slipknots

speedball

"You get your shot at the title. Congratulations."

Pedro stares at the man across the table from him, back ram-rod straight, face impassive. He nods, imperceptibly. "Thank you."

The man smiles at him, broadly. "You're one cold fish, Pedro. You know that? How are things with you? How's Clarissa?"

Pedro replies, quietly: "She died last year. Car crash."

The smile drops from the man's face, replaced by a grimace. "I am sorry. I didn't know."

For a few moments, there is a tense silence between them. Then, Pedro gets up and extends his hand to the other man. They shake, and Pedro limps out of the room.

The gym is silent and empty, as Pedro stands before the punching bag, gloves on, helmet on, head low on his shoulders, poised in the stance of the professional boxer.

"Three... two... one... GO!"

he pounds the bag efficiently, short jabs, weaving his body into the blows and ducking out of the anticipated reprisals, his feet dancing on the gym floor. he is punching the bag 'adagio'.

The phrase brings back memories - of the narrow lane in Mexico City, of the man who taught him how to box, the amateur violinist Martinez. "You must feel the rhythm, chico. feel it." And Martinez begins to punch him lightly, testing his sparring skills.

"Adagio," Martinez booms. The blows come faster, and yet Pedro is hardly tested. He counts the blows, can anticipate the pace at which they are coming at him.

"Allegro!" The punches accelerate, coming at him fast and thick. He keeps up, using his gloves to block and parry. Not one punch lands on his face or body.

"Presto!" And now he faces a flurry of fists, a cyclone; old man Martinez, ex-welterweight champion of the world, pushing those lightning muscles to the maximum, testing his heavyweight protege's reflexes.

There is no time to think or anticipate --- his hands move of their own accord, flawlessly meeting Martinez in mid-punch.

Martinez pulls off, sweating profusely. "You're ready, chico." He pats him on the side of the head with a gloved hand. "You're ready."

And now, ten years later, heavyweight contender Pedro Rodriguez punches the bag 'adagio' - dancing lightly, caressing the bag with his gloved stone-cutter fists. 'Allegro' - he whispers to himself, and the punches accelerate; the bag moves in a blur, 120 blows a minute. 'Presto' - and now the bag resonates at the primal frequency of his fists. He stops, exhausted, stopping the bag with a gloved hand --- he's ready.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Madison Square Garden! This is the fight for the greatest prize in the world of boxing, the world heavyweight championship! World boxing champion Solomon Davis against the undefeated contender Pedro Rodriguez!"

A man in the crowd turns to another - "He looks good. I was afraid he would break down after his wife left him."

The other man gives him a strange look - "He told me she died. In a car crash."

"Oh. Who cares. As long as he beats the shit out of this guy and makes us some money!"

In the ring, Pedro dances - moving his feet, jumping off his toes. His muscles undulate and ripple as he sways and weaves, ducking imaginary blows. And then the bell sounds, and he faces the champion.

Solomon is heavy, yet incredibly fast for his size. He moves with deceptive sloth, circling around the dancing Pedro. For a minute they dance around each other - with each other - Pedro leading, Solomon the bashful partner - and the world is at peace.