Momma didn’t want this. She wanted me to finish school and become a businessman or a lawyer. Something to that effect. She worries I’ll end up like my father. Parkinson’s rattled his body at a young age; brain damage slurred his speech and hindered his reflexes. Doctors blamed it on the sport. His untimely death left our family in a bind. His profession made him an uninsurable risk. But what could I do? This was the only way I knew how to provide. This is what my father taught me.
Momma didn’t make the trip. She couldn’t stand to see my first fight in person. The bell rings and these thoughts dissipate like the vapor of warm breath into the cold night. My opponent is noticeably stronger than I. His pectoral muscles bounce rhythmically as he dances around the ring, sizing me up. His nose wrinkles, his brow furrows. He lets out a primitive grunt as he swings his leather bound clubs at my head. I bob and weave, thwarting his knockout attempts. I feign right and snap out two jabs. They bounce off my opponent’s forehead, showering the canvas with sweat and Vaseline. We dance around for the next few seconds. I intermittently snap off two left jabs, once again after feigning right. I develop a predictable cadence. I throw another jab, missing my opponent by inches. Before I can throw another, a vicious counter punch crashes into my face. I can feel as bone particles float loosely under my eye. My cheekbone is shattered like a martini glass on a marble floor. My knees buckle in pain as I attempt to raise my hands in protection. However, it is too late. A loud crunch like a boot stepping over freshly packed snow echoes in my ears. The hard, red leather crushes the bridge of my nose. The bitter taste of blood fills my mouth as my eyes well, blurring my vision. As I fall lifelessly towards the mat, the only sound I can hear is my mother’s voice.