Music of the fight

The rolling cadence of the speedbags forward and back. One-two-three. Thump, thump, thump. A pair of mitts bangs out a combination. The jingle jangle of the chains over-head. Weights clank. Jump ropes tip-tapping time.
“Hands up, where are your feet, hands up, work off the two, nice kid, hands up, back to your chin, why can’t you keep your hands up, do something with the punches, every punch, fighters don’t take beatings, hands up, move, (buzz), TIME!”
I’m listening while I wrap my hands. In five minutes, I’ll be adding my own rhythm to the gym’s song while I beat on a bag.
“Hey mano. You’re going to spar today if Antonio is here.”
I nod. The various bags have been my constant companions for the last two months. I have yet to see the inside of a ring.
Hands double-wrapped, I take my place in front of the mirror for seven three-minute rounds of shadow boxing. Keep the hip torqued, chin tucked, hands up. Back to the chin, on the two, dig it in.
“Hey kid. Get your stuff. Antonio just got here.”
The gloves I use to train are different than the ones that are normally used in the ring, so I drop those off in my locker, find my mouthpiece, head back to ringside. For the sake of my future self’s desires, I put a cup in. Coach Eddie turns my right glove down and opens it wide. I slip the hand in and watch as he wraps the laces around my wrist then tapes the laces. He’s talking to me about what to expect, but I can’t hear him. The last two months of instructions are frenetically trying to download themselves into my short-term memory.
He rubs petroleum jelly on my eyes and forehead, pulls on the headgear, and slaps me on the ears.
“You ready kid?”
I nod and enter the ring.
In my corner, everything has gone silent, and no one is in front of me. Back and forth on the balls of my feet, hands up and furiously launching them. One-two, duck, and back, one, one, duck, three. I turn back to the center of the ring where coach is standing. One hand waving me in, his other hand, waving in the man who stands my opposite. I arrive. He’s speaking, but everything in my mind is silent. He points back to the corners.
I head back, breathe, bell rings, hands up, moving forward.
Feet are good, boxing position, hands are up, work off the jab…
WHAM!
My mind’s mariachi has been commissioned by the right hand of another. The dance has begun.
Duck, body, back up, move forward, ow, ow, back up, back up, catch my breath and back forward again, jab, jab, one-two, one-two, ow, ow, back up, back up, damn these ropes. Push him and back forward again. Jab, jab, ow, ow, back up, back up, move forward…TIME!
Back in my corner. I drop my mouthpiece into Coach Eddie’s hand. I can barely breathe. He puts a white towel under my nose and presses, pulling it away crimson. The inability to catch my breath concerns me more than the blood coming out of my face. Coach sprays me down, pours water into my hung-open mouth, and tells me to keep my hands up.
The bell rings. And the dance repeats.
Jab, jab, jab, wham, wham, wham, la, la, la.
After three rounds, the session is over.
I step out of the ring and the hands that have bloodied me wrap around my torso, and I hear a far-off voice, “Great work brother. Welcome to the club.”
Coach removes my headgear, unwraps the laces from around my wrists, I remove my mouthpiece, then my cup.
“Hey kid. Wash those off and get on a bag. Back to work.”
I nod and move toward the heavy bag with gusto. My combinations are half-baked, and it feels like I’m coming down from something. None of my thoughts are clear, and it is difficult to give myself to what I’m doing. But one thing keeps ringing thru the buzz.
“Have I finally been beaten bonkers?”
TIME!
The buzzer rings. I wash my mouth out, take a short drink, and a long breath. Moving forward to the speed bag. The round starts with a ring, and I’m back on the hunt for my rhythm.
One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, one, two, one, two, one, two…
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap…