the fight
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. If you've ever read my blog, you know that I've frequently been given to the latter option, rambling pointlessly on in fifteen thousand word blog-posts hidden behind lj-cuts.

But, as Obama would say, "It's time for Change".

So instead of the usual ostentatious, maudlin writing style, I thought I'd just post photos, to tell you what happened in the gore that was my fight.




Always protect yourself
Round 1
The fight's just about to begin, and Paris, the referee pulls us together. I'm the one on the right, with the blue head-gear and the black wife-beater. Paris looks at us one last time, and whispers the exact same, three-line chant every referee pronounces before a boxing match - "I want a clean fight. Listen to my command at all times. And always protect yourself."
Neither of us are listening to him of course. We're doing the macho stare-down. We touch gloves, and walk back one final time to our corners.
I wonder whether I should ask Paris if he thinks Hector is a greater warrior than Achilles.

The fight begins, and he comes out obsessively aggressive, pumped with a giddy cocktail of testosterone and adrenaline. I play out my plan for the first thirty seconds, ducking and going around him, getting him to miss me and punch the air. I can hear his punches whizz past my ear.
It's not all well though - he's managing to square me up a few times, and land some punches. He's got a hard hard hard punch. Three strikes later, my body's bursting to abandon my plan, and replace it with its own 'fight or flight' version. I cave.
I tiptoe on my right-foot, shift my weight ever so slightly onto my left, and contract my upper body in anticipation to throw my first punch - my favorite - my jab.



coiling up



the jab
The jab
Oooooo-mama. That felt good. I get him smack on the face. He totters back.
I close in to go at him again. A minute into the fight, my rehearsed plan is a distant memory. I drop my guard and my technique, and we end up spending the rest of the round pounding each other silly, without the slightest notion of self-defense. The gasp of the crowd when you land a punch is intoxicating.
Anyway, "always protect yourself" is for old men.

Round 2
I start off the second round, ready to push him a bit. My aim's to fire some sharp punches into his body, to weaken it for the next round.
Well, once the round began, those plans are again unceremoniously shelved (oh the surprise!) - I go at him like a fool, flailing my arms. He of course, returns the favor. It's turning into an ugly bar fight, one that's swinging from side-to-side every moment, just like our hideously exhausted bodies.




two in round two

Mid-way through the round, he plants a monstrous right hand. To my already distraught head, it feels like his fist's gone through my skull and into my brain. I can hear the crowd shudder behind me. The fight goes downhill from there - I never completely recover from that straight-right. He closes in on me, and pummels me repeatedly, and I can barely parry his blows.

As I stand there cowering, with my arms bent at the elbow, trying to cover my sides of my head, I can hear his arms come at me with a 'whooooosh', like a windmill, and then land on my face. Simon screams at me to back out of the corner and throw my jab, but my head's in a muddle, and I seem unable to comprehend or follow his urgent commands. I'm getting battered, and in hindsight, getting myself into quite some head-trauma.

Late into the second round, Simon throws in the towel. He's had enough. The fight's stopped.



the beginning of the end



disappointment
The end
Before Simon wipes the blood dripping off my nose, I make no attempt to hide my consternation: I know I can take more, and want to continue the fight. He looks at me in the eye, and says "Train harder to turn that courage into skill, brother.".
Man, this guy should write scripts for Hollywood.