“You’re gonna spit nails kid”

“Like the guy said, you’re gonna eat lightning and crap thunder”

I always psych myself up with the motivational speech from the greatest boxing movie of all time before every fight. I really need it; the small bear was now in sight. It paused at the top of the ravine when it noticed me jumping, bobbing my head, shuffling my legs, throwing jabs, and the occasional straight punch while moving in a circle as if shadowboxing.

It stood there watching me for a couple of minutes until it growled.

I stopped and looked at it while punching my fists at chest height. “You want me? You have me now. Let’s go, bear. It’s you and me, baby,” I yelled at it. My adrenaline was going into overdrive and my vision was focusing on it. I could suddenly 'see' just like when in the ring, as if I was in round 5 of a fight. I was 'in the zone,' so to speak.

That moment when you feel perfectly tired, your limbs are light, your steps are quick and nimble, and your attention is heightened. If I was ever going to be ready, it was now.

The bear walked down the gentler slope on his side of the ravine, which was much softer compared to the steep angle on the other side.

I thought of running at it while it was coming down, but I thought better about it and decided against it. It had the higher ground at that point, right? That was most certainly a thing if you believe the memes.

Once down, I thought the bear would run towards me, but it didn't. It walked slowly, getting closer, so I started to move to my left, trying to circle it. The bear stopped as if considering my movements. It seemed focused on my forward-facing left fist, which was great. It wouldn't be ready to measure the distance of my first punches if it remained so.

I had the slope at my back, and I could try to make a run for it, climb the hill, and run, but it would be pointless, and we would end up in the same situation sooner or later.

It kept coming towards me; we were about to enter each other’s reach.

But it surprised me. Standing on its hind legs and opening its arms, the cub was about my height. It growled, its breath reaching me, and my plan to outbox him with my longer reach went up in smoke.

I reflexively went into peek-a-boo style, both fists in front of my mouth, making contact with my face. My knees were lower than before, my feet closer together, and I crunched my stomach. I stood on the balls of my feet.

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The bear took a swing at me.

It all happened in the blink of an eye.

I bobbed my head, following its swing, while my torso weaved in the opposite direction and down; my legs were now like coiled springs, waiting for release, my left arm low, leaving my fingers lose to tighten them just about the moment when my fist would make contact, my legs uncoiled, ankles going outwards, front knee in, torso going up along my arm, I threw what in boxing is called a liver blow, I felt fur, meat, and bone against my now closed fist.

My vision noticed the swing coming from his other arm; my body immediately swayed towards the swing because, in boxing, you move against the punch, not away from it. At least if you have a trainer worth a damn.

Going against the punch and ducking below it, I threw another hook to its ribcage, this time with my stronger right arm.

I was up in the cards, but if it touched me, it was K.O. I returned to a standard peek-a-boo stance, but my instincts told me to go even lower, so I did. I wasn’t thinking. I was on autopilot.

The bear growled one more time as I took a dash-step towards it, -hook-, up to the towering mass of fat and muscle in front of me, I delivered a quick one-two right to its gut, -line-, the bear came right down at me with its muzzle, jaw popping, huffing, I went even lower in my stance, my leg muscles about to give out to let me fall on my arse.

As the bear came halfway down to maul me with its fangs, I let it all out, the downward force of my mass on my coiled legs acting as a spring, the strength on my hunched over the back, my abs working as a counterbalance to it and sending it upwards, my right arm going fast and hard against the bear’s snout in a beautiful, textbook, low to high uppercut -sinker-.

I could feel my fist shattering against the bear’s mouth, but I also felt indescribable and all-consuming anger. At my fate, at my death, at this ridiculous situation, at the impotence of not being able to comfort my family, at the knowledge that I will never see them again. At the fucking unhelpful system, at the motherfucking sys admins that wished me dead, and at this fucking bear’s bad breath.

I could feel it more than hear it—the cracking of bones, the snapping of muscles. As I reached the apex of my movement, my body reacted by taking a step backward, hands already up my face. I lowered my stance again, ready to throw another hook to the bear’s temple. I put my back and hips into the punch, my sight fixed on the bear’s head, but my fist did not connect. I swung in the air.

The bear kept going down, with no strength left in its body. Its snout had retracted almost entirely into its skull, and its three eyes were popping out. It was lifeless.

My right hand hurt like a bitch, but I was otherwise unscathed.

Or so I thought because blood had now entered my sight, and my shoulders were burning.

My weaving and bobbing were just about enough to avoid fatal injuries against the bear but not enough to come out without some scratches.

From what I could tell, after an inspection of my head, chest, and shoulders, I had received some claws on my chest from the first couple of bear swings. I also had a small gash on my nogging and shoulders from its claws during my uppercut stunt.

All in all, a win is a win. Right?