If you come from a street similar to mine, and have parents with a history like mine, people don't expect much from you. No one expects you to get anywhere or be more than just a delinquent, a trouble-maker, just like your parents. You get judged on sight if you walk with a bit of a sway or speak imperfectly and have a name that no one can pronounce.
These days, everyone has forgotten that people can change, and often do. Underestimated may be something I will be, that I have been, for a long time. But defeated is something I have never been before, no matter what the odds are or what kind of household I come from. Never has that word described me.
That's why I love to fight.
No matter where you come from, who you are, or what has happened in your past, you leave it where it belongs, to yourself, when the fists begin to fly.
When I'm fighting, that's the only thing that people can judge me by: how well you can sink a punch or a kick, your power, and your endurance.
You're on your own, just the way I like it.
***************
The old subway station always made me nervous.
It was just a simple fact. I don't really know why I feared it at all, to be perfectly honest. Maybe it was the darkness, the fact that whenever I began the trek into the Box that I was walking towards a new and more prepared enemy each time, or maybe because there was only a thin veil between me and death. That's just how delicate life is, and every time I go into the dank underground area there is a chance that I will tear through that flimsy separation and never come back.
A rat scuttled close by and I made a point not to shudder in front of Bert. Instead of focusing on my surroundings I began to tense my muscles and fire myself up.
Who's gonna win?
Who's faster?
Who's stronger?
Who's the better fighter?
I would answer myself each time while simultaneously trying hard to convince myself that it was true.
Bert and I walked in silence at a moderately slow pace under the streets. We reached the deteriorating staircase and I knew we had arrived when we were deep enough to smell sewage and could begin to make out the familiar cheering from the crowd. I gulped loudly and prayed to God that I would survive the night, pulling my silver pirate's mask over my face.
"Remember, Am. Strong fists, shoulders, and will. What is a fighter without will?"
"Weak," I answered with a practiced calm as I stepped forwards with a proud stride.
"Why?"
"Because with will comes power and with power comes victory."
"Where do the words 'I can't' exist?" Bert was shouting over the crowd to be heard.
"Nowhere," I answered with the same calm.
"Where?!" He repeated, dissatisfaction lacing his voice.
"Nowhere!" I too repeated with a bit more ferocity.
"What state is defeat?!"
"A state of mind!"
"When is your dignity gone?!"
"When I give it to away!" By then I was shouting with him and fully riled up, and the ring and my opponent were only a few feet away.
YOU ARE READING
Street Wise
Novela JuvenilIn school, she was known as the good girl, or as good as you can get in her neighborhood. In the streets, she was known simply as 'Pirate,' a masked fighter in the illegal underground arenas to get extra money for her single mother. Obviously, Amiel...
