The Difference - A Classroom of the Elite Oneshot

I

Statistically speaking, I should have no chance in hell of beating this opponent in front of me. The man in my mind's eye was everything I had yet to develop. He had everything I did not.

Older... check.

Taller... check.

Stronger... check.

Faster... check.

Smarter?

Wiser?

I was unsure. What was the decisive difference that I had, that my opponent lacked? Would that be the distinction between victory and loss; life and death?

If so, what was it?

I needed to come to a decision immediately, as my opponent had initiated his slow stroll towards my position.

The green light had been lit; all signals were go. The bout had begun.

What is the difference I can exploit?

A metre from my position he stanced similar to that of a seasoned boxer; no wasted movement. He jabbed forwards at a speed I could barely follow. My only blessing was the fact that his point of impact was angled awkwardly, as I was at least a foot shorter than him. I brought my forearms together to block the straight jab, body hunching to brace for impact.

I was left momentarily dazed as the force of his punch pushed back my defence and ricocheted my own fists off of my nose. My opponent didn't wait for my stupor to vanish and followed with a merciless straight cross directly to my unprotected temple. My body flew backwards and skidded across the white barren floor.

My vision became blurry, the already white surroundings making me nauseous. I swallowed deeply to force myself from gagging pathetically. Amidst my body's groaning attempt at recuperating, I wondered about the hesitation of my opponent. Here I am, completely unprotected on the floor with no way of defending myself, and I have yet to receive another blow.

Is this pity?

Or plain stupidity.

I shook my head to disperse the encroaching dizziness and pushed myself off the floor to stand before him once again. The man was bouncing, toe to toe, his fists never dropping an inch from his face. Like I was somehow able to counterattack whilst sprawled across the stone. I cleared my throat a single time, to clear the excess phlegm my shocked body produced and brought my hands up to mimic his.

Like a perfect mirror image, I followed his every move with little delay. Like the reverb of a microphone, my unique sound slightly trailed his own. He stepped left, I stepped left. His right heel crossed in front, as did my own. I saw his eyebrow raise and realised he caught on. We continued to circle the other, in perfect circumference, almost as if a single prey lay between us and the other predator was waiting for the right moment to strike.

I was the one to break our rhythmic routine, placing my left foot forward instead of to the side. In a strange turn of events, it was my turn to take lead, with him the echo. Reaction was a disastrous route for my wellbeing; proactive was the best choice. Our steps in time, perfectly together as one tap resounded across the blank expanse. Ten metres turned to two rapidly. The next engagement was nigh.

I put as much strength into my left fist and connecting joints and launched a quick jab. My aim wasn't traditional; it was low, towards to bellybutton, in hopes that this man's perfect guard could not block.

And yet, my speediest punch possible was likely nothing to this seasoned fighter. Strength and speed were a numbers game - and this man easily crushed my own, thanks to his age and experience. Like a child believing they are the fastest runner in existence, to only be beaten by the slight jog of an adult. It was incomparable. He brought his centre of balance down half a foot and my knuckles connected with a forearm spanning double the width.