest of the crowd did. I spot her pouting in the corner next to the treadmills; alone. Even pouting, with her arms crossed across her chest, she’s beautiful. I just want to bite her cute little bottom lip that’s sticking out.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I murmur to Jimmy and the guy he’s talking to.

  I stroll over to Salem, and when she sees me coming, she rolls her eyes at me and turns her back.

  “Did you enjoy the show?” I ask, touching her lower back gently.

  She jumps at my touch. “I actually thought it was quite barbaric.”

  “That? Barbaric?” I laugh. “That was nothing. You should come see me fight against Gladiator next weekend, it’s gonna be a blood bath.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so. There is nothing entertaining about watching two grown men beat each other up in the ring.”

  I’m watching her closely, and her eyes are nervously darting around the gym.

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, I’m just wondering where Blaine is,” her face looks pained as she says this.

  “I’m sure he got tied up with someone,” I try to offer reassurance. “It’s a pretty big day for him; it must be a very proud moment.” I pause, looking around the gym at the crowds of people still touring the place, “I’d love to have all my hopes and dreams come true like this someday.”

  “I’m sure it’s just a phase like everything else in his life,” she attempts nonchalance.

  “A phase?” I cock my head.

  “You obviously don’t know Blaine very well.”

  Leaning in closer, I tease her, “So, are you saying you’re just one of his phases too? And that I have a chance with you?”

  “No, I’m not a phase,” she tries to hold back her smile, “and no, there is no chance for you.”

  “Well, if nothing else, I at least made you smile,” I reply. “And what a beautiful smile it is.”

  “Making me smile isn’t going to get you in my pants,” she plays.

  “You ready to go?” Jimmy interrupts our conversation.

  “That all depends on doll face here,” I nod my head in Salem’s direction.

  “Like I said, you’re not getting in my pants.”

  “I’ll take that as a challenge.” I wink at her as Jimmy and I walk away, toward the locker room.

  “Is she looking at me?” I whisper to Jimmy.

  Annoyed, Jimmy looks over his shoulder and confirms, “Yeah, she’s lookin’.”

  “Good.”

  “Rhythm is everything in boxing. Every move you make starts with your heart, and that’s in rhythm or you’re in trouble.”

  —Sugar Ray Robinson

  There are two types of boxers: Professionals and amateurs. Professionals are the ones you see on television or in the sports pages. Amateurs are those who are trying to make their way up to the pros or who fight purely for the love of the sport. But the differences don’t stop there. When it comes to fighting in the ring, there are differences in the rules, as well.

  Amateur fighters must wear headgear for protection during a fight, but professional fighters don’t. Fights are three or four rounds with each round lasting two minutes for amateurs, where professional fights can be anywhere from four to twelve rounds at three minutes each. Weigh-ins are also significantly different; amateur fighters weigh in just hours before a fight, but weigh-ins for the pros can be up to as much as twenty-four hours beforehand.

  The weigh-ins have both advantages and disadvantages. I fight pretty close to my walk-around weight. Other fighters may have to bulk up or drop weight for a fight; whereas, my training and diet for this fight has been fairly easy, since I didn’t have to gain or lose much weight. My main concentration was to get stronger, apply better technique, and build stamina.

  Gladiator, on the other hand, usually fights in a heavier weight class. He typically weighs in at a hundred and seventy-five pounds. That means he had to drop close to fifteen pounds for this fight, and that is where the disadvantage of going pro can come in. It’s very easy for a fighter to drop weight for a weigh-in and then during the actual fight, twenty-four hours later, those ten to fifteen pounds the fighter dropped for the weigh-in are back on him. This trick is obviously unfair to the opponent, who can get severely injured by a fighter that much larger. Luckily, this isn’t a pro fight, so I don’t have to worry about that.

  Gladiator and I are the last fighters being weighed in today because we’re the main event. I enter the room wearing just my boxing trunks, and flashes from the photographers’ cameras in the audience begin to go off. There are also a few reporters from the local news and the newspaper here covering the event. Jimmy, Frankie, and Patsy follow me in.

  Gladiator is standing on his side of the table; I can feel his eyes spearing into me as I near him, and I’m glad the announcer will be seated between us. Gladiator is surrounded by his trainers, and he has at least half a dozen guys in his entourage. When I reach the table, he stands, and I begin sizing him up. He’s just shy of six feet tall and his hair is slicked back. Man, he’s ripped! The weight he’s lost for the fight has left not even an ounce of fat on him, even his jaw is chiseled. His eye contact remains unbroken, and I must admit, it’s quite intimidating.

  We walk around to my spot at the table and once I’m seated, the announcer stands to say, “I’d like to thank everyone for coming here this morning,” and all the cameras in the audience go off at once. I close my eyes at the flashes, and when I reopen them, I see spots. Blinking them away, I try to refocus my eyes and glance over at Gladiator’s side of the table; his trainer whispers something to him. Gladiator then nods his head, giving me a satisfied grin.

  “Fighters, will you please join me at the scale?” the announcer says into the microphone. Gladiator and I rise simultaneously and follow him. “Gentlemen, you know the drill,” the announcer says to us. I untie my shorts, step out of them, and hand them to Jimmy. I’m left standing in front of the crowd in just my boxers, but I don’t care; I slowly step onto the scale. The officiant records my weight. Gladiator repeats my steps; then after his weight is recorded, he turns to the crowd and flexes his muscles. The flashes go off again, and the crowd begins to rumble in chatter. I shake my head at him. Show off.

  Turning his attention to me, he asks in a gruff voice, “What are you shaking your head at?”

  “Nothin’, you’re just makin’ an ass of yourself,” I look him up and down.

  “You better watch your mouth, boy,” Gladiator’s voice becomes louder and his entourage closes in on us.

  Jimmy’s pressing up against me within seconds of our exchange. “You alright?”

  “I’m fine, Jimmy. I was just telling Gladiator that he looks like a clown flexing for the cameras,” my eyes narrow in on Gladiator’s cold stare.

  He takes a step closer to me. We are now standing face to face; I notice that he has about four inches on me, and I can feel his heavy breath on my face. The reporters in the audience jump to their feet and begin firing questions at us. “Who do you think is going to win?” “How many rounds do you think the fight will go?” “Do you think you’ll knock him out, Saint?” Both of us ignore the questions as we continue to stare each other down.

  I hear Gladiator’s crew talking shit from behind him, “Please, he doesn’t stand a chance against Gladiator,” one of them hisses. “He’s lucky if he’ll last through the first round,” another one says.

  “Just shut the fuck up,” Jimmy calls loudly over my shoulder.

  “Jimmy!” Frankie yells, trying to reign him in.

  This was all just par for the course. It’s an intimidation tactic that can fuck with your head if you let it. But I’ve learned
to shut everything out, concentrate on the fight at hand, and listen to no one but Frankie. I can’t say it didn’t take me quite a few fights to learn this, but once I did, I’d become unstoppable.

  “Let’s get it on!”

  —Mills Lane

  The four of us sit in silence in the makeshift locker room that was created for me out of a coatroom. A thick, dark fabric hangs where a half door typically is, serving as a curtain to give us privacy. With my earbuds in my ears and the music blaring, I’m trying to drown out the sounds of the crowd cheering for the current fight. My pre-fight jitters have taken over and I feel sick to my stomach from the adrenaline. Feeling a pat on my back, I pull the earbud from my left ear and I look up at Patsy, who’s standing over me. “You got this, Saint. You know that, don’t you?” he says, trying to reassure me.

  “I’m glad you think so, Patsy,” I swallow hard, “did you see him out there?”

  “You get like this before every fight and you win every time. Why would this one be any different? I’ve watched you this past week, and you gave it everything you got. If you can fight tonight like you did this past week, this fight will be over in four rounds, tops.”

  “How much longer?” I question Frankie as he sits next to me.

  “’Bout five minutes.”

  “Come on, let’s get you ready, Saint,” Jimmy suggests, as he places my gym bag at my feet. Leaning over, I take out my gloves.

  “Whoa… where did you get those?” he wonders enviously.

  “Blaine.”

  “Well, I guess you weren’t kidding when Frankie said he’d buy you some new equipment. Those are like a hundred and fifty bucks.”

  “Actually, they were a hundred eighty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents,” I joke. “He wanted to get me something new for my fight tonight, so I told him I wanted these. He didn’t even blink an eye at the price.”

  “What else did he buy you?”

  “Nothin’, just the gloves. Though, he did say he wanted to order me new custom shorts, too. He just figured we could wait until after this fight.”

  “What, does he wanna make sure you’re gonna win before he buys you five hundred dollar shorts?” Jimmy snipes. I can tell, by the tone of his voice and the look on his face, that he’s jealous. Funny thing is, I couldn’t care less about this shit; it’s materialistic, and it means nothing. The only things that mean anything to me are the people sitting in this room. They are my crew, the ones I turn to when I need something; not some fancy gloves or expensive shorts.

  “Jimmy, you better watch your mouth,” Frankie schools him. “We’re all here to support Gabriel, so if you’re not here to cheer him on, then get the fu…”

  “Frankie, it’s alright,” I speak up quickly, trying to defuse the situation.

  “We don’t need this negativity in the room,” Patsy adds.

  Here we go. I’m gonna have both Frankie and Patsy ganging up on poor Jimmy over a comment, and I know he didn’t mean anything bad by it.

  “You got two minutes!” a voice from the other side of the curtain yells out, interrupting the argument that’s brewing.

  “Alright,” Frankie squawks.

  “Let’s get you ready,” Patsy murmurs as he takes one of the gloves from me.

  Holding my arm straight out, I stiffen it so he can slide the glove onto my hand. Once the first glove is on, he motions for me to raise my other arm. Jimmy slips in-between Patsy and me, and fastens my headgear.

  “Saint, I’m sorry if I came off like a dick,” he apologizes quietly.

  “Jimmy, it’s alright. I didn’t take any offense to it. I know you didn’t mean any harm,” I give him a reassuring smile.

  “Time’s up!” we hear from the behind the curtain.

  “Let’s do this!” Jimmy yells out.

  The four of us walk out the door to my dressing room. I can hear ‘The Gladiator’s’ music being played from the other room as Patsy, Frankie, and I line up. Jimmy is right behind me with his hands on my shoulders. He’s getting pumped. I can feel him bouncing on the balls of his feet as he gently massages my shoulders, while we walk through the lobby. You’d think he’s the one getting ready to fight. I’m just the opposite, very calm. I try my hardest not to get worked up, wanting to save all my energy for the ring.

  Tonight’s fight is being held at a local banquet hall a few towns over from the gym. As we near the entrance to the main ballroom, I hear my music begin to play. “Sympathy for the Devil,” the Guns N’ Roses version, fills the room as we enter. Frankie’s love of eighties and nineties hair bands has rubbed off on me over the years. I used to bitch and moan about the music he played at his gym, but now I actually prefer listening to it rather than the shit that they play on the radio now.

  I step down onto the main level and survey the room. The ring is set up right in the middle; it looks out of place with the lavish chandelier hanging above, and the fancy decorative wallpaper that adorns the walls. This is only the second time I’ve attended a fight here, but the venue has become quite popular with fight promoters. Besides boxing matches, I’ve heard of several MMA fights being held here, as well.

  We weave our way through the tables that are set up around the room. It appears to be a sold out event, with either single seats or an entire table for purchase. As I near the ring, I notice a roped off VIP section. Of course, it’s all front row seating and each table in the section has a bottle of champagne on it.

  As we get closer to my corner of the ring, I see Blaine. He quickly jumps to his feet, extending his hand to Frankie. “It’s great to see you again,” he shakes Frankie’s hand. Then he turns his attention to me, “This is going to be a great fight!”

  I nod my head in acknowledgement. Letting go of Frankie’s hand, he steps towards me, actually going into a “man hug” by bringing his shoulder into mine. I look over his shoulder to see Salem sitting in the chair next to his. I’m actually surprised to see her here, since the last time I’d seen her, she called what I do “barbaric.” At first, she seems to be avoiding eye contact, but as I continuously stare, she finally looks up at me. I give her a quick wink and smile; she just turns her head. Is she playing hard to get, or is she actually appalled by me? I’m not sure at this point in time, but I am certainly going to explore the possibilities… soon.

  As I take all of her in, I notice she’s wearing yet another dress. Just like the other one, this one is showing off one of her best assets, her legs. She has them crossed, and the dress is riding up her tanned thighs. What I wouldn’t do, to be able to run my hands up under her dress. My eyes skim down her body, to her calves, where I can see the definition in her muscle from the high heels she’s wearing. There’s nothing more attractive to me than a woman who keeps her body in shape.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Come on, let’s go,” Jimmy says in my ear.

  I manage to drag my eyes away from the temptation that is Salem, turn, and start walking.

  “Knock ‘em dead!” Blaine calls after me, as I make my way up the steps to the ring.

  Gladiator is anxiously awaiting my arrival. He’s sporting a new look since earlier today; his hair is now cut into a mohawk. The sides of his head are completely bald, and the top is barely an inch long, as well as having been dyed bleach blonde. This look makes him seem even fiercer than before. He glares at me while he bounces in place, punching his gloves together repeatedly.

  “He’s focused,” Frankie’s looking over into Gladiator’s corner.

  Closing my eyes, I shake my head, trying to get the dirty thoughts of Salem out. I almost wish I didn’t see her. She’s a distraction to me, but I can’t help it; I’m drawn to her.

  “What’s the matter with you, kid?”

  “Nothin’, I’m good,” I lie.

  “It certainly doesn’t seem like nothing,” his eyes scour over my face. “Did you fuck her?” his voice goes down to a whisper.

  “Who?”

  Frankie gives me a sideways look.

  “No,�
� I laugh.

  “This isn’t a laughing matter.”

  “I know it’s not,” I reply, trying not to smile.

  Frankie’s getting more pissed by the second. “You need to clear your head of her. She’s not even your girlfriend, and she’s got your head all twisted.”

  “Frankie, I’m fine. You have nothing to worry about,” I reassure him.

  “Christ almighty, I hope so. If you lose this fight because of a broad…”

  “Blue corner, ready?” I hear the ref say in our direction, interrupting Frankie’s rant.

  I hold my arm up, signaling to him that I’m ready.

  The announcer begins his introductions; first with the referee, he then moves on to Gladiator, and lastly, to me.

  I keep my eyes on Gladiator during the announcements, trying to intimidate him a little. The announcer steps out of the ring and the ref motions us to the middle. He explains the rules to us; we touch gloves, and return to our corners, waiting for the sound of the bell.

  Frankie is waiting for me in mine. “Alright, this is it,” he puts his face right in front of mine until we’re almost nose to nose, “you’re ready for him. You are gonna win this fight.”

  Looking directly into his eyes, I inhale through my nose and let out a deep breath. Frankie and I are in sync; neither of us needs words to communicate. I trust him with my life and know he’d never let me down. I open my mouth to speak, and before the words can escape, Frankie shoves my mouth piece in. “Go win this fight,” is all he says to me before the bell rings.

  The fight between Gladiator and me ends in a decision, just like I thought it would. Both of us put our hearts and souls into the fight. We stand in the middle of the ring, sweat dripping from our bodies, with only the ref separating us. The announcer is looking at the judges as we wait for them to show their score cards. Jimmy, Frankie, and Patsy are all standing on the side of the ring in anticipation.

  “It was your fight, Saint!” Jimmy points to me, yelling across the ring. I look over in his direction; he’s beaming.