At the start of one of the countless days I and my friends decided to forgo another day of public high school learning, two of my buddies, likely under the influence of alcohol and worse, decided it was good idea to stage a boxing. While this might seem unremarkable at first, there are a few details which make this decision more than dubious.
For starters, they were only in possession of a single pair of gloves. Rather than curse the darkness, the duo decided to light a candle: it somehow made perfect sense that each one would fight one handed, their bare hand only used for defense.
Complicating matters further, the combatant fighting out of one corner stood approximately 6'4", 170 lbs, while the other was, perhaps, 4 foot even and had not yet reached in triple digits in weight.
Again undaunted, brain surgeons that they were, they decided the way to more level the playing field might be to make the larger punch with his off hand. He got the left mitt, while the shrimp gloved his right.
The final, fatal flaw in this master plan was that the entire bout would take place sans referee. Meaning there would be no one to step in, should one of the pugilists become injured, and/or unable to protect himself.
The sheer amount of flawed logic on display was apparent to all in the crowd of assembling spectators, who now jostled one another and now pressed against the sliding glass doors, each hoping to get a better view of the spectacle. As we eagerly awaited the opening bell with baited breath, the smaller guy's brother mumbled something to me about this "not going to be pretty," as he reached for another Busch, and showed no inclination of serving as the cavalry, riding in to interrupt his brother's pending demise.
Baffled by how to explain how someone who could be easily be mistaken for an oompa loompa or third grader, could possibly reach the conclusion that this was, in any way, on any level, a prudent decision, we settled in and imagined what the inevitable outcome might look like. No sooner had the punches started to fly than left hands started raining down upon lil Rocky Marciano. He was swarmed with punches as if they were angry hornets.
However, it wasn't what you'd call gruesome. Compared to early Tyson fights, where one fighter simply pummeled the other into submission, the weaker man would slump over immediately, and the fight would quickly become history, this one was somewhat of a marathon. Since both fighters were reduced to throwing little more than long, sweeping hooks, the avalanche of blows proceeded to knock the smaller fighter continually to his left several feet, punch by punch. Worse, this consequently made even the slightest chance of the smaller man landing any of his wildly inaccurate counter punches, fruitless. There was no way he could even begin slowing the barrage of punches, much less stop them.
We sat and watched the little guy get punched all the way across the his own side yard, one cruel left hand at a time.
It almost looked like he was running as fast as he could, sideways, each step the result of yet another thunderous connection. He was getting beaten so badly, even the winning fighter looked silly. He appeared to be chasing a smaller man across the grass, scarcely able to keep up with how fast his punches propelled his opponent away. Imagine someone kicking a soccer ball, running after and finally catching it, then kicking it again, only to repeat the process. Small guy was that perpetually kicked soccer ball.
In the end, I'm not sure what ultimately stopped the fight. Exhaustion? Kindness? The local authorities? God's mercy? What I do know is that, to his credit, the little guy never went down. He absorbed a lifetime's worth of left hands with a chin that would've made Ferdie Pachecho proud. Afterward, I don't think he ever questioned how he'd gotten himself into such a dire situation, either. Or how what had seemed like such a brilliant idea moments before, had gone so horribly, dreadfully astray. He seemed to defiantly be screaming that only on this day, here in this yard, at this precise moment, he was going to make his statement. He would not back down, but instead dig in his heels and make David's stand against his modern-day Goliath. Glory would be his, if he could only land that single, game-changing, devastating, hope-imparting overhand right. As well as keep from getting punched onto the neighbors back porch.
Perhaps in hindsight, high school remedial math hadn't been such a bad option, after all?
1 comment:
that's pretty funny. was this good ole T town? Maybe it's a Florida thing. I know we had "wrastling" in back yards with cardboard title belts. Shrimpy guy often pummeled by the 14 year old, fully bearded kid. Often imitating what we didnt know were life threatening maneuvers, like jumping from trees or fences onto someones neck. Yikes.
good job.
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