Here we don’t go for a tap out.
We go for TKO.
It’s ugly, bloody, dangerous.
It’s the only thing that relieves my stress at the end of the day.
The kid side-steps and goes for a jab, but I dodge it, planting my knuckles on his face again, this time slamming into his pretty, villainous jawline.
The crowd explodes, and the announcer says something about how that’s gotta hurt.
“Damn, old man. They were right about you,” he says, shaking it out. Blood glistens in the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah?” I nod up as we pivot again. “What do they say about me?”
I’m grinning now.
What these kids don’t know when they get into the ring is that I have been doing this for nearly as many years as they have been alive.
I’m in my forties, sure.
My thick black hair, flecked with streaks of silver caught in the overhead lights, is usually styled and slicked back during the day. But now it is messy and tousled from movement and sweat. My jawline is still sharp, despite being hit more than once. Unlike these rookies that go to the gym toget “swoll,” my body isn’t built for show; it’s built for impact.
My shoulders are squared, my posture impeccable, my abs a ridged display of core strength. My torso tapers into a V, bragging militant repetition, not vanity. My muscles aren’t bulky. They're hard, immovable.
I don’t have to flex to showcase it.
I don’t even have to try to knock this kid on his ass.
He goes for a jab, and I let him have it. His arm tires as his hand contacts my chest, and that’s when I go for an uppercut. When he’s recoiling from his punch, his head is down, and his face is unprotected.
It knocks him sideways, and the crowd howls.
“Lucky shot,” he says after spitting a stream of blood onto the ring floor. He’s mad now. But like every other amateur boxer, that rage will come out raw and sloppy.
He jabs, I block it and get a jab of my own in. He goes for a cross and I step back, making him overstep and stumble. I get in a solid hook, knocking him to the ground.
He hops back to his feet fast, gritting his teeth, and blinking unevenly.
It’s in his head now.
His ears are ringing.
His judgement is off.
He comes at me fast and reckless, peppering jabs in my direction like bullets from a gun without a scope.
Dodge, duck, turn, step. AKA…miss, miss, miss.
“You think you’re hot shit, old man?” he growls. “I’m going to fucking flatten you.”
“Go right ahead,” I say with a smirk, motioning at him with both hands.
Come here, punk. I dare you.
Two steps forward, two steps back. One step, hard jab. A hook that brings his chin tucking down, an uppercut that knocks it back and a cross out with guaranteed knock-out power that pushes him to the floor.
I turn around, wiping my brow with the back of my wrist, flexing my hand that is already turning purple.
