watching.
I can hear him say, “You don’t need me to tell you. I’m sure you’re still feeling the impact of that left hook.”
I tell him that I am.
The left hook heard around the world.
“That should have been your left hook.”
It used to be mine.
Now all I do is hold.
HOLD
HOLD
HOLD
HOLD
Even though he doesn’t knock me down, the judges score round four an “eight,” two points that hit right at the heart. The round goes to Executioner.
It’s because I performed little more than the role of the punching bag.
I took the punches and grabbed for dear life.
X mumbled about thirty seconds from the end of the round:
What is wrong with you?
You tell me.
I’m kind of finding it difficult to say much of anything.
ROUND FIVE
No comment.
That’s the official statement.
Spencer stares at the dry-erase board, baffled at the scribble.
“You need a lot of work…”
You can say that again.
He stuns me this round with something that doesn’t quite register but it definitely stung. Much like a bee sting, it tingled and then shot right to the back of my brain, a numbing pain.
It’s the uppercut.
The same damn uppercut.
I was always good at carefully throwing in an uppercut at the end of a combination. I could really get the glove right under the chin, the kind of punch that sends glassjaws crying and cast-iron chins to the ground.
Not that I ever really did.
During my prime, I fought more just like me.
We took the punches like we planned on early retirement. They wear on you over the years. I wonder how bad my memory, my reflexes, my conditioning will be five, ten, fifteen years from now.
But okay, the uppercut.
Didn’t see it coming (which means X did a great job connecting).
I don’t remember how long I was on the ground but it wasn’t for long. You fight enough and you can get by for a while, at least half the fight, on instinct, muscle memory, the routine of having heard, smelled, and felt pretty much everything you’d expect in a fight.
Sensory cues from decades of self-affliction.
Remnants of a fighter that can’t stop fighting himself.
ROUND SIX
It all comes apart after that uppercut knockdown in the fifth.
Spencer is silent, chews gum. Watches in silent dismay.
It’s bad, and he’s no longer bothering to rant or even comment. I get the sense that he wants to shut the footage off as much as I do; however, it stays on as I look like a wreck in round six.
X has me pinned against the ropes for a third of the round.
BLOCK
HOLD
SHORT LIFELESS HOOKS TO THE BODY
It’s what I do to survive.
To the referee it appeared as though I was all right.
Can’t say that I was but again, fighter’s instinct.
“Were there any lights on during the last three rounds?”
Can’t say that there were so I don’t say anything.
Spencer blows a bubble, lets it pop and hang over his lower lip for a few seconds before pulling it back into his mouth with his tongue.
“Rookie mistake.”
ROUND SEVEN
So by now everyone in the audience expects X to win. If it goes to decision, X is victor, no doubt about it. This is one of those cases where I basically have to knock him out in order to win.
And that wasn’t going to happen.
Everyone knew it.
People stood up and left.
There were a few rounds left in the fight but it seemed as though everyone had it all fought out in their mind. They knew how it would end. We fought it out, lagging behind the times.
I watch the footage, not at all familiar with what happened in round seven.
I was out on my feet, nothing there.
You know how everything is muted when underwater, both sight and sound cloudy and obtuse?
That’s how it feels after being stunned, your mind slush, random thoughts, sometimes as odd as the last time you called your mom, rise up from the grey matter of your memory.
For me, round seven was all about hamburgers. I tasted a bacon cheeseburger, craved it, after the half-memory of
I can hear him say, “You don’t need me to tell you. I’m sure you’re still feeling the impact of that left hook.”
I tell him that I am.
The left hook heard around the world.
“That should have been your left hook.”
It used to be mine.
Now all I do is hold.
HOLD
HOLD
HOLD
HOLD
Even though he doesn’t knock me down, the judges score round four an “eight,” two points that hit right at the heart. The round goes to Executioner.
It’s because I performed little more than the role of the punching bag.
I took the punches and grabbed for dear life.
X mumbled about thirty seconds from the end of the round:
What is wrong with you?
You tell me.
I’m kind of finding it difficult to say much of anything.
ROUND FIVE
No comment.
That’s the official statement.
Spencer stares at the dry-erase board, baffled at the scribble.
“You need a lot of work…”
You can say that again.
He stuns me this round with something that doesn’t quite register but it definitely stung. Much like a bee sting, it tingled and then shot right to the back of my brain, a numbing pain.
It’s the uppercut.
The same damn uppercut.
I was always good at carefully throwing in an uppercut at the end of a combination. I could really get the glove right under the chin, the kind of punch that sends glassjaws crying and cast-iron chins to the ground.
Not that I ever really did.
During my prime, I fought more just like me.
We took the punches like we planned on early retirement. They wear on you over the years. I wonder how bad my memory, my reflexes, my conditioning will be five, ten, fifteen years from now.
But okay, the uppercut.
Didn’t see it coming (which means X did a great job connecting).
I don’t remember how long I was on the ground but it wasn’t for long. You fight enough and you can get by for a while, at least half the fight, on instinct, muscle memory, the routine of having heard, smelled, and felt pretty much everything you’d expect in a fight.
Sensory cues from decades of self-affliction.
Remnants of a fighter that can’t stop fighting himself.
ROUND SIX
It all comes apart after that uppercut knockdown in the fifth.
Spencer is silent, chews gum. Watches in silent dismay.
It’s bad, and he’s no longer bothering to rant or even comment. I get the sense that he wants to shut the footage off as much as I do; however, it stays on as I look like a wreck in round six.
X has me pinned against the ropes for a third of the round.
BLOCK
HOLD
SHORT LIFELESS HOOKS TO THE BODY
It’s what I do to survive.
To the referee it appeared as though I was all right.
Can’t say that I was but again, fighter’s instinct.
“Were there any lights on during the last three rounds?”
Can’t say that there were so I don’t say anything.
Spencer blows a bubble, lets it pop and hang over his lower lip for a few seconds before pulling it back into his mouth with his tongue.
“Rookie mistake.”
ROUND SEVEN
So by now everyone in the audience expects X to win. If it goes to decision, X is victor, no doubt about it. This is one of those cases where I basically have to knock him out in order to win.
And that wasn’t going to happen.
Everyone knew it.
People stood up and left.
There were a few rounds left in the fight but it seemed as though everyone had it all fought out in their mind. They knew how it would end. We fought it out, lagging behind the times.
I watch the footage, not at all familiar with what happened in round seven.
I was out on my feet, nothing there.
You know how everything is muted when underwater, both sight and sound cloudy and obtuse?
That’s how it feels after being stunned, your mind slush, random thoughts, sometimes as odd as the last time you called your mom, rise up from the grey matter of your memory.
For me, round seven was all about hamburgers. I tasted a bacon cheeseburger, craved it, after the half-memory of
Similar Books
Five Stars: Five Outstanding Tales from the early days of Stupefying Stories
Aaron Starr, Guy Stewart, Rebecca Roland, David Landrum, Ryan Jones
