The Knockout

by Sajni Patel

  “We recorded the fights too,” Kimmy said.

  “Oh! Awesome! Can I see? I need to study the ones who made it to the semifinals.”

  “Pro-level. Love it.”

  Twenty-Nine

  So that night there were eight teenagers standing around my double queen bed hotel room. This could go bad in a lot of ways.

  “Are you sure there are no more rooms available?” Rayna asked.

  “Yeah. I’ve been checking for days,” Amit replied.

  “Days? How long have you been plotting this?” I asked.

  He smirked. “Days.”

  “We can stay farther away,” Kimmy suggested.

  “Closest available hotel is a twenty-minute drive. Convention and conference season, they said,” Amit answered.

  “It’ll have to do,” Kimmy said.

  “There’s only two rooms available and they won’t fit all of us,” he told her.

  Kimmy groaned. “Bad planning . . .”

  He shrugged. “Hey, I offered to drive, not to set everyone up in a hotel.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Amit shook his head and continued to look through his phone. “And also the rooms aren’t available until tomorrow.”

  “Well,” I intervened. “You guys will have to stay here, I guess.”

  “We can’t. You have to get rest,” Lily said.

  “Y’all have to be quiet, then. And not tell anyone, especially my coach.”

  “We won’t all fit.”

  “Sure we will. Two people per bed, two people on the pull-out couch, and two on the floor. Y’all decide. I’m going to sleep.” I walked to the bathroom to change into sweatpants and a T-shirt, having showered right after the fights, before the massage, and now feeling relaxed and full from dinner. And once I slathered on this Icy Hot, I’d smell like a nostril-opening dream.

  When I returned, everyone had picked their sleeping spots. Once everyone changed, we were in bed by nine. Awesome.

  Kimmy and Tanya took the pull-out couch. Vinni and Jared took the floor. That left one boy and three girls. Rayna and Lily grinned apologetically and hopped beneath the covers in the second bed while I groaned and faced Amit.

  “Seriously?” I asked.

  “Don’t ask us to move, we’re already half-asleep after that long drive,” Kimmy muttered.

  “This feels like a set-up,” I said.

  “I concur,” Amit added.

  “Like you mind . . .”

  He lifted the covers for me to crawl in first. Then Amit got into bed and we pulled the covers to our necks.

  “This doesn’t leave this room, right guys?” I asked aloud.

  “Right!” everyone called back.

  The truth was, we were all drained senseless and there was enough room in this bed to have a narrow pillow buddy in between us. Nothing would happen.

  Another truth was Amit and I shared a bed. And what sane girl could just relax and fall asleep knowing such a thing? This girl definitely couldn’t. After what seemed like forever and the room gradually filled with light snoring and otherwise desolate silence, I turned to Amit and whispered, “Do your parents know you’re here?”

  He didn’t answer, but I knew deep down that he wasn’t asleep. I poked him. He didn’t budge. I poked harder and aimed for his armpit. He squirmed and grabbed my hand, in the process dragging me a few inches closer to him.

  “They know I left to see this,” he whispered back, his minty, warm breath touching my skin.

  “They’re mad, huh? You went rogue.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re going to be in so much trouble.”

  “Oh, well.” We watched each other in the dark for a moment.

  “Don’t get into trouble because of me.”

  “Totally worth it.”

  “Seriously. I don’t want to be the reason there’s issues between y’all.”

  He shrugged. “I see it as taking a stand. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

  “Did you ask my parents before you came?”

  “Yeah. They approved, especially when I offered to video call them in so they can see you fight live and to send them the videos that Kimmy took.”

  I smiled. Oh, boy. My parents really, really liked Amit. “How did everyone fit in your car?”

  “I took my mom’s SUV.”

  I stifled a guffaw. “Oh, my god. You are in serious trouble.”

  “Worth it. You were a total Black Widow in the ring.”

  “Thanks. But tomorrow, you guys stay out of sight so I don’t get nervous.”

  “We’ll be incognito for sure.”

  I rested my hand on the pillow in between our faces. After a moment, Amit covered my hand with his.

  “Are we falling asleep like this?” he asked.

  “You mean all romantic in the middle of a room filled with our BFFs?”

  “Just like class, huh? By the way, you smell intoxicating.” He grinned.

  “Nothing like opening up your sinuses for a restful sleep.”

  -

  I’d woken up before anyone else and went to slip out of bed. Unfortunately, the guys were on the floor and I didn’t feel comfortable walking over them. So I decided to crawl over Amit, which didn’t go over any better.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, accidentally kneeing him somewhere that hopefully wasn’t too sensitive.

  “Aw,” he groaned, his hands on my hips to move me back to his side. “What are you doing?”

  “I have to go,” I whispered, leaning over him and pushing past the strength of his hands.

  “What time is it?”

  “Six.”

  “It’s still early. Stay in bed for another half hour.”

  I pressed my palms into the pillow beneath his head and straddled him.

  “Or right there is fine too . . .”

  I leaned into him and said, “Dude. I’m about to throw down in the ring today. Do you want to get a beatdown too?”

  He lifted his hands to the side in defeat. “I forfeit. What are you doing? Running? Gym? Studying opponents?”

  “All of the above.”

  “Can I join you? Tell me how to help. I’m a great counter.”

  “Thanks, but I need alone time to meditate and focus.” I kissed him quickly. “Remember, y’all stay out of my sight. I don’t want to know you’re there.”

  “Promise. Knock ’em out.”

  I crawled out of bed and did my business in the bathroom and changed into regular workout clothes, braiding my hair to keep it in place for the rest of the day. Then I took my phone and earbuds and went downstairs for breakfast in a ridiculously busy cafeteria. I played a few of the fights while stuffing my face with nutrition that needed to last until after the fights. I studied the girls who advanced alongside me. They were my competitors, and, for two more days, my greatest adversaries, but they were also fighters to be admired. Their techniques were precision, viper paced.

  After gleaning what I could from the recordings, I went on a walk through the busy streets to loosen up. The songs playing through my earbuds were lyrical, mellow, uplifting, easy to relax to and meditate through. After stretches and practice kicks and squats and upper cuts, I went in for another massage, this time much lighter. The meditation continued, my energy harnessed and focused in a dimly lit room filled with the glow of candles and aromatherapy oils.

  Returning to my floor, I found a quiet nook and replayed the recorded fights, and this time studied my own techniques. My brain divided and compartmentalized all the moves, both theirs and mine, and fit them together. If they came at me this way, which ways could I react for the most efficient strikes or take-downs, and with little exhaustion on my part? The judges gave points based on quality of hits, level of defense, and Muay Thai skill, but also deduc
ted based on levels of exhaustion, amount of bruising and injury, and blocked strikes.

  I studied hard, in-depth. But I had to admit that studying Muay Thai was better than calculus any day!

  My thoughts wandered toward Amit, and not in a crushing vibe sort of way. He had an arsenal of programming fragments lined up, individually strong and impressive, but useless if not placed in the right arrangement. It was the same for my skill. My arsenal was strong, but it had to pair beautifully with what the opponent brought in order to shine.

  At 8:30 a.m., I returned to the hotel room to find everyone awake and taking turns in the bathroom.

  Lily banged on the door. “She’s back. Hurry up!”

  Within two minutes, Kimmy popped out and I had enough privacy to change into my day two Muay Thai black shorts with a red stripe and a matching top. I triple checked my duffel bag for all the necessary gear and called back on my way out, “I don’t want to see any of y’all there!”

  “Take them out!” they chanted in return.

  -

  On the stadium floor, Coach grasped my shoulders and pressed his forehead to mine. “You rested?”

  “Yes.”

  “Limber?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aching?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hurting?”

  “No.”

  “Ate this morning but not full now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Studied their moves? Meditated?”

  “Yes.”

  “Feel the power of all the fighters who brought you here, all of those at your gym, of the spirit of your trainer and those before you, of those who molded even the smallest of your techniques. Feel them in your blood, in your bones, in your soul. You represent all of them, all of us.”

  I nodded as he ended in a whisper, “Now take these girls out.”

  With those final words, I closed my eyes and felt the heat and strength of my sport climb through me. I did not come to play. I came to fight. I came to win.

  “Kareena Thakkar,” Steve announced from the computerized random selection of those few names left.

  I didn’t keep an account of the names of my opponents. I liked it better that way. They couldn’t be thought of as girls with lives working for similar things, girls deserving of the prize, but rather rivals seen by their strengths and weaknesses.

  My opponent and I walked to the center of the ring and touched gloves. Her arms were bruised, and she harbored the slightest limp on her right side. From our fight yesterday and her other fights, she had a mean upper cut and a kick like a slab of concrete.

  The gong rang. One-and-a-half-minute increments never felt longer when being in the ring with someone like Upper-Cut. She got me twice, nearly jostling the teeth out of my jaw and brought tears to my eyes. Not crybaby tears, but automatic tears.

  I stumbled back, almost touching the ropes. The crowd went wild but quickly muffled into white noise. Everything beyond the ring blurred. I’d entered the zone. My head pounded with the rush of my pulse. Adrenaline spiked through the roof, making my movements fast, my feet nimble, my strikes like Thor’s hammer. I imagined lightning and thunder exploding, blinding Upper-Cut with every hit. It didn’t matter if this was all in my head. I couldn’t be stopped.

  During the breaks, I soaked up every second of rest, but it wasn’t enough. My body screamed and we went at it again. She blocked my moves with efficiency, and I blocked hers just as well. I couldn’t get to her right side, but I was able to pound those forearms when she blocked. Her bruises worsened.

  We’d exhausted one another in the third round, and I saw myself in her. Rivers of sweat cascading down her face, arms, and legs. Bruises galore darkening her brown skin. Swelling developing beneath those bruises. Bellowing muscles beneath all the injuries. Broken skin, droplets of blood. Hot air escaping in hard, rigid breaths desperate for oxygen.

  We went at it again but ended up clinching. I couldn’t take her down. She couldn’t take me down. We tied when the gong rang and the referee yelled in our ears, “Break!”

  We immediately went to our corners and plopped down on the stools as our coaches removed our gloves, our eyes swirling flares, intent on each other.

  In that moment, we knew. We knew we’d fight again. We knew the other would make it to the finals. We knew our arch nemesis in this Open, the one to beat, the one to fear, the one to study, the one head I had to get into.

  She’d gained the full ten points in our bout, but since she won by a small margin, I stayed close on her heels at nine points.

  My second fighter lost her edge later that morning during our bout. She’d been brutally hurt from her recent fights and it was unfair to give the final blow when the work had been done for me. But I took the win. I called her Roundhouse Kick because she had a surprise move that could’ve thrown me into the ropes if my nimbleness and blocks hadn’t stopped her. And if she wasn’t holding back because of whatever aches and injuries we’d driven into her yesterday.

  I watched the other fighters from the bench, absolutely depleted, and consciously reminded myself not to lean to the left, my more wounded side, or slouch to let on how tired or hurt I was. There could be no indication of my weaknesses.

  I waited as they tallied our scores. Held my breath as Steve called out who would advance. He called my name. My heart nearly stopped dead in my throat. I’d made it to the finals?

  Coach grinned and slapped my shoulder. I didn’t flinch. We both did that intentionally, I told myself. No fear, no pain.

  “Way to go kiddo!”

  The crowd behind us roared, engaged with the results.

  Then I looked at her, Upper-Cut. Steve had called her name too. Syla. We locked eyes on one another. All I heard after that were the distant cheers, and in the forefront, my heavy breaths and the pulse behind my ears.

  Syla was who I came for.

  Thirty

  We were in the middle of the final bout and nothing else mattered.

  They called me the girl on fire and Syla, aka Upper-Cut, was in scorching range. My nerves lit up like an Indian house at Diwali. My throat and mouth were parched desert dry, my legs heavy, my insides gooey.

  Coach’s words rang in my thoughts. “Get out of your head.”

  She had a weakened right side and forearms so bruised they swelled up. Her legs were weaker than mine, although her giant biceps lent to furious punches.

  We tapped gloves and retreated to our corners. The gong sounded, drowning out my raging pulse and reigned over the roaring crowds. The first hit was always the hardest, so we got that out of the way within the first ten seconds.

  We went hit for hit, block for block. We were where we’d been the last two times we fought, and if they were an indication of anything, that meant we would nearly tie. But there were no ties here. She always beat me by one point. A one-point divergence meant the difference between first and second place, between the prize money and a commemorative medal. One point could be the gap between being a USMTO participant and a US world champ, a future Muay Thai Olympian.

  One point was too much to gamble.

  Upper-Cut came with her signature move and I blocked. Her force hit like a concrete swing. My feet scraped the floor as the impact pushed me back. My back almost brushed the ropes.

  This was not how I would go down. I harnessed all of my energy—all the anger and insecurities from the past and present, the hopes for Papa and what winning could pay for and lead to. It grew into a ball of whirling power that turned into an insurmountable, uncontrolled vortex.

  I was the girl on fire. And what was fire if not unpredictable?

  I would not win this bout with my usual moves. I’d seen from the recordings what nearly took out Upper-Cut, and I went for it. All gamble, all-precision rage.

  The flying knee. She went for another punch. I ducked and s
wung up followed by a closely followed knee. My fist dug into her bruised forearm block, which left her midsection exposed, fully susceptible to the flying knee. Into her right, weakened side.

  She went down. Her shin hit the floor, throwing her off balance. Her palm touched the ground.

  The referee appeared, yelling, “Stop!”

  I had to go to my corner, my feet constantly moving, bouncing as he bent down in front of my opponent and, with each number, cut his hand through the air as a visual count coupled with a verbal one so that no matter if she were loopy or dazed, it was clear to her, to me, to the crowds and judges.

  He made it to eight and she shoved herself up. He asked, “You okay?”

  She nodded and growled.

  He signaled me back to the middle and we started over.

  We did the same dance again, but she braced herself for my knee.

  The gong rang.

  The referee yelled, “Break!”

  We disengaged from the tight, immovable clinching and went to our corners. I didn’t hear a word Coach spat into my ear. I swished the water he offered, allowed him to wipe away my sweat and blood, but kept my eyes on her. She winced ever so slightly when her coach dabbed her right side. She would protect that side with everything she had now.

  Good.

  The gong sounded and we sprang to our feet. She came at me with her best upper body moves. I swung low and to the side and pounded into her left side. When she went to block, I went for the right, one strike after another, faster than a viper, harder than a boulder.

  Renewed by a surge of intense energy, I twirled to the side, ending behind her, coercing her to spin around. Spinning to face me forced disorientation, lagging, and surprise on her part. I swung. My gloved fist punched her in the center of her face. Blood sprouted from her busted lip and nose and brow.

  She fell back. Her butt hit the floor, but she bounced up. She squatted, one palm on her face, the other hovering over the floor.

  The referee stopped the fight and I went to my corner, pacing. Stay down.

  Again, he made it to the eight-second count. She rose. I approached.