This was inspired by the fight I watched between Sergio Martinez and Julio Cesar Chavez Junior in 2013.
Boxing had a major impact on my life as a troubled teenager. I hope you enjoy the piece.:
The Struggle.
It's 5am, everyone is asleep
They've no obsession to feed.
Unlike me.
Sitting there alone far from serene as I watch on a not quite big enough laptop screen.
My heart is beating crazily as blood is pumped mazily around my body.
But my body is safe, unlike the two gladiators entering the ring before me.
The camera pans to each in turn and my stomach begins to churn as this thrilling, killing vendetta of violence approaches.
The dark side of humanity about to be laid out for all to see.
Sanctioned, paid for, craved for.
Feeding the demon that lurks in all of us
The shadow self that lives in stealth waiting for it's chance to supersede our very essence of God filled presence.
I stare into their dark eyes and they hop restlessly from foot to foot, their raw humanity exposed, and uncut.
Two men who lovingly support their family, yet ready to end the life the their opponents daughters father if needs be.
Having undergone twelve weeks of torture in order to make the contracted weight.
The deep hunger for success meticulously manifested in their physical form, in their bulging biceps and deep lined abdominals.
Yet my eyes are drawn back to their faces, faces from which all empathy has been shorn.
Two hungry wolves about to be unleashed on each other
Each ready to damage a potential brother.
But I'm fascinated. Fascinated cos I've embraced it and tasted it.
As an amateur I competed and rarely have I contrived to feel as alive as in the moments before I tried to score that one perfect punch to leave my opponent on the floor.
But I'm not like that anymore.
An anger that once burned within me has dampened you see.
But I still feel I can hold my own.
Yet I also realise that there's levels to this game
And sharks and wolves still walk in that killer zone.
The bell rings, it's shrillness stings
There's an age disparity between the two.
The ageing champion is smaller
The young contender, stronger taller.
The younger lion coming to claim his pound of flesh, the older champion ready to fight to his death.
Damage accrues as the battle ensues, two demigods of destruction unleashing their dogs of war
Yet through the melee the champ with his resilience and brilliance and begins to take the upper hand
They enter the last round and somehow they've found enough energy to make their last stand,
The champ only needing to hear the final bell, to be announced as the better man.
But then it comes with a sickening crunch a left hook punch that drops him to a heap on the floor.
The explosion in his brain as the howls begin to rain from the bloodthirsty masses on site.
What must go through the mind of this man
as he stares up at those shining bright lights?
I stifle a cry as he begins to rise back up into the pits of hell.
Hurt and exhausted, as though wading through mud
Across from a killer who has a scent of his blood
He steadies himself and in his eyes I can tell he has accepted potential destruction.
“Hold, hold!” I yell as my emotions swell but he ignores my desperate instruction
For the final minute he swings with reckless abandon, intent on a heroic last stand.
His body battered, legs unsteady a warrior to the last you can tell
And then it arrives the bell and the sharp
death knell to this vicious vortex of violence.
The champ drops to his knees, arms raised to the sky in victory
as tears run down his cheeks and mix with the blood between his battered teeth.
His face betrays his advancing age in a sport of blood-let that has no mercy
And as he continues to play this Russian roulette I wonder
How many more chances will he get?