Courting The Champion

7 - The Fight

Thursday morning. I wake up late knowing tomorrow I'll be gittin' in a ring for the first time in my life. I need to make a long lasting impression on all them other fellows, especially Mr Smith, my recruiter. My boys Lance and Troy said they gonna be there and that all my other niggas from the Bronx will be watching from home.

You ain't even gotta guess, all those guys I used to fight with in them streets gon be placing bets on my fight. They know I finna git this. That's how good of an impression I made on them in the streets.

Trevor announces we'd just be going through a few pointers today, that mean ain't no rope skipping or drills. Man am I glad! A nigga could use a breather from time to time man.

This is the fight that could make or break me. You either take the victory or the loss. Ain't no excuses. I like to think there ain't no such thing as coming close. You either take it or you don't. Life should be more than just making up excuses for yourself, more especially, when you're the one that screwed up.

One might call me self critical but I think that's what we mean when we say man up. Be honest with yourself, admit defeat or take the loss. No in between. You either got the trophy or somebody else got it for you.

“Ey wassup man?” I greet my trainer Trevor with a shake and shoulder bump.

“How you doing kid? You mentally prepared?” he checks in and I give a nod.

“I'm always ready. I learnt that the hard way. Life can be full of surprises.” I say and he laughs.

“So today, I think I'll just do a bit of coaching about the rules and all— You might know how to fight but if you don't know the rules, you're as good as done man,” he lectures and I nod taking a seat next to Wayne who I give a light punch. Wayne and I actually have a lot in common.

I met Wayne the other day when Smith was giving us that little pep talk and shit. He grew up in the streets of Los Angeles while I grew up in the streets of Bronx. However he followed this career path as early as nine. His role model was Muhammad Ali.

Unlike me who discovered this passion at twenty one. I look up to guys like Floyd Mayweather and Mike Tyson. Fast forward seven years later and here I am. Preparing for a tournament. Incredible.

“Ayt so you two are the ones who have fights this week. Andrew tomorrow and Wayne next week Tuesday. So we'll go through the rules and a few more pointers today and Andrew you can take the afternoon off, then Wayne and I train.”

“All right so first things first. You fight in an orderly manner. It's a competition not a death match. So you fight for points.”

“Second thing, when the referee stops you, you stop. If you keep hitting somebody when you're getting told off, you will get disqualified. We're athletes, not murderers.”

“Thirdly and most importantly. You do not ever use illegal moves. No hitting below the belt. No hitting or punching at the back of the head and neck. Not allowed. No choking, biting, kicking or headbutting and even wrestling. You know what I mean.”

He looks at us pointedly and we nod simultaneously. He continues..

“No cheating of any kind. Cheating might get you banned from ever fighting anywhere period. That means no switching of boxing gloves. You and your opponent will use the exact same boxing gloves, same brand, same quality, same weight. Do not tamper with it.”

“The rest is simple. Dress lightly. Boxer shorts, bare chest. And that's basically everything.” he finishes and we nod. Pretty much not having anything to add on.

“So any questions?” Trevor asks and I rack my brain for anything but come up with nothing except for a question I've always had.

“Can you fake a kick?” I ask and they both look at me.