In a huge indoor arena packed with roaring fans, one fighter believed he was snoozing in bed on a Sunday morning. He grabbed for a duvet cover that didn’t exist as a referee within earshot counted at a steady pace.
“One, two, three…”
The fighter’s eyes squeezed shut. His body curled up on the canvas of the boxing ring while every viewer in the stadium and at home shared the same expression, eyes threatening to pop out of their sockets. Even the referee bending over couldn’t mask his disbelief.
Sonya, why are you hogging the duvet? Are you mad at me again? What did I do this time?
“Four, five, six…”
This bed isn’t comfortable at all. What’s that noise? Are the kids up already? I feel like I haven’t slept a wink.
The fighter opened his eyes and bright white lights injected reality back into him. A vicious headache throbbed but accompanying it was a strong desire to win and an overwhelming pressure few humans had experienced. He sprung to his feet, then staggered backwards, bouncing off the ropes of the boxing ring.
“Seven, eight…”
The referee’s concerned face filled the fighter's vision. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three.”
“Full name?”
“Manny Okoro. I'm the champ.”
“Can you continue?”
Manny didn’t respond. Instead, he stared at his opponent who lightly hopped on their feet and stared back. They smiled but not mockingly, and their eyes filled with caution as well as determination. They knew exactly who they were dealing with.
“I said can you continue!”
Manny raised his red boxing gloves in a fighting stance. Slowly, with a slight smile on his face, he nodded.
Ding, ding! Round eight concluded.
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Heavily breathing, Manny took a swig from a bottle of water in his corner before spitting the bloodied liquid in a bucket. Despite the circumstances, he found himself reflecting back on his career.
41 wins, 0 losses, 40 knockouts, and more than 20 years in the ring.
He had been on one hell of a journey.
Everything he had envisioned, every career goal and challenge he had set for himself… he had accomplished them all. Just thinking about the arduous path travelled made his heart swell with pride while simultaneously draining him.
But as great as Manny’s stats looked, they were deceptive. They implied complete and total dominance which wasn’t the case. The average Joe would look at the forty-one wins and forty knockouts and assume no opponent stood a chance, destined for nap time, but the hidden truth behind the numbers was that he’d been knocked down a total of twelve times, half of which occurred during the last three years. And not only was he the boxer with the highest knockout success rate, he was also the boxer who had been punched the most times. Every real fan knew the truth: He was not invincible. Just tough as nails.
The challenger for the heavyweight title was Flavio Ramirez and the two had history. If Manny was Batman, Flavio was the Joker. The rivalry originated at the beginning of their careers when both boxers were upcoming prospects. While Manny was praised for his monstrous heavy hits and high risk fighting style which guaranteed an exciting fight, Flavio was notorious for his evasive abilities, typically winning on points rather than knockout.
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With both fighters obtaining a 10 plus flawless win streak, it was inevitable for them to clash and when they finally did, Manny not only defeated Flavio but went on to win the heavyweight title. He had defended the belt ever since. Tonight was their fourth professional boxing match as well as Flavio’s third attempt at snatching the belt away.
Manny looked up at the bright lights and let the crowd’s chatter and shouts sink in. He let out several deep breathes. The introspection wasn’t like him but then again it made perfect sense.
Tonight was his last fight after all.
“Okay, champ,” his coach, Azuku, said. “New strategy. Let’s not get hit.”
Manny grinned. “Really?”
“Stick to the plan. Don’t give him the distance he wants and get in nice and close. How’s your legs?”
“Stable.”
“Good. Apply pressure. Don’t let him breathe. We both know who’s got more gas in the tank. Watch out for those counter punches and let those combinations fly…”
The coach’s words faded away as Manny’s thoughts drifted elsewhere. Excitement swelled in his belly which happened every time he was in a pinch.
If this is going to be my final title fight before retirement… if this is going to be the last opportunity to make a statement to the world that I’m the strongest, then I’m going to bloody enjoy it!
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Ding, Ding!
Both fighters burst into the middle of the ring, not wasting any time upon hearing the sound of the bell. Manny blocked and dodged an onslaught of long ranged jabs and retaliated with a few of his own. As far as the champion was concerned, no one else existed apart from his opponent who skilfully darted across the ring.
Spectators waited with bated breath as twenty seconds passed with no punches managing to connect. Manny chased after Flavio in an attempt to get in perfect range, bobbing and weaving to narrowly evade a rapid-fire combination. Then suddenly, his eyes widened as he took a step forwards and rotated his hip.
"UGH!"
Before Manny saw the effects of throwing a body blow to the liver, he heard them in the form of a heavy groan followed by irregular, shaky breathing. He had heard such sounds many times in his career and every time it brought him satisfaction for one reason and one reason alone—by letting the pain show, his opponent had openly displayed weakness.
Regardless of whether Flavio was in bad condition or not, mentally, he had lost a mini battle. Below the surface of every physical exchange between boxers was a psychological one where both sides tried to chip away at the other’s fighting spirit. Masking pain from attacks could discourage the opponent but if a boxer was severely hurt and also aware that their opponent knew they were hurt, the effects of the attack received multiplied, infecting their psyche.
There was something special about body blows. They were underrated. Of course, they hurt like a bitch but it was more than that. The full impact of the attack couldn’t be appreciated while cheering among the crowds or watching the fight on TV in the comfort of your own home. Only up close could the full physical effects be seen such as the skin rippling around the hit area, the body jolting to one side and the knees bending and threatening to cave in.
Taking full advantage of the blow, Manny followed up with a two quick left jabs and one right hook. Flavio ducked under the first two but the third punch was a direct hit, rocketing his skull backwards.
“He’s hurt! Finish it!” Azuku shouted in the background.
Manny continued with a ferocious sequence of attacks, executing a variety of combinations he had rehearsed thousands of times during his career. Flavio’s defence remained tight, somehow managing to block, parry and evade every attack. Both boxers expressed their specialities to the highest degree, fighting with an intensity and vigour that resembled more the first round than the half way point of the title match.
Flavio backed away from a left straight punch and smacked into the corner of the ring. Manny continued a consistent stream of well placed jabs though now they were more sluggish and none of them seemed to hit their target. Frustration began to build. He was spending an absurd amount of energy after already being knocked down in the last round. If he didn’t capitalise on the opportunity now, Flavio would certainly have the advantage in the later rounds.
No. Advantage was an understatement. He would be a punching bag.
Manny was 39-years-old. There were only so many times he could rise from the grave like a zombie and proceed to unleash an insane counter-attack.
With ten seconds left to go, the champion feinted with his left, causing Flavio to guard for a body shot that never came.
THUD
A swift right uppercut to the jaw connected, sending Flavio in the air and landing face first on the canvas. The crowd went wild as Manny tilted his head up to the ceiling. His arms were in agony from excess lactic acid and due to the hyper aggressive strategy, his level of exhaustion was dangerously high. He could barely stand.
“One, two, three…”
Why did that take so long? You’re so hard to catch. Holy shit.
“Four, five, six…”
Flavio remained motionless.
Yes. Don’t get up. Stay down.
“Seven… Eight…”
Flavio flinched. He got on both knees and shook his head.
“Nine…”
Oh boy. I guess you’re stubborn like me.
Swaying from side to side, beaten and bruised, Flavio stood tall, eyes burning with malice. No words were exchanged between the fighters but Manny knew what his opponent wanted to say. The glare said it all.
“Not this time, Okoro. I’m sick of losing to you. That belt is mine.”