eating a double-decker at a local restaurant resurfaced somewhere towards the beginning of the round.
I could go for one right about now…
Spencer runs his palm across the dry-erase board, smearing everything he’d written. Conceivably, this would be alarming. Conceivably.
Yeah, well I’m just hopeful that there won’t be a follow-up lecture.
I mean look at what I’m doing:
JAB
JAB
JAB
JAB
HOLD
Versus what X is doing:
BLOCK
WEEVE-JAB TO BODY
LEFT HOOK
RIGHT HOOK
STRAIGHT
Keep in mind that this is all news to me.
Can’t recall what happened this round.
Turns out I didn’t miss anything. I missed every single punch thrown, leaving myself open fifty percent of the time for X to throw in a combination, score more points, make me look terrible.
It’s a horrible performance. I admit it.
When I attempt to clinch, I leave myself wide open. X sees every single clinch coming so what does he do?
BACK PEDAL
TWO STEPS
LEAN BACK
WATCH ME GRAB AIR
PERFECT STRAIGHT
HOOK TO THE FACE
I don’t cut easily. I have taken a lot of damage these last couple decades, compounded misery on layaway, but hell if I’ve kept myself fairly clean, give or take a welt or two on occasion.
But blood flows by round seven from the wound on my face that would swell and become the welt that led me to the hospital.
Take one of those dry-erase markers and draw a face on the welt and from a far enough distance, from the POV of a druggie or drunk son-of-a-bitch, they just might figure the welt for a conjoined twin, a second face, skull and all. It swelled and throbbed and pained me for hours, a day, even now I feel numb to the touch on that side of my face.
The painkillers, you see.
Spencer sighs.
Says nothing.
Here it comes.
ROUND EIGHT
Wow, the welt is already forming; the referee pulls me aside and says something to me. Can’t hear it from the side of the ring but it’s the usual measure of consciousness. Answer the question:
Is this fighter out on his feet or is he still fighting?
The referee should have called it right then and there. Part of me is glad that he didn’t because it’s far more embarrassing to lose the fight between rounds; however, what happened next, about a minute into round eight, might have been one of the worst experiences of my life.
You’ll see what I mean.
I still see the sequence in slow motion.
X opts to let me try for the clinch but for a time, about fifteen seconds, we are at a standstill, waiting.
He waits for another stupid mistake.
I’m waiting to fall asleep. The audience wants this to be over and those that remain in their seats are only there in hopes of seeing a KO.
JAB
He toys around with the jab.
JAB
I block one but absorb the next.
JAB
He wants me to fight.
X knows that he has the fight won; he’s looking for the perfect time to plant that exclamation point on VICTORY.
JAB
He gets there quickly, with the single most important tool in the sweet science that is boxing.
JAB
I block.
JAB
Again, I block.
JAB
Only a matter of time and the time is now.
I absorb the jab and try for my own. Grazes his glove, which he then uses as an opportunity to threaten me with an outlandish, taunting haymaker.
I narrowly block it.
He grins, mouthpiece showing, ‘XXX’ can be seen printed across the piece. The audience is a low roar, everyone sensing blood.
JAB
JAB
JAB
Trio of jabs, two hitting me right on the nose, shaking me free, doing the trick by sending a signal, ANGER, from some part of my mind that’s still somehow working and you know what happens next. What happens next is exactly what X wanted to happen.
I foolishly go for the clinch.
I grab air.
NOTHING
And something for any highlight reel:
Perfectly executed uppercut, landing right under the chin.
And I fall back, perhaps because I was still grabbing for him I end up grabbing the ropes on my way
I could go for one right about now…
Spencer runs his palm across the dry-erase board, smearing everything he’d written. Conceivably, this would be alarming. Conceivably.
Yeah, well I’m just hopeful that there won’t be a follow-up lecture.
I mean look at what I’m doing:
JAB
JAB
JAB
JAB
HOLD
Versus what X is doing:
BLOCK
WEEVE-JAB TO BODY
LEFT HOOK
RIGHT HOOK
STRAIGHT
Keep in mind that this is all news to me.
Can’t recall what happened this round.
Turns out I didn’t miss anything. I missed every single punch thrown, leaving myself open fifty percent of the time for X to throw in a combination, score more points, make me look terrible.
It’s a horrible performance. I admit it.
When I attempt to clinch, I leave myself wide open. X sees every single clinch coming so what does he do?
BACK PEDAL
TWO STEPS
LEAN BACK
WATCH ME GRAB AIR
PERFECT STRAIGHT
HOOK TO THE FACE
I don’t cut easily. I have taken a lot of damage these last couple decades, compounded misery on layaway, but hell if I’ve kept myself fairly clean, give or take a welt or two on occasion.
But blood flows by round seven from the wound on my face that would swell and become the welt that led me to the hospital.
Take one of those dry-erase markers and draw a face on the welt and from a far enough distance, from the POV of a druggie or drunk son-of-a-bitch, they just might figure the welt for a conjoined twin, a second face, skull and all. It swelled and throbbed and pained me for hours, a day, even now I feel numb to the touch on that side of my face.
The painkillers, you see.
Spencer sighs.
Says nothing.
Here it comes.
ROUND EIGHT
Wow, the welt is already forming; the referee pulls me aside and says something to me. Can’t hear it from the side of the ring but it’s the usual measure of consciousness. Answer the question:
Is this fighter out on his feet or is he still fighting?
The referee should have called it right then and there. Part of me is glad that he didn’t because it’s far more embarrassing to lose the fight between rounds; however, what happened next, about a minute into round eight, might have been one of the worst experiences of my life.
You’ll see what I mean.
I still see the sequence in slow motion.
X opts to let me try for the clinch but for a time, about fifteen seconds, we are at a standstill, waiting.
He waits for another stupid mistake.
I’m waiting to fall asleep. The audience wants this to be over and those that remain in their seats are only there in hopes of seeing a KO.
JAB
He toys around with the jab.
JAB
I block one but absorb the next.
JAB
He wants me to fight.
X knows that he has the fight won; he’s looking for the perfect time to plant that exclamation point on VICTORY.
JAB
He gets there quickly, with the single most important tool in the sweet science that is boxing.
JAB
I block.
JAB
Again, I block.
JAB
Only a matter of time and the time is now.
I absorb the jab and try for my own. Grazes his glove, which he then uses as an opportunity to threaten me with an outlandish, taunting haymaker.
I narrowly block it.
He grins, mouthpiece showing, ‘XXX’ can be seen printed across the piece. The audience is a low roar, everyone sensing blood.
JAB
JAB
JAB
Trio of jabs, two hitting me right on the nose, shaking me free, doing the trick by sending a signal, ANGER, from some part of my mind that’s still somehow working and you know what happens next. What happens next is exactly what X wanted to happen.
I foolishly go for the clinch.
I grab air.
NOTHING
And something for any highlight reel:
Perfectly executed uppercut, landing right under the chin.
And I fall back, perhaps because I was still grabbing for him I end up grabbing the ropes on my way
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