He barks out a laugh. “Trust me. Iwantto be here.”
My eyes narrow as I size him up. Maybe he’s one of those kids who thinks he needs punishing. Maybe he knows he has an ego problem and wants to be brought down a peg or two. I’ve come across a few of those. Or maybe he’s here as part of a dare, or a bet. Or maybe he genuinely thinks he can beat the shit out of me and be crowned the new king of the street-fighting scene.
I’m not part of the ‘scene,’ but that doesn’t seem to stop waifs and strays from coming in off the sidewalk, wanting to fight the only undefeated name this side of the Brooklyn Bridge.
They come for the challenge and they leave with a rearranged jaw.
I fight those who deserve it, those who don’t deserve it and all the grey in between. I say no to no one. Because I get more out of this game than they will ever understand.
I nod once at my opponent and he takes a cocky step forward, signaling the beginning of the fight. I lift up onto the balls of my feet, my fists braced ready to shield. As always, I’ll allow him the first three strikes—enough to let him think he’s got the upper hand, and enough to kick my adrenaline into gear.
His boots thud heavily on the floor, anchoring him, then he pulls his right arm back before swinging his fist gracelessly toward my cheek. I duck enough that it grazes my temple. The force of it does more to set him off balance than me.
I wait for him to right himself, then he takes another swing, this time with the left. He catches my jaw, sending me back a few inches.
I resume my defensive stance and wait for his third and final unhindered attack. His confidence is up, his swagger peaked. He uses his right again, harder and sharper. When the knuckles collide with my face, something inside me reliably snaps.
To the edge of the room, Gian is holding his breath. He always does this for the first three strikes. No matter how often I reassure him that despite my fifty-two years, I haven’t lost an ounce of grit, he still worries I might one day take a little too long to fight back. Just a second and I could be on the floor.
That thought fuels me even more. I might be three decades older than this prick but I consider that to be compounded skill, not a liability.
I bounce on the balls of my feet, building some momentum, then I flick out three fast jabs.
Bam, bam, bam.
The guy staggers backward, blood pouring from a gash on his right cheek. The sound of impact is wet and final, of skin splitting under precision.
The look he shoots me is one of shock and petulance. I don’t let it register too deeply. The day I allow judgement into my fight is the day I let something other than core survival drive me to the edge of destruction.
He tries another swing but it’s shaky, non-committal. It lands on my shoulder, nudging me to a useful angle. I drive forward again, screwing three more punches into his left cheek, then one into his stomach, folding him in two.
Air leaves his lungs in a broken grunt, his ribs screaming under the pressure.
Gian is in my periphery, breathing normally now, his arms folded across his chest. There’s a sense of disappointment in the air. Usually, fights take at least ten minutes. This one’s nearly over.
The bruises on his face are turning purple fast, but he doesn’t give up. Trying to bounce in heavy boots, he runs at me, throwing his fists in an uncoordinated rhythm. I duck and dodge most of them, one or two landing on my cheek and chin.
I hardly feel the impact.
I sense an opportunity to get this over and done with, so I can focus on what I really came here for.
Glancing over at Gian, I nod once, then turn my attention back to the kid who’s now panting and grunting, angrily.
From the sound of feet moving around the edge of the room and a bag opening, I know Gian is preparing for the next part of the fight. It’s my cue to finish.
I need to get him on the ground so I can inflict the right amount of damage.
I bounce once to the right then drive a hard kick into his ribcage, knocking out his left side. Then I drive my right fist into his jaw, sending him sideways. He remains upright though.
Still bouncing, I thrust a foot into his sternum, knocking the wind from his chest. Then follow it up with a series of quickpunches, one after the other, to his face. He falls to the hard, cold ground with a cry, but the lactic acid is infusing my muscles now, and I don’t stop. Another kick to the ribs, a punch to the face. His arms come up to block me, so I hammer those too.
Each strike lands heavier than the last, fueled by something darker than rage.
Then his foot starts to kick the ground.
“He’s tapping,” Gian says, calmly.
When I still don’t stop, he stands over the kid and presses a hand into my chest. It halts me immediately. Even though I can only see red now, and my muscles are twitching with unspent energy, I know when Gian places his hand on me, it’s time.
