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A story influenced by Jack London’s “A Piece of Steak”
Every time James fights in the squared ring, he feels like dying. Something concrete starts filling up his lungs and rises up to his throat, while his heart is hitting his ribcage like those barbarians who beat drums before a combat. The thing usurps all the space in his throat against oxygen that he breathes in hard. The death approaches him in flesh, not as a still life but a creature, which hibernates inside his body most of the time. Once he starts fighting, it leaps out through his arteries, dancing and whispering, “I’m gonna get you here, James.” For every single breath, to disguise such a fierce battle inside, James needs to rob some air back with the gigantic nostrils on his stocky nose, which is ornamented by scars, cuts, and scratches, which are called Boxers’ Bling-bling. At the same time, he clenches his jaw muscle to bluff his enemy on how tough he is. The lack of oxygen reddens his eyes and usually works pretty well to intimidate whoever is facing him.
Tonight’s fight is longer than normal, but it’s still close to an end. It is the tenth round, and it might take one or two decisive blows to take his enemy, Alonso, down. James excels at right hooks, but Alonso has been keeping his chin low and his forehead leaning at James, which makes it hard for James to give him a chin punch. Alonso’s fists are well positioned, and he makes no unnecessary moves, unlike rookies. James needs to make him reposition then; he needs to show some weakness to invite Alonso in. That could be very dangerous, because Alonso’s blows are swift and strong enough to make real what James fakes.
James tries to balance his focus between the fight inside and the one outside. His throat is burning as if melted iron were flowing through it. James wants to pick up a knife and cut open his throat to let some breeze blow in and cool down the scorching heat. But he has to knock out Alonso first. James starts moving. He plans to throw a right punch, miss it, and pull back a few steps. The key is to lower his left defensive arm so as to leave an opening for a swing or a straight from Alonso. Alonso is too smart to miss this opportunity. And he doesn’t.
Alonso’s punch lands on James’ left eye socket, and James feels how his left eye is squished into his skull at that instant, and how the force shoots through James’ head. His eyesight is shadowed, but he cuts in his right arm between his face and Alonso’s, only a twinkling of an eye before Alonso’s left moves to block the uppercut. James sees his right fist fly towards Alonso’s chin slowly. Every quarter of a second, his mind sees a picture of his right fist en route. These pictures are shuffled in with some other scenes that he sees through his temporarily blind left eye.
He first sees vast inky darkness. Some parts of the darkness turn dark purple. These isolated parts become fluid and start flashing. And then they begin to connect and form amorphous figures. These figures reach to the back of his head and resonate with the pain James has inside. The pain wriggles around his throat and his lungs like white ants. To make things even worse, he has been deprived from oxygen for so long that a twinge irritates his noses and his stomach twitches. He is suffocating. The death comes up against him and looks straight into his half-shut left eye, sneering. And all he can do now is to hope that his arm can swing faster.
Boom! Alonso’s head bounces back and forth, as the blow, with the full swing of James’ arm, the explosive momentum of James’ body, and the agony of James’ simultaneous struggle, strikes at the soft part behind Alonso’s lower jaw. Alonso reels back and lands.
Now the fight stops and James can slow down his moves. He waits aside, resumes his breathes and enjoys the moment when he is regaining the advantage over the death. The referee counts the seconds into Alonso’s ear. After ten seconds, the referee stands up and raises James’ hand up in the air. James wins. For a moment, he wants to cry for his survival of both battles.
James then follows his seconds through a crowd of fans, who welcome their hero with slaps on the back and cheap flatteries despite his seconds’ attempt to hold them back. The fans disgust James. They have no idea what kind of a fight he is going through. They have no idea about his agony! None! He keeps walking cheerlessly, staring at the red “Fighters and Staff Only” sign over the door to the locker room. Selman, the secretary of the club comes close, rests his left hand on James’s right shoulder, and speaks into James’s right ear, “Nicely done, James. Bill wants to know when you are up for the next fight. We have one scheduled in two weeks, and we’re gonna double our bids on you, which means...”
“Let’s figure this out tomorrow. I need to get my inhaler now and you get the fuck out of my way!”
All of a sudden, James runs out of his fighting discipline. The death is running away from the battlefield, but throws him one or two malicious glances. A mixed feeling of weakness and comfort rises from James’ stomach, as he breathes more easily. The feeling that he is still alive softens his thighs and knees. He just wants to sit on the ground and relax alone.
Selman says nothing and starts to walk away. James pulls him back, “Remind me again how much my kid can get if I die in the next fight.” Selman does some calculations in his mind. “Three hundred grand if you’re winning or tied at that point.” Three hundred thousand dollars, James tells himself, it’s worth another deadly battle.
