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The Real Deal
As a college freshman, I signed up to compete in a "smoker," an amateur boxing event. A spindly kid who'd been tested only in playground scuffles, I signed at my urging to test whether my stuff was more cream puff or beefcake. I prepared by sparring with any takers in my dorm, coached by the many "experts" roaming the halls.
The Big Day. Gloves cinched, heart hammering and my innards screaming Momma!, I slipped through the ropes into the ring. My opponent, 10 pounds my larger, bounced on his feet in the opposite corner, batting together his gloves while throwing his head and chewing his mouthguard. Who is this guy! You can never pee enough before a moment like this. The smoke-filled bar was packed with cheering and jeering spectators, an entire section filled with my overly imbibed friends, coaches included.
A microphone dropped through the bright ceiling lights as a beautiful girl rounded the ring, round one proclaimed on the placard she held above her head. We fighters were announced. The crowd - Ding! - went insane. I shuffled in, head ducking, body coiled to punch at the blur coming fast for me. Jarred by quick, solid hits to my noggin, I retaliated with swift round-house swings. Smack, whack! A chant (my name!) rose above the mania. Three minutes later, dozens of punches had noodled my arms - Ding! Three more minutes, more of the furious same - Ding! One more round - Ding! - and it was over. I was still on my feet, waiting to collapse into a coma, anything to end to my insufferable exhaustion.
Summoned to ring center, my opponent and I prepared for final judgment. The referee held a limp arm to each of his sides. My hand, along with my name, was thrown skyward in victory. Tah-dah! - the sum of my boxing career. I got a trophy.
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