I WAIT FOR the knock on my motel room door to tell me it’s time to go. On the edge of the bed I sit, my eyes closed, the fight playing out in my head. I visualize every punch. I see myself standing over Joseph “The Hammer” Ray laid flat out on the canvas.
Soon Max Delong, my trainer, will come knocking. He’ll say, “Time to show ‘em what you’re made of. It’s time to own the ring.”
Own the ring. What I’m made of. That’s the job. Keep punching until your opponent falls, go home and give my twenty-five-year-old body a solid rest. And for the minuscule number of people occupying the ringside seats craving action, never forget to give them a reason to watch.
Earlier today, Max told me Joseph was standing in the way of my rising to the top. I have to believe Max. I have to trust what he says. When the punches start flying, he’s the one in my corner helping keep me going when I’m bruised and battered. If things in the ring aren’t going my way, Max gives me the strength to dig deep and keep pushing. He’s a little angel watching over me.
Alone in the room, I fight to calm my nerves, keep my head in the game. This isn’t the time for second thoughts. Surviving in the boxing ring is a mind game. You mentally break and it could all be over before the first round even finishes. Physically strong. Mentally strong. A fighter needs both. In the ring, I talk with my fists. I have to. There is no other way.
That’s the problem with waiting for it all to begin. Your mind can drift where it shouldn’t. A tiny lapse into self-doubt can become a curse. You have to kill it before it gets too strong. I kill it every time.
I make myself think of how a loving mother will bleed for her daughter, how a father will fight for his son. It’s that same fire that rages within me. It’s what I hold onto to destroy my fear.
I hear the knock on my door. I open my eyes. Max is right on time. He asks how I’m feeling. I tell him I’m ready as I’ll ever be. A grin of satisfaction grows on his face. That’s good enough for him.
I grab my gym bag off the bed. It’s time to leave behind the tranquility of my room.
WE DON’T TALK on the drive over. We never do in these moments. Max understands. The quiet helps calm my mind before the hits start coming.
We arrive at the Western Community Hall, park in the back lot, and quietly head inside through the rear entrance.
Not that it really matters. I’m no big-time fighter who’s captured the attention of millions. My name isn’t stuck in countless people’s heads. Online, hardly anyone is shouting my name—and to the ones who hide behind their cellphones and computer screens trying to knock me down with their meaningless words telling me “I’m nothing,” you’re wasting your time. That reality doesn’t douse my fire. I won’t let it cut into me. Adulation isn’t simply given, it has to be earned.
A match at the Western Community Hall is nothing to scream about, but you have to start somewhere. If you start at the top, down is the only way to go. I’ll grind it out and push myself all the way.
We enter a changing room attached to a gymnasium where a boxing ring is ready and waiting for me. A few rows of metal chairs surround the ring.
I change into black trunks. My upper body is fully exposed and ready to feel the sting of boxing gloves against bare flesh.
Max tapes up my hands and wrists to give them added protection. You suffer a sprain or a break and it could be over in a heartbeat.
After the tape job, Max holds the punching mitts. I work my combinations, warming up my body and getting the blood pumping. It’s not a smart idea to enter the ring completely cold.
Soon enough, I’m ready to go.
When I enter the gymnasium there’s no light show, no pumped-up music playing to energize the small crowd. I’m just a hungry young man with a prayer and a crazy dream.
I slide between the ropes and meet Joseph in the middle of the ring. A referee reminds us to make it a clean fight with no cheap shots. Joseph and I tap gloves signaling that we’ll play by the rules and head to our corners.
I look at the people in the chairs. A few of them have come lusting for the sight of blood. I can see it in their eyes. Some pundits call boxing and mixed martial arts matches barbaric, nothing more than “human cockfighting.”
I get it. They can’t see past the violence. They don’t see the beauty in the strategy, that I’m playing physical chess. They don’t see the grueling training. They don’t see the sweat and the tears being spilled when a person is alone in a ring fighting for their life. Fair enough. It doesn’t matter. I’m not them and they’re not me.
I roll my shoulders, shake out my arms, and roll my head side-to-side, ridding my body of any lingering tension. It’ll only slow me down.
The bell sounds.
Here we go.
ROUND 1
I move in feeling fresh and ready.
Joseph and I circle the ring sizing each other up, seeing how the other moves. Who’ll strike first? Who’ll defend first?
Joseph makes that decision for me by throwing jabs at my face. I slip and duck. A volley of punches misses, zipping past my head. I keep my defense nice and tight. That’s good. If you move too far from the line of attack to put yourself out of range, it hinders your ability to counter-attack.
I let him keep punching and get a sense of how he moves. Remember, we’re playing a game of physical chess.
Stepping backwards, out of punching range, I start moving around the ring. Joseph follows my movement and charges in.
He executes another swift and powerful left-handed jab followed by a right cross.
No problem. I slip the punches and send him a smooth left-handed lead hook. It lands cleanly on the target. My glove slams into the right side of his jaw. I can hear it crunch.
I expect him to be rattled and shaken, giving me time to follow up with a right cross. But Joseph proves me wrong. He doesn’t falter. Right after my left-handed lead hook lands, he fires outa right cross, strong and fast. I try to get my gloves in place to cover my face but too late. Boxing is a game of split seconds.
His glove slams squarely into my nose making it erupt. I feel wetness under my nostrils. It’s my blood dripping down. Dark red drops stain the canvas. My eyes start to water.
Joseph sends out a three-punch combo, the punches in perfect unison targeting my head: a jab with the left arm shooting straight out; a right cross with the arm straight instantly following; a return to the left arm slightly bent at the elbow forming the left-handed lead hook, his body twisting when executed.
This time I manage to get both gloves into position to shield my face. I feel his gloved fists slam into mine. It’s okay, I remind myself. I’ve been here before, the blows landing, taking the hits over and over again.
With my hands still raised, Joseph goes for another target. A low right hook slams into my rib cage. I hear and feel the brutal contact of a boxing glove flush against my skin and rib cage. The impact makes me bite down hard on my mouth guard.
I pull back and move away. I need space, room to breathe, time to reassess my situation.
Joseph isn’t easy prey. He’s strong and quick. It’s a dangerous combination to have to face. Don’t underestimate your opponent. My bloody nose and sore ribcage are strong reminders of that. They’re also screaming at me to keep my head in the game!
Joseph is heavier than me and taller, giving him the advantage of a longer reach. I have to remember that. I’ll have to pick him apart bit by bit, get inside his head and break him down.
The rest of the round I make use of the space in the ring and keep my distance from him. The bell sounds and we go to our corners to catch our breath. A small applause comes from the crowd. I sit down in my chair with Max beside me.
One could ask why I put myself through all this pain. Some might think it’s for the love of the sport. Truth is, it’s all I know.
Growing up, I didn’t get to walk in pretty pastures. I was never born with a silver spoon in my mouth. That sweet reality for many was never mine.
People like me are born into a world of garbage. Every day that’s our dismal fairy tale. College and university for guys like me? I don’t think so. I wiped that off the table a long time ago. It’s not happening. Did I have a strong and respectable father figure? There never was one. My life was a mother busting her ass working three minimum wage jobs and just getting by. It’s a shit deal. You walk dingy streets and they become your teacher. It hardens you. It’s the world you get to know. Shedding tears won’t get you anywhere. Showing any weakness only makes you a target. Love. How do you even show that emotion?
The ring is my home and my only way out. So here I am facing one opponent at a time.
I hear the familiar sound of the bell telling me it’s time to get back to work, spill some more sweat and blood.
Let’s go.
This gutter rat is back in the game.
ROUND 2
A minute in I can feel my right eye starting to swell. It’s been taking a beating. Even with Vaseline covering my face, helping Joseph’s gloves slip and slide off of the skin, the hits still add up. I pray the skin around the eye doesn’t split open up. If it goes that way, spilling blood, the fight could be stopped.
I avoid going head-to-head with him. One solid hit could send me straight to the ground with my brain rattled. The referee would finish the ten-count and wave his arms telling everyone it’s time to go home. Thing is, my home is a sorry excuse of a one-bedroom apartment with a crap paint job and furniture to match.
Joseph still comes at me swinging. He wants to play offence. I’ll let him play offence. I move around the ring picking my angles, coming at him from the sides. I pepper him with jabs and crosses. A few make decent contact with his head.
But then Joseph manages to get me up against the ropes. I’ve been in the ring long enough to know that my opponent now has the upper hand. His gloves smash into my arms and hands, trying to bust through my protective barrier.
From my corner, I hear Max hollering at me to get off the ropes. That’s easier said than done.
Joseph is just like me. Neither of us is willing to back down. We’re two young men duking it out, wanting to make more of our lives. Bleeding in the ring gives us a sense of worth in some people’s minds.
Thankfully, relief arrives. The bell rings. All I can think is, Thank God. Feeling the beating I just took, I drag my battered body back to my corner.
Max doles out advice. He tells me how I need to play the next round. I’m listening, but also staring at Joseph, who is staring right back at me.
I can tell he’s not the same guy who stepped in the ring just before this craziness all started. He’s starting to break. His energy level is depleting. I can see it in his eyes, in the way his chest heaves up and down. He wants to knock me to the mat, finish me off with a single, solid blow. I can sense it.
Fair enough. I’ll play his game. I hear the sound of the bell one last time.
Here we go.
ROUND 3
I’ve always liked movie trilogies. Three parts. It works. It’s a nice number. A nice fit. The first part is the beginning, the second part is the middle, and the third part is the big finale.
Now it’s time to create my own story.
I let Joseph come to me one last time. I let him knock me back up against the ropes. I know Max is freaking out right now. I’m doing exactly what he didn’t want me to do. It’s alright Max, I tell myself. I have this.
The blows landing on me start to lighten up.
Joseph still wants to take me out with one final crushing blow. He’s still gunning for it, but he’s weakening.
Will I be in a world of hurt tomorrow from taking all this punishment? Probably. But I always bounce back.
He’s close enough to me to hear my voice. “Come on, is that all you got?” I say.
Joseph doesn’t take kindly to those words. He does exactly what I want him to do, pushing himself that much harder, emptying his tank that much faster.
Now his punching power is really easing up. Joseph’s breathing sounds laboured. He’s sucking wind. His arms probably feel like they each weigh a hundred pounds.
It’s a perfect storm. The starting pistol in my mind goes off. I push him back a little, giving myself some space to go to work. Here I go. Jab, cross, jab, cross...over and over again. I keep going. I think of all the hateful and bullshit words those online cowards spit at me and use it to add fuel to my fire.
Joseph stumbles back. He raises his hands to protect his face, but his guard is weak. It’s failing. His hands are lower. My right cross punch makes solid impact with his chin. A partially glazed look comes over his eyes. He’s crumbling. It’s obvious.
He somehow manages to get his hands up again when I throw another right cross. Our gloves make solid contact. It’s perfect. His torso is wide open. I seize the opportunity.
My rear-right, hooking punch slams into his mid-section, making him drop his gloves. And here we go again, one last time.
I land a left-leading hook punch against his right jaw. Now his eyes really glaze over.
I don’t waste any time following up.I put my right arm to use, executing a right-handed uppercut.
The moment my glove makes contact with his jaw, Joseph’s legs give out. His body plummets to the mat.
The referee jumps between us as I step back. In the ring, hitting a helpless man on the ground is a coward’s move. And I agree.
I head back to my corner as the ten-count plays out.
The referee signals that the match is over.
I hold my hands up high. I’m a young man punching his way through this life. Nothing more. Nothing less. Simply put: I’m not a lover, I’m a fighter. My upbringing hardwired me that way. I can’t afford to cry or feel much. My dad telling me “crying is for the weak and feelings are a waste of energy” is about the only memory I have of him.
I’m a gutter rat who’s striving to become a gutter king.
I’ll do what I have to do, no matter how painful it becomes.
