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Puc
Banned
And it was over again. Not so quickly tonight, though. It had lasted thirty minutes, thirty minutes filled with the dulling thud of temple shots and crinkling agony of constant abdominal pummeling. Thirty minutes of expressive hatred, that’s all it was. Thirty minutes. Seventy five hundred dollars was the reward this time. To many, it would seem like an excessive purse, but you must understand, his opponent won twenty times that.
It seemed like the same story repeated over and over, the same never-ending cycle. The call usually came about a month before, the promoter always playing the same cards. “I know this is short notice, but…” Sometimes, the scheduled opponent would have a bleed or break his hand. Sometimes, the champion would need “just one more tune up” before his next multi-million dollar Caesar’s Palace duel. Maybe a last minute back out would leave an open under card slot. He quit keeping track of the reasons; it just didn’t seem worth the effort. Who the hell cared, anyway? There were a hundred variations on the same paradigm.
None of that mattered at this moment, though, none of that was conscious at all. All he knew was another loss, another melodramatic walk to the center of the ring – everyone in the damn place already knew the outcome anyway. It was the outcome they had all paid to see. The hometown stud was strutting his stuff for the good old boys one last time before his shot at the welterweight crown. God, why did it seem like he was always in someone else’s hometown? There was no way the promoter was going to screw up a potential half a million-dollar payday by letting the young gun lose. He’d have to knock the asshole out to win. He was never known for his punching power, either.
He didn’t really have the right to complain, though. He knew the game well. He knew before boarding the plain that he wasn’t supposed to win, that there was no chance he could win. Had that not been the case, there would have been no call in the first place. What a strange game it was. It had happened so many times before.
But, what other choice was there? There is no pension fund for retired gladiators, no 401K for pugilists. You’ve got to take the fights when they come, he told himself, take as much punishment as your body will allow, and hope when it is over you can survive on meager savings and a part-time stint as a crane operator. There was no choice. Not now, anyway. It was too late to be young; his record was too tarnished to be protected. The time to be concerned with which fights to take had long passed – it was before the losses, before the knockouts. Maybe he should have gotten a manager. Maybe he should have stayed armature longer. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone for the paydays early, but been patient. Maybe… Maybe…
But now, all that was left was another loss, another name to add to the list of former and future champions he hadn’t beaten.
It seemed like the same story repeated over and over, the same never-ending cycle. The call usually came about a month before, the promoter always playing the same cards. “I know this is short notice, but…” Sometimes, the scheduled opponent would have a bleed or break his hand. Sometimes, the champion would need “just one more tune up” before his next multi-million dollar Caesar’s Palace duel. Maybe a last minute back out would leave an open under card slot. He quit keeping track of the reasons; it just didn’t seem worth the effort. Who the hell cared, anyway? There were a hundred variations on the same paradigm.
None of that mattered at this moment, though, none of that was conscious at all. All he knew was another loss, another melodramatic walk to the center of the ring – everyone in the damn place already knew the outcome anyway. It was the outcome they had all paid to see. The hometown stud was strutting his stuff for the good old boys one last time before his shot at the welterweight crown. God, why did it seem like he was always in someone else’s hometown? There was no way the promoter was going to screw up a potential half a million-dollar payday by letting the young gun lose. He’d have to knock the asshole out to win. He was never known for his punching power, either.
He didn’t really have the right to complain, though. He knew the game well. He knew before boarding the plain that he wasn’t supposed to win, that there was no chance he could win. Had that not been the case, there would have been no call in the first place. What a strange game it was. It had happened so many times before.
But, what other choice was there? There is no pension fund for retired gladiators, no 401K for pugilists. You’ve got to take the fights when they come, he told himself, take as much punishment as your body will allow, and hope when it is over you can survive on meager savings and a part-time stint as a crane operator. There was no choice. Not now, anyway. It was too late to be young; his record was too tarnished to be protected. The time to be concerned with which fights to take had long passed – it was before the losses, before the knockouts. Maybe he should have gotten a manager. Maybe he should have stayed armature longer. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone for the paydays early, but been patient. Maybe… Maybe…
But now, all that was left was another loss, another name to add to the list of former and future champions he hadn’t beaten.
