Fighting the Hardest Opponent of All (860 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.71 on 19 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Espo (View user info) at 2005-02-20 22:10:07 EST
*Author's Note* - another attempt at fiction. Longish, but I hope worth the read. Enjoy.
I walked down the dim hallway, black gym bag slung over my shoulder, eyes locked on the thick, brown door at the end of the hall. Before I opened it, I glanced up at the sign above the door: "River City Boxing Club," it reads.
The large bulldog logo with boxing gloves hanging out of its mouth grinned back at me. Pop had trained here, before he died, and I couldn't remember how many times Ma had strictly forbidden me from ever coming here, but this was what I was born to do. It was in my blood.
As I opened the door to the club, the stale, sweat-soaked air rushed into my nostrils. That was the smell of hard work, dedication, and perseverance.
That's what Pop used to say, when he would take me here after school and I would watch him train. I would sit there on the side of one of the makeshift rings, my feet dangling in the air, my shoelaces not even halfway to the ground, and watch my father and other big, sweaty men tie gloves onto their hands and beat eighty pound bags that hung from the low ceiling. Beat those sand-filled bags until their arms were numb and their hands swelled as if they had been stung by a swarm of bees.
Those were the good old days, the days before Pop took one too many hits to the head and wound up in a coma. I can remember making weekly visits to the River City Hospital.
Every Sunday after church, Ma and I would drive over to "see daddy." She would always cry - sitting there, holding his hand, talking to him. But he never answered, never cried with her, never squeezed her hand.
Things were like that for almost two years before he passed away. And now, almost 15 years later, I had come to realize something - that was part of the sport of boxing. Every fighter took that risk every time he stepped in the ring. Back when boxing was young, it was not uncommon for men to die in the ring. I understood that now - and I liked it.
"Hey, Spice." I said to the old, gnarled man sitting on a stool by the side of one of the rings. I had to speak loud in the gym, almost yell. Between the constant drum of gloves against bags, the constant sucking of air, and Spice's poor hearing, I had to be loud to be noticed.
"Hey, Bobby. You're late." He snarled, his gravelly voice the product of years of yelling from the corners of canvas around the country.
"I know, I know. My last class ran late and I missed my bus."
"Yeah...well, I don't know why you waste your damn time at that school, boy. How are we ever gonna get you in decent shape for you first fight when you show up late for training? Huh? You're gonna get squashed like a grape out there, kid. Now get your head outta your ass and get changed. We got work to do."
"Yeah, Spice. Be out in a minute." I said over my shoulder as I jogged to the locker room.
***
It had been a tough three hours.
Spice had really worked me hard, probably in retaliation for being late. There was something about those days, when Spice really worked me hard...I really felt alive. Pop always said you've never lived until you've beat a bag so hard you started seeing white spots.
Spice called it "the white."
"That's where you test your soul, kid. You start seeing the white, that's when you know you're really giving it all you got. This sport demands that. This life demands that." He would say before a tough practice, trying to motivate me.
I sure as hell saw the white that day. Almost passed out I worked so hard. But the pain I felt when I was training was nothing compared to the hellstorm I knew I would have to face when I went home.
"Hi Ma." I said, not too loud, though. I hoped it wasn't loud enough to wake her up if she had fallen asleep on the couch again.
"I'm in the kitchen, Bobby." She wasn't sleeping.
I wearily trod to the kitchen, the sweat-stained clothes in my bag soaking through the thin material and seeping onto my shirt. It was almost 10 p.m., and I knew she had an early shift at the office the next day. She should be in bed, but she had stayed up - she knew where I'd been.
"Where were you?" She spat at me, already knowing the answer.
"I was at the gym, mom. You know I lift with a bunch of my buddies from school."
"Bullshit. Let me see your hands."
I slowly lifted my sore, swollen hands out of my pockets. Almost as soon as they were out, Ma grabbed me by both wrists and pulled both hands directly under the light.
"You bastard! Why do you lie to me every week! You think I don't know how you get hands like this? You've been boxing again, you heartless bastard! The one thing I ask you not to do, and you go and do it. Why?" She was on the verge of tears, again. She always got this way when she caught me coming back from the gym.
She was right, though.
Grandpa had been a boxer, not a bad one either. A Gold Glove fighter, in his time. I had a photo of him in his youth, hunched over in the old, now seemingly-awkward fighting stance, next to my bed. He had come to America as a Italian and made a name for himself in the featherweight division - literally fought for a living.
Then my mother had married my father, and now he was dead - from boxing. And now here I was, standing in her kitchen, a "third generation idiot," as she would say.
She had always said that my father and grandfather had never had anything - that boxing was a way to make a living. But I was different - I was getting an education - I could be somebody, not some punk kid who liked to punch a bag and beat people up.
"I'm sorry, Ma. It's just..."
"It's just what?" she yelled, in between sobs.
"Well, Spice thinks it's time I stepped into the ring - ya know... for my first fight. See what I'm made of."
She stared at me in disbelief, as if I just told her I was getting married - to a guy. When she finally did speak, it was as if she was possessed by a demon.
"You tell that sonuvabitch Spice," She snarled, "that no son of mine will ever step into a ring. Ever! Do you understand me, Bobby? That man killed your father and I won't let him train my only son into an early grave! That's final!"
"Yes ma'am. No more training." I said sullenly. There was nothing else to do but to agree with her and move on.
"Good." She said, and, taking a fistful of tissues with her, strode upstairs to bed.
***
After an outburst like that, I figured I would have to lay low for a while. I called up Spice that night to let him know that things on the homefront were not going well, and that I might have to miss a few training sessions. Spice didn't take it very well.
"You listen to me, boy. I know you're Ma hates me like the devil himself, but your Ma ain't gonna beat you like these animals you're gonna fight are gonna beat you. Do ya want a few slaps upside the head, or four weeks in the hospital? Get your priorities straight, boy."
So I started going to the gym early. 4 a.m. early. Packed my gym bag, put on sweats, and ran the 3 miles to the gym every morning. When Ma started to get suspicious, I told her I had got an early morning job delivering newspapers in town.
It wasn't a great excuse, but I just needed her to believe it for a few weeks, until my first fight.
When Ma started working a late shift at the office, sometimes from noon straight through till midnight, I went back to my old training schedule with Spice, straight to the gym after classes. Things were going well.
Spice had me on a tough regimen, but I knew I was getting stronger and faster and my technique was improving. The thought of my first fight consumed me. Every time I stepped in the right, I felt free. In between the ropes, I could prove myself to anyone.
Just me and the body God have given me and I had spent months molding into a well-oiled fighting machine.
Pure.
There was no doubt in my mind that I was born for this.
About a week before my first fight, I came home at the normal time to what I thought was an empty house. I threw my bag down in the kitchen and made myself dinner. After I cleaned the dishes I went up to my room to change, and found Ma standing next to my bed, fists clenched, eyes burning with rage.
"What did I tell you about boxing?!" She yelled, her face already flush with anger.
I didn't know what to say. I was too busy looking in abject horror at the mess that was formerly my room. It had been a veritable Boxing Hall of Fame.
I had posters of all the greats: Rocky Marciano, Muhammad Ali, George Foreman, Sonny Liston, Sugar Ray Robinson, and even the long forgotten greats, like Jack Johnson. I had photos, posters, collector's edition autographed gloves, pieces of mats, ticket stubs, magazines, the works. My room had become a shrine to all that I strived for in my own life.
And now, my mother was standing in between two large garbage cans brimming with everything I had ever respected and loved.
"What...what happened to my room?" I stammered.
"You're done. No more boxing, no more fighting. You're going to go to school and get a good education, if it kills me!" Ma had reached the end of her rope.
"Ma, my first fight is in a week! You gotta let me fight! I've worked too damn hard for you to just shut the door now!"
"I've been telling you this for months, Bobby. Hell, I've told you this since you were a boy. You can do anything you like, but no boxing!"
Those last two words, "no boxing." They were like a railroad tie through my heart. I hadn't had the heart to tell Ma that I was planning on dropping out of school after this semester. I had decided that I was going to devote my life to the family profession, and if she kicked me out of the house, so be it. I was totally dedicated.
"Ma, I know you're scared. You lost Pa to boxing, and you don't want to lose me too. But dammit, this is what I want to do with my life, and I'll be damned if you're gonna stop me! I'm dropping out of school, Ma? Ya hear me?! Dropping out! I'm gonna train with Spice and I'm gonna be great one day!"
While she was stood there in silence, dumbfounded that her only son was about to walk out of her house, I picked up my gym bag and ran down the stairs, out the front door, and kept going. There was no going back.
I was a boxer.
Just like Pop.
***
As I knocked on the grimy door, paint chips fell to the ground in front of my shoes. No answer. I knocked again, louder this time, remembering he was hard of hearing. After a few moments, I heard the soft steps of old feet on the floor.
"Hey Spice...I know this is kinda weird - " I didn't really know what to say as I stared at old Spice.
He stared back at me, his crooked nose and gnarled ears the telltale signs of an old boxer, but there was a certain glint in his eyes that I had never seen before.
"You don't need to say anymore, kid. I knew this was gonna happen eventually. That crazy hag of a mother ya got would crack sooner or later. I was sure about that. Come on in."
User Reviews
Submitted by Jungle_Jimanee (user info) at 2005-03-15 07:31:33 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Great, more please.
Submitted by Huber_the_Nose (user info) at 2005-03-15 07:17:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by madddonkey255 (user info) at 2005-02-26 01:24:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Great
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2005-02-21 04:59:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Fuck it, have a 1.5
Submitted by darko (user info) at 2005-02-21 04:59:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Yet another victim of my rating system. I'll go and give a shitty post a +2, and then give a well written post a +1 based on it was good but not great. Though in all honesty I don't know what you could have done to have made this better.
Submitted by munkeypants (user info) at 2005-02-21 04:48:22 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by espo (user info) at 2005-02-21 00:05:41 (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks for the vote of confidence, sidey. I blame myself mostly for this post...poor timing...should have saved it for Monday. Hopefully people still enjoy it. Thanks again.
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that's exactly why. timing is a big factor.
good post.
Submitted by garcon_fou (user info) at 2005-02-21 01:55:57 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by espo (user info) at 2005-02-21 00:05:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Sideburns (user info) at 2005-02-20 23:33:59 (#)
Ranking: 2
It pisses me off that you put just as much effort into your posts as I do and don't get as many ratings and reviews as you deserve.
I should fix this.
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Thanks for the vote of confidence, sidey. I blame myself mostly for this post...poor timing...should have saved it for Monday. Hopefully people still enjoy it. Thanks again.
espo
Submitted by peckerhead (user info) at 2005-02-20 23:52:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I understand that Clint Eastwood is odds on favorite to win Best Director at the upcoming Academy Awards -- for "Million Dollar Baby". The movie is predictable and fun for over an hour - and then it changes. Anyone expecting a "female Rocky" is in for a surprise. Anyone expecting feel-good, simple or light entertainment should not see Million Dollar Baby. Anyone looking for simple or light reading should probably stay away from stories like this one by espo. It is unfortunate when someone is forced to choose between well intentioned wishes of a parent or family member... and his/her dream. At a minimum, this well written story illustrates this conflict. I enjoyed it from start to finish. Thanks espo.
Submitted by stardamage (user info) at 2005-02-20 23:45:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This was so cool. So so cool.
I was gonna post something but now I feel intimidated. Damn you and your awesomeness.
Submitted by Grandma_Puddin (user info) at 2005-02-20 23:35:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Grandma likes.
Submitted by Sideburns (user info) at 2005-02-20 23:33:59 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
It pisses me off that you put just as much effort into your posts as I do and don't get as many ratings and reviews as you deserve.
I should fix this.
Submitted by Degreeless_Capibara (user info) at 2005-02-20 22:50:21 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
best post evar!!!
Submitted by espo (user info) at 2005-02-20 22:44:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by bob (user info) at 2005-02-20 22:39:25 (#)
Ranking: 2
dont ever post serious writing on the weekend.
ever
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I was hoping it was late enough on Sunday for this to quietly sit on the front page for a while and be there for all the people who are bored out of their minds on Monday, but I guess I was wrong.
Fucking weekend users.
Submitted by bob (user info) at 2005-02-20 22:39:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
dont ever post serious writing on the weekend.
ever
Submitted by espo (user info) at 2005-02-20 22:34:47 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Joemama (user info) at 2005-02-20 22:32:28 (#)
Ranking: -1
Your "boxer" is a punk,for living at home with
his mother providing life's necessities.
A little self-projection?
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User id: 13699
Registered on or around: 2004-11-11 02:56:10
# Messages posted: 2
# Reviews written: 715
# Times these posts have been reviewed : 38
# Hits: 670
Average rating of all messages: -0.86
more like a little dick in your mouth.
Submitted by Joemama (user info) at 2005-02-20 22:32:28 EST (#)
Ranking: -1
Your "boxer" is a punk,for living at home with
his mother providing life's necessities.
A little self-projection?
Submitted by bob (user info) at 2005-02-20 22:21:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
my roomie cancelled.
ghey.
im still coming up though.
Submitted by The_Mooninites (user info) at 2005-02-20 22:11:06 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
HOW DARE YOU POST AFTER US YOU FEEL THIS IS BETTER THAN OUR WORK TAKE THIS MINUS TWO AND BE GLAD THAT IT IS THE ONLY THING WE GIVE YOU.