The Heart of A Fighter

Just a character study of a professional fighter and the reasons why he fights so hard for himself in the ring.


3. Round Two


I pushed that memory out of my head, and got back on my feet, focusing on the environment around me once again. I nodded to the referee, and he nodded back, and blew his whistle and stepped to the side of the ring, indicating that the round had resumed.

My opponent, a sportsman as ever, gave me the courtesy of the first move. I gave him a slight smile to show my gratitude, and then we were facing off in the ring once again.

This time, I was more cautious, testing my opponent and baiting him, but he displayed an incredible mix of offense and defense; an impenetrable fortress.

We danced around each other for minutes, attacking and defending, striking and blocking, at a stalemate. But we both began to tire, sweat rolling down our bodies.

I decided to push the offensive and tried a feint on him, swinging an overhead chop at him to trick him into blocking it while my real attack – an uppercut – hit him while his guard was up. At least, that was the plan.

As my opponent saw the overhead chop coming, he took a step back, which allowed him to see the uppercut coming. He grinned, and in that moment, we locked eyes, and we both knew I wouldn’t be able to block his counterattack since I had already used both arms for the attack.

He sidestepped my attack, and I made a vain attempt to pivot myself to dodge his swing, but it made no difference. Both his arms slammed into my chest in a concentrated swing and it knocked the breath out of me. It felt as if a truck had ran into me. In a flash, he swung again and his fist connected with my jaw. It almost dislocated my jaw and I spit out blood from my mouth.

My opponent decided to press his advantage while I was still reeling, and pummeled me with a flurry of blows and jabs. After taking a pounding from him I couldn’t endure it anymore and collapsed again.

The referee stepped in again, blowing his whistle. A roar of dismay came from the crowd.

I lay on the cold floor of the ring, clutching my bruised chest. My mouth felt numb and sore. As I tried to gather strength to stand up again, another painful memory emerged from my subconscious:


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