Exactly, ‘Black Mamba.’
What I used to do all the time.
Well, anyway, back to the punch. It involves utilizing the same principle of throwing an overhand punch (shoulders tilted, arm arching out, sitting down on the punch fully, hips and all) but in using it, the “snap punch” evolves instantly (like a “snap”) from a preexisting punch.
You morph into it.
It’s complicated and requires a lot of practice.
I listened to the fear.
DON’T DO IT
And I wonder if that’s the reason why I have a good “chin.”
Maybe it’s not that I took punches but rather because I backpedaled and played defensive games to avoid punches.
Frankly it didn’t take much to send me to the canvas.
Right X?
I WATCH
I move my chair right up to the TV.
I press my face right up to the screen so that my forehead feels the warmth and the cartilage of my nose (broke it three times over the course of my career, just saying) bends just enough to hear that all-too-familiar crack. The sound of age. But I’m not here to deny it. I am here to:
LINGER
And watch as ‘Black Mamba’ fades from the stage.
Not that I don’t deny the fear. It’s just that I need to go through with it. I need to say it. I need to admit it.
To myself.
I need to make it so that they can’t devalue my era.
‘Me.’
I will be remembered.
“We can do better than this,” says ‘Storm.’
They are all in agreement about what to do to survive.
They need to fight. They need to fight me. Victory would be to send Willem into a second chance sort of scenario where I am scapegoat.
If I am unwilling to admit to my exploitation, they are more able to align with every single part of me that I’ve kidnapped, wounded, and ignored.
If I still hold back, I will give into the fear.
I will lose the biggest fight of all.
IT ALL DISAPPEARS…
UNLESS
I don’t want that to happen. So I let the laughter swarm in as I press my lips against the screen. I lick the screen in one long upwards motion.
The eager, would-be parts of me shut up, turn and look right at me.
DO I GET YOUR ATTENTION?
Silence.
GOOD
Four sets of eyes watching borders on the sensation that I’m finally reaching the first stages of understanding.
Forget about the whole spiritual side to this; I basically feel like I’m getting at something. I’m beginning to figure out how it all fits together.
Beginning, the key word. It seems I will have to let the other parts of me, all of them, work on figuring the middle and the end.
But check it out:
In the blink of an eye I send the KO punch that eliminates any possibility of their eradication of my era. In sports history, my records hold true. In sports history, I am ‘Sugar’ Willem Floures.
I tell-all like the ones that escaped me:
I KNOW THAT IT’S MY FAULT
I KNOW THAT I FELL INTO SOUR TIMES
WE ALL FIGHT OURSELVES FOR SO LONG WE FORGET WHICH BOUNDARIES NOT TO CROSS
I RUINED THINGS BUT I ALSO RESTORED THE URGENCY TO THE ENTIRE SPORT, TO THE REASON WHY I FOUGHT AT ALL
I FOUGHT TO UNDERSTAND
I FOUGHT TO BE FOUND
AND YOU KNOW WHAT?
I DID
WILLEM FLOURES IS NOTHING TO LAUGH ABOUT
THE LAUGHTER OF STRANGERS
Build up the laughter so loud that it drives me out of the basement. I leave the empty crowd of my thoughts back where they should remain hidden:
At ringside.
I ascend those old wooden steps and realize that it’s morning. Another night driven away like a lost opportunity. I listen to the house creak in line with the rise and fall of my breath. I tune into my surroundings, listening to the laughter disappear as I shut the basement door.
In the silence, I am not held back by the worry, the fear.
I am left with the one thought that I feel needs to be asked:
WHAT DOES A STRANGER SEE?
Look at me and what do you see?
If you asked me I’d say that I’m at the very least a person. I mentioned that before so I don’t need to get back into that. Besides, I’m not a stranger. It defeats the purpose of the query.
If I introduced myself to a stranger, someone that had no clue who I was, what would they think?
Would they see any redeeming qualities?
Or would I just be another sad sack of bruised, scarred, tattooed flesh?
I WONDER
I wonder how I weigh in, and I’m not talking about weight class and boxing. I wonder how I weigh in as a person.
I AM A PERSON
But that isn’t saying much if I can’t describe who that person is beyond the fact that “he” lives and breathes. Spencer must have seen something in me because he continues to train me into what he hopes will be the best fighter ever. A real G.O.A.T candidate.
Too bad then…
Too bad that I won’t be the one to do it.
I am not the Greatest of All Time.
Current status:
LOST OPPORTUNITY
One too many bad decisions kind of dismisses you from the candidacy.
But I admit it.
I take that from them.
I took and took some more and left behind the groundwork that’ll make Willem a better fighter and, who knows, maybe even a better person.
But what does a stranger see?
WHERE DOES A STRANGER GO?
Where do I go from here? How will my final fight end?
I listen to the footsteps that are mine to follow. I follow those footsteps into the dining room, a room that is barely ever used. I draw lines across the dusty surface of the table. I follow the footsteps to the expensive silverware.
I pick up a silver plate and look at my reflection.
THIS IS WHAT A STRANGER SEES
I inspect the right side of my face, which hasn’t healed as well as before. I look like I have been in quite a few fights. To a stranger, I look like I’ve lived a rough life. Tough times for the one that hopes to find something memorable to keep them from anonymity.
I grip the plate and toss it against the wall.
It doesn’t break, the silver resonating a dull sound.
WHAT DOES A STRANGER THINK?
I follow the footsteps around to the room where I used to watch most fights with Spencer. The TV flickers on, just to point me in the direction of where I need to look, where I hope to find.
On the TV, I see the words:
I DON’T THINK WE’VE MET
And I take three steps forward, not four, standing where the footsteps have stopped.
I speak to the TV like it’s a person.
I say, “Hello, my name is—”
But what is my name?
I hesitate until the name is said for me, the screen flickering the response:
WILLEM FLOURES, RIGHT?
“Right,” I nod.
First impressions are everything. I think of what to say to make this introduction worthwhile and interesting.
The TV flickers:
NICE TO MEET YOU
And I reply, “You too. I’m so glad to meet you.”
I hear the tapping of a footstep, signal that this is running long. I need to say something. Anxiety. What do you tell a stranger that doesn’t seem obvious, that doesn’t sound like I’m trying too hard?
TV flicker.
WHAT DO YOU DO?
It’s always the next question after “name” huh?
I very well can’t say fighter because then it’ll be about what kind of fighter, weight class, and everything I’ve already left behind, down in the basement, with the laughter.
So I say, “I’m an athlete.”
REAL
LY, LIKE A PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE?
WHAT SPORT?
I can’t get away from it.
The identity that is mine. But don’t get me wrong—
I believe what I said before, said to them:
I admit it. “I admit it.”
I smile, “I’m a bit of a fighter.”
FIGHTER, LIKE MIXED MARTIAL ARTS?
More traditional, more pure than that.
“Boxing.”
TV flicker.
WAIT A MINUTE…
And see how now we aren’t strangers anymore? This is not about what a stranger sees. The stranger ultimately figures out who I am, and that’s something to consider. I consider the fact that I can’t get past who I was; it is a part of me now. Willem will go on without me but part of Willem remains with me. I am Willem, after all.
TV flicker.
I’VE SEEN SOME OF YOUR FIGHTS
YOU ARE A GREAT FIGHTER
“Thank you.”
The footsteps move on. The TV flickers one last time.
WELL IT WAS REALLY NICE TO MEET YOU!
I follow the footsteps out of the room and into the foyer.
I realize that I am too. I’m glad to have met…
Past tense: To have been able to meet someone.
Present and Future: To be able to meet anybody.
The footsteps lead me upstairs and to the one room that matters. The one room that usually has its door closed.
The footsteps continue into the room but I need to get past the door. I knock, “Sarah?”
No answer.
I try again, to no avail.
I try the door, mildly surprised to see that it’s unlocked, and I hesitantly wander into the room.
I remember:
THE LAST TIME I WAS IN HERE I FOUND OUT MY TIME IN THE SPOTLIGHT WAS OVER
I see that Sarah is missing. Well, maybe not missing but she’s definitely not in her room. I momentarily wonder about whether or not this is the right room and whether or not the other rooms are replicas of Sarah’s room.
I have never been in any of the other upstairs bedrooms.
I have only ever populated the basement and first floor of the house.
The footsteps direct me to a dollhouse in the corner of the room. I wander over and look inside. A few dolls sit around a table while one doll is lying down on a bed in one of the dollhouse’s upstairs rooms.
I take the doll that I assume is the father and the doll that I assume is the older son, both the same brand of doll, identical save for the different shirts, and I hold them up to my face.
I look into the face of the inanimate object.
The doll appears to be happy.
What about the other?
Same.
WHAT DOES A STRANGER SEE?
I see that they are content being dolls.
They suit their purpose.
NOW THE OTHER WAY AROUND
What do they see in me?
Am I the fighter I should have been? I did my best. I had some great fights. I repeat this, speaking to the dolls, “I did my best. I had some great fights…” I stop and look around the room, checking the closet just to make sure Sarah isn’t there. I don’t want her to see me playing with the dolls.
WHY DOES THAT MATTER?
It matters.
It doesn’t matter.
I don’t know. Anyway—
“I’d like to think that I come off as a nice guy. I might look a little scary due to the tattoos, the scars, and the fact that I have trouble smiling due to nerve damage to my face.” It’s a lie but a good one to use when people start wondering why you’re so serious all the time; besides, if I repeat that enough I might believe it and then it exists. It becomes something somewhat interesting, something memorable at least for the strangers to hear about upon first introduction.
WHAT DO YOU DO?
I know what they do. They “exist” as toys for tots, for young kids; they are dolls. That’s about as simple a description as it can get.
“I am an athlete.”
REALLY, LIKE A PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE?
WHAT SPORT?
“Boxing.”
WOW. WHAT’S IT LIKE TO BE IN THE RING?
IN A FIGHT?
I follow the footsteps to the bed.
I create an imaginary ring out of a pillow and I sit among the two dolls, each representing one corner.
WHAT DOES A STRANGER SEE?
In a perfect fight, there has to be a reason, deeply rooted beyond victory and loss. You have to fight for personal reasons.
You have to fight knowing that this is an expression of who you are, the strength that lies within ready to be tested, ready to surface in the form of a flurry of fists. Fisticuffs.
The stranger watching a fight sees it as more or less an act of gladiatorial combat. Our modern society is witness to fight nights brimming with the underlying representation of just how amazing the human body truly is—
It is versatile and can go the distance.
It can give, and take, more punishment than we could ever imagine.
The human mind is the real problem. It is the one influence that can turn the perfect fight into a planning exercise.
I wonder:
WHAT MIGHT A PERFECT FIGHT BE?
It goes the distance. That’s for sure.
I want it to be a barnburner. Both fighters compliment each other in terms of fighting style. They fight with the intention of a knockout but they simply fail to do so.
I put myself into the equation.
What would it take to deliver the perfect fight?
THE PERFECT FIGHT
It seems like something I should really consider. So, okay, let’s think about this. Doll one is ‘me’ and let’s make doll two ‘James.’
Fight prediction:
‘SUGAR’ VS ‘DYNAMITE’
Will it be a perfect fight?
I’m a boxer-puncher which means I can go both ways, offense and defense; he’s a counterpuncher which means he’ll attempt to keep me on the offensive by being so defensive.
I exhale because it’s a bit warm in the house.
The air conditioning turns on as the last bit of air escapes my lungs.
More comfortable now, I begin my round-by-round prediction.
Addressed to the stranger, this is, in my humble opinion, the perfect fight.
ROUND ONE
We feel each other out—the first thing any boxer does is figure out the rhythm of his opponent. I lead with the jab while ‘James’ leans and warms up with some fancy evasive footwork. I win this round because of the jab.
‘James’ barely lands any more than a dozen punches.
ROUND TWO
‘James’ figures out my fight rhythm. He knows that I’ll switch from right to southpaw when I want to land powershots. He keeps on the defensive and I will become quite frustrated if I don’t do something to keep this from happening but it doesn’t happen in this round.
‘James’ wins the round based on number of punches landed. Most of mine are jabs and hooks to the body, which ‘James’ brushes off with countering hooks of his own to my face, which I leave wide open.
ROUND THREE
I lead with straights to the face. ‘James’ feels the pressure from consistent left straights to the face. He defends against most but the sudden pressure keeps him slightly confused.
This is unexpected.
I have to rely on the unexpected. The score is close, real close.
‘James’ stays competitive with an uppercut landed perfectly, which stuns me a minute left in the round.
Continue to apply pressure.
I win the round, just barely.
ROUND FOUR
The previous round was really close so I get a little anxious. Of course I get anxious. That’s exactly what ‘James’ wants. This is where he sends me to the canvas, knockdown number one of five.
For it to be a perfect fight, I feel it’s necessary to include the number five.
I get back up after the three count. My right knee touched the canvas. It’s a flash knockdown using a textbook counterpunch to my one-two jab combination (neither punch landed).
‘James’ doesn’t capitalize on the knockdown.
We keep trading punches. I trade not because it’s smart but because it makes a statement to the strangers in the crowd, the thousands, the millions watching:
I am not afraid.
I am not afraid of his clear skill and edge in both power and age. I will fight this fight like we both die by round twelve. Nothing to lose.
Though his footwork overshadows mine, I weave in and out of a four-punch flurry at the end of the round that unsettles ‘James.’
He wins the round because of the knockdown but I watch him between rounds, shaking my head as if to say—
You have to do better than that. I’m going to touch the canvas every damn round. I’m not staying down. You’ll have to punch me to death if you intend on the win being by KO.
I have been KOed too many times.
This fight, the perfect fight, is not one where I lose by knockout.
Between round four and five Spencer shouts, loud enough for everyone at ringside to hear, about what needs to change.
YOU ARE NOT GOING TO HURT HIM!
YOU ARE NOT GOING TO HURT HIM!
The Laughter of Strangers Page 21