Desperately clutching his new
white flags, his new millennium embossed white flags, linen white, exchanged
years ago for bloodied red ones. White flags proudly worn for a while now, he
wipes his brow of the sweat accumulated from the fear he has been living with
for the past few months. A fear that some old thought truce would not hold,
that he would mercilessly be called to account. He, still rubber tire around
the middle, he brown turning grey turning to white, he comfortable with an
off-hand jabbing session and back room talk about old time exploits and when
guys were really tough. And about how he could stand toe to toe with the best
of them (forgetting to mention, “for a while”). Talk, all talk. But signs portended
some danger, some confrontation, some one more beating, and maybe some real
damage this time. To his almighty soul condition if nothing else.
His old time opponent, a few pounds heavily, a
few tricks wiser after a fistful of fights, a more checkered record than when
they first did battle where that big
brawny young flash mopped the floor up with him, without a sweat, in two rounds
had dusted off the old moth-eaten contract.
The old option contract that called for a rematch at either party’s beck
and call. No expiration date given. He could see the wheels working in that now
slower opponent’s mind. His manager’s really. Hell, he had done the same thing
himself on the way up. Use him for a dust mop and then back to the “bigs.” Damn
that option, damn that contract, damn that Sam
for making him sign the damn thing even though right after the previous
match, brains egg-scrambled, he had yelled out rematch, anytime, anyway.
Nothing to do but get ready,
get a little, a very little, of that
rubber tire off the middle, and learn
to back up to the ropes fast, jack lightning fast. Hell, he chuckled,
that was the easy part. The big event came and his ancient arms folded,
hard-folded against the rainless night, raining, he carefully turned right, left,
careful of every move as the crowd comes forward. He eyed their murderous eyes,
money in hand, “smart” money as always on the younger, faster man, more a
matter of rounds than victories, but murderous eyes, aflame with an easy
victory. Glory days be damned the guy in
front of him looked plenty tough still.
After the ritualistic formalities were over the bell rang-go to it, boys. The first round begins. He holds his own, like he had always done in every fight (never knocked out in the first round, ever, a source of pride, drink in hand barroom, pride) a little wobbly, a little rubber tire around the middle wobbly, but moving in and out to avoid the bigger man’s still fearsome blows. Hell, after all these years the guy is not even that winded. A memory from the first match flashes before him. It was like a phalanx of something driving him to the ground, or about six corner boys from his youth, his sullen youth when six guys decided that he was, what? Mush? A fag? Stupid? Those guys didn’t know nothing .Second round he runs into a series of upper-cuts that drive him to the floor. He stagger on his knees and then up on the eight count. But he notices that the blows were not as fearsome as of old and his opponent shows just a hint of fatigue around his eyes. Another barrage. Down. Back up again on nine. Close. The bell rings. He has survived two rounds. Some “smart” money is not going to be happy this night, no way.
Third round. He faces another
barrage, rights then lefts. He wobbles, knees akimbo, if that is possible and
after this mauling it probably is. He hits the floor. Face down, stay down. You have proved your
point, go collect your dough. Once
again, as if on call, a distant muted echo hits his brain, his egg- scrambled
brain, don’t give up the fight. He is ready this time though, smart, maybe not
ring smart but life smart now. Tomorrow is another day. Hell, there are always
other days. If not me then some young hungry guy, some barrio guy, some ghetto
guy, hell, maybe both. His brain says… Out.
As he lays on the cooling
board locker room gurney he remember old Sam, damn, money-fisted old Sam, and
what he said before that last fight. Or was it some other guy. Well, some old
guy, met, or guys like him, met long ago said going into the damn fight and I
quote, he said struggle, struggle. Yah, it was easy for you to say, buddy. You didn’t have to go three rounds with the
guy. Jesus he never let up even with those fatigued eyes. Give me those damn
white flags, jesus.
Funny though he noticed as he was carried out to the locker room that white flags, or not, the crowd, not a crowd, no, a horde, a beastly horde, was sullen, not like the old days when they would sent up a Bronx cheer. This was no time to stick out with white flags (or bloodied red ones, for that matter).
Later, dressed, white flags
placed in back pockets, he jumped out of the way of the hordes passing through
the doors after the feature fight, the horde passing brushing him lightly, not
aware, not apparently aware of the white flags. Good. What did that other guy,
that old guy say, say, oh yes, struggle.
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