From a near distance rumbling motorcycle's permeated the air with bass, and I could barely hear her voice. The vast mountains I live under carried the motorcycles sound for miles, slightly raising the voice per individual. The overwhelming noise of automobiles engulfed the scenic lands, and my mind turn submissive with the sun rising. The hydrogen star threw the energy of light about California, illuminating its greatness. It fueled every individual, animal and organism with an abundance of light, and energy. The creator of our travel.
Lining the pomade containers parallel to the edge of the bathroom counter, I laugh at her foolishness, then I call her slutty. The manner of our secret sexual relationship rose her desire for me. Or it could have been my name. But at this point, I don't think it would have mattered for she had lured me in her trap. I thought maybe one day I could love her, enjoying her company over a long time.
I was a professional boxer beginning to shine in the boxing world. Eight victories with seven knockouts. My record was the development of a flawless professional boxing career. It took everything to get here. Sacrificing my social life to study the game of boxing, for the people who mattered most. Family events and social gathering's have all been sacrificed to the precious deity of Boxing. No distractions, no worries. All I was scheduled to do was Box.
She was a petite blonde I met through a friend in high school. I was introduced to her as the infamous, Mike Franco, which seemed to attract her even more.
After some time our relationship blossomed into something beautiful. Like when winter turned to spring. Like when the buck mounted the doe. It was a beautiful gathering of our coming together. I've now limited my moves to a minimum. I wasn't even sure if I could handle this relationship. Could I find the time to give her the attention she needed. Could I sacrifice my current relationship with my girlfriend, for this notion of wanting me.
She was an interesting girl with her whole life ahead of her, and living one day at a time. She had a bad girl attitude that attracted my interest and attention, and I was losing sleep at night because I was off attending to her pleasures. It was my first experience as a professional boxer becoming glorified. Woman flocking to my attention because I had excellent skill in fighting.
This situation I drew was a distraction too early to have in my career. Our relationship was growing fast but in the back of my mind I knew this could never be anything besides a fuck.
Throwing my fists through the air and drawing the blood to the rotator cuff, I begin to break a slight sweat. The shoulder clicks and snaps, and I devise the strategic game plan for the fight. I was fighting a proud Mexican boxer from Sinaloa, Mexico. He had a big heart and a fast right cross, and a reputation for crowd pleasing fights. He was a tough Mexican brawler known in the Southern California boxing community for fast action fights. For months, my team and I had devised a plan to keep the fight on the perimeter where I could use my natural abilities of boxing to overpower him. I had to box him with a quick jab and a heavy right cross. Fighting him at bay with long range punches and swift movement, fiercely maneuvering my head through combat.
"Don't get punched, but punch him." My boxing coach would say. "You can't win by getting punched. Move your damn head!"
Coach Jay had an old time look about him and wore funny looking shoes. The shoes had a spring on the heel that elevated him on his toes to absorb the cushion, I think. Or maybe because he had a sciatic nerve problem. Either way, old man jay was falling apart, and the shoes looked damn funny.
Coach Jay had a Brooklyn accent about him. His father, Allen Dorfman, was involved with The Chicago Outfit back in 1970's and 80's. During the fall of their criminal empire, Dorfman was shot multiple times in the head with a .22 caliber automatic pistol. During rest hours before fight time, Coach Jay would spend time sharing old mob stories with the fight team. Nourishing our mind for fighting.
Having been scheduled for a six round boxing fight, under a local professional boxing card, getting paid twelve-hundred dollars wasn't worth the risk. It took something more than average to engage hand to hand combat with another man. It took something more to endure such trauma, such stress on the body and mind from fighting. The months spent preparing to engage combat in a brutally manner fashion wasn't worth any money, nor any risk.
For a sport that couldn't be played, but fought. That had only the toughest athlete's. Pound for pound the most mentally and physically strong willed contestants to compete with the fists.That had been dated back before Christ. Way back when man understood the importance of having the abilities in defending oneself. Way back when man discovered that pummeling each other with their fists was fun. And way back in 688 B.C the Ancient Greek believed that the God's of Olympus would compete with their fists, giving life to the sport in the Olympic Games.
The countless number of sparring rounds sharpening the reaction required for fighting wasn't worth the money. The hundreds of heavy bag rounds I spent preparing myself for a fight with a stronger willed opponent, wasn't worth the pain. The century of miles I jogged to grow the cardiovascular system, the lungs and blood vessels to accommodate such energy used in boxing, wasn't worth the sacrifices to be a successful boxer. The oceans I swam to grow the lung capacity and the shoulders for throwing mass punches. The countless hours I spent jumping between a rope to develop the calves and legs to be swift and agile enough for a ballet with a theatrical dancer. The painful bruises that come from being pummeled by greater opponents, and heavier sparring partners. The blood being drawn from the nose, from the mouth, from the eyes, because I was too slow, or too careless to move. All of the pain, the trauma, the sacrifices that are made to be a successful boxer wasn't worth the money, nor the risk. Nobody in their right mind would choose such an occupation, such a career.
But, I had a lust for developing my name. A desire for creating the toughest reputation. A respectable occupation that few people equipped, and a Love for being paid money to fight. I wanted to be known by my peers and others that I had extraordinary abilities in a boxing ring, and a boxing knowledge acquired over bumps, bruises, and blood.
The fight was against Daniel Quevedo. A proud boxer puncher from Sinaloa, Mexico. He had twice as many fights as I had and five years experience more. Quevedo victoriously came off a second round knockout and he was boasting himself, and calling out my name.
The opponent was brought to my attention couple weeks back by my father, my boxing coach. It had never been an option to say No, and to me, it had never been a choice to decline combat.
"Yah, I'll take the fight."
But father already knew my answer. I would fight anybody.
"I think you could beat him, Son. I just need you to listen to me."
The opponent was nothing to me other than a paycheck. A stepping stone for higher grounds. He was an obstacle that stood between me and my goal. An obstruction that stand in the way. But I shouldn't be so light, underestimating any opponent, for all it took to end a fight was one punch. We trained six days a week for this fight. Sunday's were rest days. I usually spent the rest day with my girlfriend. A driven brunette with a warming smile that could melt a heart.
She had a gorgeous smile, and kind eyes. I thought maybe one day we might marry. Maybe one day we could raise a family together, with a bundle of kids and some house pets. I hadn't seen my girlfriend for weeks. It was a boxers rule when preparing for fight, to rid of all distractions that might disrupt the fighting meditation. Anything that could loose focus of the opponent, of the fighters game plan. It was so important to stay focused, and some friends couldn't understand the dedication I had.
The fight was scheduled for a Saturday. The scheduled weigh-in date the day before was at one hundred and twenty-two pounds. I made the weight fairly. Pedialite replenishment, water, then pizza. Nothing ever changed. Every step before the fight was a ritual. A ceremony executed precisely, for any wrong step might agitate the deity of boxing.
The Dressing Room
Pouncing fast about the dressing room, I hold the guard, my cage of defense, tight and sturdy. I had to protect my wellness from the battering ram of enemy fists, like an iron cage. When I do find an opportunity, an opening for attack, I will ferociously clobber his head and body with heavy punches.
This action I choose to strike with must be no thought, but instinct. A reaction that I've been training for months. I must be confident in the mind, sure of each punch thrown to land with accuracy.
The evil, the negativity comes wandering about the greenery of life. It spins undetected, till that final second engulfing all positive energy like a black hole. I mustn't allow evil to sprout in my mind. I mustn't allow the negative thoughts to come over me. For if I had, I give failure life, where it can spread throughout.
I was sparring weeks before in preparation for this fight. My greatness was developed with my mind. I trusted in myself, my conditioning, my endurance, my ability of fight. As long as I would put in the work, all that was left was Doing.
I soften the cartilage of my nose with my palm, then beat it with my fist. The anger and determination has begun to feed the mind, in turn causing the adrenal gland to induce the muscles with hate.
The anger arose the heart rate and fueled the arms for punching. I wanted to pummel his face with my fists, I thought, because he wish to cause embarrassment in me.
We meet in the center of the boxing ring. He moves his shoulders back and forth swiftly. He was a confident boxer with a good record to back it up. Controlling the distance and keeping him at bay, I find an opportunity to land my right cross. Land the jab shoot the right cross. My attack was accurate. With a higher punch output percentage I take the lead in the fight. I become too arrogant of him, where I choose not to move from his punches; sacrificing a punch to give a punch. His attack was light. Something of a pitter patter. Like I could eat his punches all day.
"Move your damn head."
I could make out my fathers voice from the ring corner.
Quevedo has trouble finding the speed perception of my jab. Snapping the leather on his face and drawing the blood from his nose, frustration overpower in his eyes. Holding my ground in the center of the ring, I win the judges scoring as the dominant fighter. During the end of this round I become too aggressive, and loose focus of the game plan, becoming a brawler. Falling forward, and finding leverage on the inside fight, I evaporate his cardio from his body with heavy punches, investing in my future. As the fight ages to the later rounds, and after I have connected with several different body punches, his tires begin to deflate. He will soon slow the fight to a toe-to-toe brawl, where I could use my heavy punches to overpower him.
The confidence in my mind glowing brighter as my punch percentage increases. I will soon become everything a fighter hates. A fighter who becomes stronger and faster as the fight ages. I am a relentless monster with a heavy punch, a tight guard, and the inclination to never show fear. Instead of falling away because he was too fast, or too strong, I continuously press forward, waging war.
In this fire fight we exchange punches, and I am too careless of his power. He throws a fast right cross that lands behind the ear, disrupting my equilibrium and throwing my balance. The brain rattles, and the pain is quickly sharp then quickly dulling. The eyes sharply bulge from the blood throbbing, and my knees buckle. I hit the canvas.
I believe when we fail or fall in life, we are given a second chance. A rebirth, a new coming. A chance to redeem oneself, and our act in life. We are able to take one step back and observe what had failed. This reassessment of our new coming can be anything we desire. Stronger, faster, intellectually sound, and too, wiser of failure.
The failure had angered us, growing my determination of completing the task. With this new ability to reassess, this new ability of the third person perspective, we can observe the correct changes that are necessary for the game plan to further our fight. The changes that are needed to be pursued in order to succeed. No matter what the cost of pain was!
Growing in age, matter, and knowledge, I learn to cope with the pain's of life. Accepting the pain I endure everyday. Accepting the darkness and evil's that come about life, stirring in the brushes just beyond the good. Waiting for its perfect time to appear. The negative radical situation that blindsided you from your goal.
I accept the displeasures that linger. The inflictions of life that made everything complicated. The pain and hurt that land on us. I accept all this as a fiction of my reality. All as an animate hologram in the mind. Perceiving the pain I accompany everyday as fiction, as something that can be controlled by the mind. The human mind is the most powerful piece of matter on Earth. It could do anything you dream of. You just had to believe!
Like, the boogie man when I was younger. The boogie man can only haunt your mind if you allow him to haunt your mind. Accepting no pain, no misery, and no discomfort, was a way of believing. As I have fallen, and failed, I rise on one knee, allowing the heart to pump the brain with blood and oxygen. I regroup my thoughts. The new game plan. The new objective in life.
What must I do now. What must be the plan ahead to further my fight? To continue the pattern of life. The infinite positive and negative possibilities that affected everyone, and everything. But the count is short. You already know what to do. The right thing. Trust in yourself, and never give up. You can never fail, as long as you believe in yourself! But, the window of opportunity last's only a moment. Then it's gone.
The referee counts with his fingers in front of my face. It was a flash knockdown and the eight count he gives is mandatory. Striking me behind the ear disrupted my equilibrium, and I stumbled to the floor. My opponent stands in the neutral corner with hunger in his eyes. He knew of his opportunity. He recognized his potential victory. Failing to be cautious of his right cross and underestimating his speed, he took advantage of my careless mistakes. Striking me behind the ear and throwing my balance, my glove touched the canvas. The round is now eight-ten. The referee commences action and Quevedo comes charging with the horns. Sliding back and jabbing at his face, I only give him an inch at a time. I couldn't appear hurt. I couldn't show weakness because he would feed from it. He would find my weakest position, then strike with terror.
He advances and I punch him in the face with a long ranged jab. This was my Distance. My furthest possible point I could contact my opponent. Then from there I retract the jab and use the legs and hips to explode the energy out the shoulder and out the fist. His reluctant decision to engage combat has changed the momentum of the fight, and I take back the lead. The judges gave me a unanimous decision victory over Quevedo, winning every round beside the knockdown.
"Quevedo scored a knockdown in the fight, Franco." The press ask.
The mistake of careless fighting grew my embarrassment. I was too certain of the victory, overly confident where I thought the fight would be another flawless victory. I had too many distractions in my life. My audacious and arrogant mentality obstructed my view from the game plan. In the end, I victoriously held my hands over Quevedo but, failing to balance the extracurricular activities outside the boxing ring caused me embarrassment and pain. A humbling lesson learned.