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The sight of an unblemished face staring back at him, even though it was little more than a trick of the light, had a rejuvenating effect on the fighter. His nose, large and prominent, had clearly been broken countless times and there was pronounced scar tissue around both his greyish-blue eyes. On this night, though, as he stared dreamily at his reflection in the cracked mirror, he noticed that he could only vaguely discern the calloused and discoloured skin. The low hanging, solitary light bulb had dulled almost to a candlelight yellow with age and was coated in a thick layer of dust. Dark, concealing shadows filled the room. The deep lines on his forehead and the yawning crevices between his brows were also harder to make out and he found that if he squinted a little he could almost ignore the white that dusted his still thick hair and three day-old stubble. For the briefest of moments he felt young again. As quickly as it had returned to him though, that inner spark, that unexplainable sense of utter fearlessness and zest for life that he could usually only remember in sleep, drifted back into the dark abyss that surrounded his memory and left in its place an empty, almost hopeless feeling. The dressing room door then burst open and the fighter was snapped back into wakefulness.
‘Time to wrap up,’ mumbled the elderly trainer as he crossed over to the two chairs in the corner of the room in slow but determined strides. The old man’s voice was raspy, sometimes no more than a whisper and he looked in ill-health but he loved what he did just as he loved the fighter and, though he could no longer hide the sadness that was eating away at him, he could not imagine being anywhere else. Without looking over, he motioned for the silent, slightly fleshy-looking figure to join him.
He turned one of the chairs so that it faced the other and then placed a folded towel on the top of its wooden back. The ageing fighter, having pulled himself away from the flattering mirror, sat down on the forward-facing chair and rested his left arm on the towel with his fingers extended wide and stiff. No words needed to be spoken between the two. It was a procedure as familiar to them as the pungent smell of blood and sweat and they were happy to share a comfortable silence. As the trainer went about his work, busily wrapping a roll of gauze first around the wrist and then and then in a crisscross motion around the hand, the fighter allowed himself to drift into unconsciousness and for a few tranquil moments he forgot about everything and began to dream of waterfalls and long yellow beaches. As usual, though, the trainer worked very quickly and it was not long before both hands were wrapped tightly and he was forced to return to the cold dressing room. Still, he was struck by an overpowering urge to delay reality for as long as possible; very much like the feeling one gets when he emerges from a deep sleep and the prospect of facing the world seems almost unbearable without a few extra minutes in bed. Though aware that he had no choice in the matter, a small part of him wished that he could continue dreaming for a just little while longer. He eventually laboured to his feet and began pacing back and forth. A minute or two passed before he raised his head and, with his sad, friendly eyes, asked the trainer for a moment alone to prepare his body and mind for what was to come. The old man instinctively understood the wordless request and immediately turned to make his slow departure from the dressing room. Before reaching out for the door handle though he stopped momentarily and pivoted sharply at the waist. Craning his neck, he looked back at the fighter from over his sloping right shoulder and gave him a weak, almost sorrowful smile. There was great affection in his eyes.
‘I’ll see you out there kid,’ he said softly. ‘I know you’re gonna give em a show.’ He then disappeared through the narrow doorway and left the fighter alone with just his thoughts and the low-pitched humming of the dying light bulb.
The fighter stretched his weary muscles and limbs until he felt all the stiffness in them slowly disappear. He then got up on the balls of his feet and tattooed an imaginary target with short, crisp punches until beads of sweat showed white on his tough Mediterranean skin and ran down the bridge of his nose. Whereas a few moments earlier he had moved heavily and everything about him seemed laboured, he was now light and graceful and every movement was in delicate harmony. His hands were still surprisingly fast, only a fraction slower in fact than they had been in his prime and that pleased him. He only wished that his legs were as loyal; they had begun to betray him many years earlier and there were times when they felt to him almost hollow. He was only 39 years-old, not yet even middle aged, but the fighter knew that it was mileage, not age that ruined cars and he sometimes felt as though he had lived the life of three men. Countless mornings and afternoons spent swallowing great gulps of sawdust as he cleaned out the carpenter’s machinery as a boy now made his lungs burn in the cold and sometimes the pain was almost unbearable. It had grown progressively worse with each passing year, as if age itself, with its cruel and twisted sense of humour, were fanning the torturous flames inside his chest purely for amusement. It made training very hard, but, perhaps as a sort of coping mechanism, he reminded himself that there were those who are far worse off and he was in fact lucky not to have an even more debilitating affliction. It was a struggle, yes, but he was still able to work and provide for his family and in the end that was all that mattered…even if they did want him to stop.
He was now breathing heavily, wheezing almost, and after one final furious burst of activity he slowed to a stop. As he struggled to recapture his breath, the fighter tried to remember just how long ago it was when, in his own mind, winning had become secondary to survival. He could not find an answer. The sad shift from competitor to opponent had been such a gradual one that, oddly, he had barely even noticed it happen. It seemed strange to him now, thinking back over the last ten years or so of his career, how he could have failed to see it sooner. Ambition had long ago been replaced with a sort of stubbornness; a dogged refusal to admit what he and those around him had known for years. However, though occupying the role of perennial loser saddened him, not fighting at all, he reasoned, would make him even sadder. Something would not allow him to walk away. I may not be as good as I once was, he thought, but I’m as good as I was once. It was his favourite saying; one that he never seemed to grow tired of and usually managed to utter at least once a day.
He glanced over at the clock on the wall…it was almost time.
When he reached the door the fighter took in a long, deep breath that filled his lungs and pushed out his chest. He remained perfectly still for well over a minute, eyes shut tightly and nostrils flared, as though searching within for the answer to some ancient riddle; it was only when the second knock of the evening came – the one he had been both dreading and, in a curious way, longing for – that he once again permitted oxygen to pass through his lips. Like a balloon deflating, all the bottled up air emptied from his relieved lungs and the life immediately returned to his body. Strangely though, his eyes remained closed, despite the fact that he had now resumed bouncing up and down. Thirty seconds passed before he finally re-opened them, and when he did it was obvious that a change had occurred. He looked different; harder somehow. The benevolence in his face, so apparent just moments earlier, had all but vanished and in its place was a cold, distant stare. He reached for the hooded white robe that was hanging on the wall directly behind him and, though at least two sizes too big, casually slipped it on. With a sudden acceleration, he quickly yanked open the door and vanished from the dressing room, head bowed solemnly and eyes fixed on the worn out tiles beneath his feet. It's not over yet, he thought. There is many a good tune in an old fiddle and I will show that tonight. I wish, though, that I did not feel so tired.
‘Time to wrap up,’ mumbled the elderly trainer as he crossed over to the two chairs in the corner of the room in slow but determined strides. The old man’s voice was raspy, sometimes no more than a whisper and he looked in ill-health but he loved what he did just as he loved the fighter and, though he could no longer hide the sadness that was eating away at him, he could not imagine being anywhere else. Without looking over, he motioned for the silent, slightly fleshy-looking figure to join him.
He turned one of the chairs so that it faced the other and then placed a folded towel on the top of its wooden back. The ageing fighter, having pulled himself away from the flattering mirror, sat down on the forward-facing chair and rested his left arm on the towel with his fingers extended wide and stiff. No words needed to be spoken between the two. It was a procedure as familiar to them as the pungent smell of blood and sweat and they were happy to share a comfortable silence. As the trainer went about his work, busily wrapping a roll of gauze first around the wrist and then and then in a crisscross motion around the hand, the fighter allowed himself to drift into unconsciousness and for a few tranquil moments he forgot about everything and began to dream of waterfalls and long yellow beaches. As usual, though, the trainer worked very quickly and it was not long before both hands were wrapped tightly and he was forced to return to the cold dressing room. Still, he was struck by an overpowering urge to delay reality for as long as possible; very much like the feeling one gets when he emerges from a deep sleep and the prospect of facing the world seems almost unbearable without a few extra minutes in bed. Though aware that he had no choice in the matter, a small part of him wished that he could continue dreaming for a just little while longer. He eventually laboured to his feet and began pacing back and forth. A minute or two passed before he raised his head and, with his sad, friendly eyes, asked the trainer for a moment alone to prepare his body and mind for what was to come. The old man instinctively understood the wordless request and immediately turned to make his slow departure from the dressing room. Before reaching out for the door handle though he stopped momentarily and pivoted sharply at the waist. Craning his neck, he looked back at the fighter from over his sloping right shoulder and gave him a weak, almost sorrowful smile. There was great affection in his eyes.
‘I’ll see you out there kid,’ he said softly. ‘I know you’re gonna give em a show.’ He then disappeared through the narrow doorway and left the fighter alone with just his thoughts and the low-pitched humming of the dying light bulb.
The fighter stretched his weary muscles and limbs until he felt all the stiffness in them slowly disappear. He then got up on the balls of his feet and tattooed an imaginary target with short, crisp punches until beads of sweat showed white on his tough Mediterranean skin and ran down the bridge of his nose. Whereas a few moments earlier he had moved heavily and everything about him seemed laboured, he was now light and graceful and every movement was in delicate harmony. His hands were still surprisingly fast, only a fraction slower in fact than they had been in his prime and that pleased him. He only wished that his legs were as loyal; they had begun to betray him many years earlier and there were times when they felt to him almost hollow. He was only 39 years-old, not yet even middle aged, but the fighter knew that it was mileage, not age that ruined cars and he sometimes felt as though he had lived the life of three men. Countless mornings and afternoons spent swallowing great gulps of sawdust as he cleaned out the carpenter’s machinery as a boy now made his lungs burn in the cold and sometimes the pain was almost unbearable. It had grown progressively worse with each passing year, as if age itself, with its cruel and twisted sense of humour, were fanning the torturous flames inside his chest purely for amusement. It made training very hard, but, perhaps as a sort of coping mechanism, he reminded himself that there were those who are far worse off and he was in fact lucky not to have an even more debilitating affliction. It was a struggle, yes, but he was still able to work and provide for his family and in the end that was all that mattered…even if they did want him to stop.
He was now breathing heavily, wheezing almost, and after one final furious burst of activity he slowed to a stop. As he struggled to recapture his breath, the fighter tried to remember just how long ago it was when, in his own mind, winning had become secondary to survival. He could not find an answer. The sad shift from competitor to opponent had been such a gradual one that, oddly, he had barely even noticed it happen. It seemed strange to him now, thinking back over the last ten years or so of his career, how he could have failed to see it sooner. Ambition had long ago been replaced with a sort of stubbornness; a dogged refusal to admit what he and those around him had known for years. However, though occupying the role of perennial loser saddened him, not fighting at all, he reasoned, would make him even sadder. Something would not allow him to walk away. I may not be as good as I once was, he thought, but I’m as good as I was once. It was his favourite saying; one that he never seemed to grow tired of and usually managed to utter at least once a day.
He glanced over at the clock on the wall…it was almost time.
When he reached the door the fighter took in a long, deep breath that filled his lungs and pushed out his chest. He remained perfectly still for well over a minute, eyes shut tightly and nostrils flared, as though searching within for the answer to some ancient riddle; it was only when the second knock of the evening came – the one he had been both dreading and, in a curious way, longing for – that he once again permitted oxygen to pass through his lips. Like a balloon deflating, all the bottled up air emptied from his relieved lungs and the life immediately returned to his body. Strangely though, his eyes remained closed, despite the fact that he had now resumed bouncing up and down. Thirty seconds passed before he finally re-opened them, and when he did it was obvious that a change had occurred. He looked different; harder somehow. The benevolence in his face, so apparent just moments earlier, had all but vanished and in its place was a cold, distant stare. He reached for the hooded white robe that was hanging on the wall directly behind him and, though at least two sizes too big, casually slipped it on. With a sudden acceleration, he quickly yanked open the door and vanished from the dressing room, head bowed solemnly and eyes fixed on the worn out tiles beneath his feet. It's not over yet, he thought. There is many a good tune in an old fiddle and I will show that tonight. I wish, though, that I did not feel so tired.