Rob Blake-the drastic tale

Untitled Part 2

Stepping in and breathing out, my trainer used to tell me. As my cracked fist slammed into his fragile jaw, pummeling him down to the ground. One through ten, the ref. said as I help up the golden gloves, I had never felt so proud of myself. 

Have you ever wondered about your life, pondering if it’s even worth the sweat you wipe off of your brow after a long day’s work? That’s how I’m feeling right about now, my name is Rob Blake, a boxer from West Bronx, New York. I have always been a bigger guy, weighing around 200 pounds since I was the age of 15. However, my size is not fat, it’s pure, unadulterated muscle, earned from working on the farm with my father when I was a child. Growing up, I had no idea how lucky I could be, to have a small, shanty Oakwood shack, with myself, my beautiful wife, and my child.

Now, my child’s name is Billy Blake, and he is the most determined kid I have ever seen, a spitting image of his old man (personality wise.) Although, looks wise he is very different from myself, he stands 5 foot 3 inches tall, I am 6 foot 4. He weighs around 120 pounds, I weigh 230. Sometimes I ponder to myself how we could be so different, then I remember. In the times that I grew up, food was plentiful, and the crops were always coming in steadily, never having to worry about whether or not I could have breakfast in the morning, I was always certain. This day in age, the crops aren’t growing, we have to balance our budgets from the boxing matches I win, to determine what kind of food to buy, and how much we can afford.

Remember how I said I have a wife too? The most beautiful, trustworthy, steadfast and loyal girl I can call mine, whenever the times are down, I look to her, and for that split second my worries disappear. She has the most gorgeous blue eyes, a man could stare into for hours and never get tired of it, her hair so soft and blonde, when the hot sun bounces down off of it, an array of light shines more beautiful than anything you could imagine. She always manages to make the best out of the worst of situations, and this is why I love her, with all of my heart.

Boxing has always been a passion of mine, me and my buddies used to do it nonstop when we were younger, but now that the depression has struck, we haven’t gotten to do it much lately. Although it is my only source of income, I cannot help feeling that my wife hasn’t gotten used to the fact that I like doing it, to provide for our family. She tells me that there are plenty of other odd jobs around west Bronx that she believes I could be doing, instead of what I’m doing right now, that are safer for me, and will make me more money in the long run. That’s the thing, however; I do not need money in the long run, and the money is needed now, which is why every day I sacrifice my life and well-being, to put some food on the table for my beautiful family and myself.

There was a match coming up, this could make my family have eternal food, the money included in this fight, was more than I had ever earned. It was a tournament, to see who was the most dedicated to fighting, 6 men, one day, and a lot of blood. The first matches I fought were easy, however there was one man I had never fought, he said he was a novice fighter, but the way he combined his fighting and grappling tactics was nothing I’ve ever seen before. He and I quickly moved up the ranks, until the time came where we had to fight, preparing in the locker room, I had never been so nervous.

My family had been counting on me, since day one. This fight could make my wife the happiest I’ve seen her, since my baby boy was born. As I left the locker room to enter into the ring, I felt a strong tug on my robe, I looked down and it was my son, with my wife standing right beside him

 “You didn’t think we would miss this, did you?” she exclaimed.

“Never dreamed of it, wish me luck, beautiful.” He said in a deep tone of voice.

I ended up losing that fight, and my wife and child. The three things that mean the most to me, gone just like that, I couldn’t handle it anymore, had no idea what to do with my life anymore. Have you ever gotten that feeling before, the feeling of sheer loneliness and pain, sorrow, and the feeling as though you’ll never be good enough? That’s how I’m feeling, as I’m sitting in my cardboard house, with the mice constantly gnawing at the outer portion, my mud soaked clothes barely scraps upon my body, broken and tired, I can’t handle it anymore, these feelings and concerns inside of my head, and myself trying to rid them, as I slowly drift away into a forgiving slumber, maybe tomorrow will be better, always a thought inside my head, trying to find that silver lining beneath these storm clouds that embark my life.

The next morning starts just like every morning, waking up I go down to the lake near my sun soaked cardboard box of a home, and attempt to obtain some water, god knows I need the energy. The road to the lake is a long one, not much traveled by civilians that are lucky enough to have cars, but today, it seems as though every car in the city of west Bronx was traveling down this road, however there was something outside the norm about these cars, constantly whizzing by me, they all had jugs, gallon jugs either inside of them, or strapped to the top like a cargo shelf. Down the road to the river, I was approached by a strange man, however there was something different about this man, very strange and different, something I have not seen since the twenties, this man was drunk.

“Hey you, big guy, you’re that Rob Blake fella aint ya” he said with a slurred tone in his voice

“Yes, that’s me, is there anything I can help you with? I pondered to him, curious as to what he wanted from me

“I seen yer cardboard box over yonder, what say you make a little money?” he said, the alcohol surging from his breath as he took another swig from his bottle

“and what does this job entitle” I questioned him, wondering what mischief I could be getting into by accepting.”

“all ye got to do is drive this here station wagon down to old brookmark road, a fella will be there in a ford pickup, and take the sweet liquid yell be deliverin to him”

With that, my years and days of a moonshine and alcohol runner began, I delivered to speakeasies all across the east coast, from being a country famous boxer, now it appears as though I was a country famous moonshine runner, and nobody could touch me! I was so unstoppable behind the wheel, I had bars all over the country giving me offers to run their alcohol to all sorts of different states. Getting my life turned around was a main priority in my life, however this wasn’t the way I could do it, I was getting old and running out of time, I guaranteed myself I wouldn’t live past 55 years old, with the smoking I was doin, and I was starting to think that im right, as I cough up a mixture of blood and mucus, and spit it on the floorboard there beside me.

Now, as I said before, moonshining is some pretty risky business, the cops are always after you, constant civilians and other moonshiners trying to get you out of the way before you take all their profits and jobs from them, the constant struggle of not knowing whether you’ll die in the next day, week, or possibly the next hour.