The Last Fight

THE LAST FIGHT

Like most eight-year-old boys, I viewed the world with youthful
indifference. My only concerns were; whom was I going to play with and
what mom was cooking for dinner. That was until I heard the venerable
names of Cassius Clay and Sonny Liston. Since then, boxing became my
passion.
I first heard the names from my schoolboy pals, as they would pit one
against the other; using their raw, analytic minds to determine what
strategy the two boxers would plan to pummel the other. One argued that
Clay had the advantage of being young and quick, while the other
remonstrated that Liston was older, experienced and would out-slug him.
Yet in retrospect, I'm sure my buddies waxed about as eloquent as most
eight-year-olds can. Their thought out predictions more likely went
like this: "Cassius Clay will quick Liston's butt. That guy is baaaad!
My dad say's he has the fastest left jab in the world." Then the other
kid, "No way, your dad's crazy, Sonny Liston will punch his face in."
But I was impressed nevertheless, and started to see Liston and Clay as
godlike-two supernatural gladiators meeting to see who would rule
manhood.
I bought my first boxing magazine a month later. There, in black and
white stood Cassius Clay, hovering angrily over the prostate and
obviously beaten Sonny Liston. Clay was mocking, taunting, humiliating
him. From then on I bought every boxing magazine my meager allowance
could afford.
Unfortunately, the magazines only reminded me of my own pitiful lack
of athletic ability and defensive skills, not to mention my skinny
frame and prematurely big teeth, which didn't help to inspire much
confidence in myself. Kids always sensed an easy victory over me when
push came to shove. I hated to fight, always uncertain of whether I
could face fear and not run from it. Still, if I could avoid it, I had
no reservations.
The bully's dreaded threat, "Meet me after school you little punk"
always instilled intestinal anguish in me, and for the remainder of the
school day, every neuron in my body was furiously at work, planning an
alternate route of escape to the safety of my home.
Yet after exhausting every conceivable escape route to avoid a
probable beating, cruel fate would have the bully waiting outside my
class before the final bell stopped ringing. With an anticipated smell
of blood already wafting through their nostrils, a crowd would already
be gathering, to escort me beyond the gates and to my imminent butt
kicking. I couldn't run if I wanted to, for the throng of kids by that
time was as thick as shoppers at a White Front "White" sale.
Some merciful Samaritan would inevitably come to my aid, preventing a
sure thrashing, but not before I suffered a torn shirt or bloody
nose.
Many times I was chased right to my front door, feeling the last
desperate tug for my collar before I made it to sanctuary. My world was
filled with such bullies at every turn. They lurked in the playgrounds,
perused the local candy counters, smoked cigarettes on the park
benches, and just hung out menacingly on the street corners.
Dougie Puto was the worst. He was some white guy who liked to slick
his hair back and wear Pendleton shirts like the Mexican gangs used to
do. Dougie would wait outside the liquor store and steal the candy I
just bought. When I finally stood up to him, he slapped me in the face.
I decided I had enough.
I first learned to fight by wrapping T-shirts around my hands and
sparring with my brother. I also read books on boxing and learned the
sweet science of the straight jabs and left-right combinations. Mom
bought me a pair of boxing gloves. I watched the fights on TV. I
studied their movements, their counter punches, their blocking and
effortless bobbing and weaving. Even my mother would spar with me in
the living room.
It was a comical sight; she throwing wide, underhand left jabs at me
while a cigarette dangled from her lips. She was formidable then,
standing a head taller than me, and not one to ever take crap from
anybody. Mom was once the toughest girl in her high school. After
smacking me around some, I could see why.
My first challenger was my sister's boyfriend, Robert. He was a few
years older than I was and stood way over six-foot; built with typical
Scandinavian genes, as if he stepped right out of a Viking man-o-war.
Yet he good-naturedly accepted my challenge, as any decent red-blooded
Viking would have.
My mother acted as referee, anticipating a one sided disaster. It's a
good thing she did, because as soon as we began, I clocked him a dozen
or so times in the head before he knew what happened.
Robert, furious that I was on the verge of taking his head off, threw
off his gloves and came at me. Vikings had a terrible temper I hear,
and conquering was in their blood. Coming at me with red face and blind
fury, my mother intercepted him before he squeezed the life out of me.
Reacting to her threat, "You touch my boy, and I'll kick your ass!" he
cooled immediately. That's when I knew I wanted to be a boxer.
A few years later I took my skills to the downtown boxing club,
confident somebody would see they had a future champion in the making.
Standing against the wall of the club, I took it all in. The pungent
smell of raw brutality as sweat poured from half-naked men; the
furious, bludgeoning speed of combinations thrown into the heavy bags
as trainers pushed fighters beyond endurance, the astounding rapidity
of whip-like resonance of one working the jump rope with impeccable
coordination.
There were two large black men sparring in a ring, punishing each other
with punches that would rock the toughest humans the planet could
offer. Their eyes mirrored a controlled savagery; bent on ultimate
destruction of their opponent. Everything they did was feral, a passion
in their spirit and bowels that developed out of necessity. A necessity
to metamorphose from mere mortals to transcendent, indisputable
champions, whatever the cost.
I found myself in the presence of men with single-minded tenacity,
oblivious to the rest of the world's activity. I stepped into a world
created only for those who have shared the curse of being born for
possible destruction, but cheated their inevitable ruin by fighting
back; using what God armed man with to wield in his struggle to save
himself-his fist.
A powerfully built black boy of seventeen or so, gleaming with sweat
bumped into my shoulder on his way to the drinking fountain, knocking
me backwards. He took in a couple of desperate gulps of water, and then
bumped into me again on his way back to the bag. It wasn't meant to
seem an accident.
"Why you bumpin' into me?" he said, stepping on my toes.
I replied with all the courage I could muster that it was he who bumped
into me.
Assessing me up and down with disgust, he said, "You ain't never gonna
make it here. How do I know? Cause your scared. You didn't jump on me
when I bumped into you the first time. You just a puss. You got nothin'
to fight for." Shaking his head with contempt, he walked off and began
to brutalize a punching bag.
I didn't need his threatening affirmation to convince me of that. From
the moment I walked into the gym, I knew I was missing the integral,
visceral passion I needed. I knew I couldn't survive within those walls
uncompromising battlers-within a world of savage intensity that I did
not possess. I was void of the inner necessity to purge whatever curse
or demons that haunted their passage through life. I grew up on white
bread and milk, negating any need to struggle through my formative
years.
Leaving the gym, I realized I was totally out of my element. I sensed
failure at my own weaknesses and inadequacy, not from the inability to
realize my dream of becoming a great boxer, but the inability to
challenge the limits of human endurance and push beyond the threshold
of mind, body, and spirit, to make my dream possible.