Underdog

The next night and fight have arrived. Dion is preparing for it by wrapping his hands in bandages and fastening them with tape, like he always does, when there is a knock on his door. He stops, looks at the door, a confused expression etched upon his face. Then realising he needs to say something exclaims, “Come in.”

His guess is that it’s going to be Bernie, though his coach never usually knocks. Rather, he tends to burst into the room with a focused intent look on his face. It’s meant to hide his concern, it fools no one. Well, it’s only meant to fool Dion but it hasn’t for a long, long time.

However, that is not who shoves the door wide and strides in. No, instead it’s a courier who enters. Dion looks them over only for an envelope to be thrust toward him.

“Dion Canterbury?” The fighter nods in confirmation. “This is for you.” The courier, a man a good ten years younger than Dion, adds handing him the package.

Without another word the courier does an about and strides off.

“Don’t you need a signature or…” It’s too late. The courier is gone. The fighter could chase after them. He isn’t inclined to and so doesn’t. Rather, he turns his gaze toward the envelope. Testing the weight his only conclusion is that it is light, so can’t contain much. Baffled, he hefts it in his hand for a second time to see if he can gauge what might be inside. He can’t, but something tells him he’s not going to like what it contains.

Taking a deep breath, and then releasing it, he casts aside his worries, digs at the corner of the paper and tears it wide. The rip is jagged, not at all straight, but grants him access to what is housed within, a note.

Discarding the ruined envelope Dion unfolds the note and begins reading. His face sinks barely a full line in. His shoulders follow soon after. And when he is done he carefully puts the note down, closed on the table next to him.

You can probably guess that the note is from Marla. She’s left, officially, Dion. It marks the end of their five year relationship. He knew it was coming. Didn’t think it would be like this but…

A fog surrounds, envelops and squeezes him. His mind empties. It too is quickly flooded by fog and sends him into a trance like state. He finishes wrapping his hands, unknowingly, and waits. Sometime later Bernie bursts in. Dion says nothing. He is barely aware his coach is present but answers questions issued to him despondently. Then comes the call to signify it is time for him to get into the ring, for his fight.

Still, in a daze Dion makes him entrance. He hears nothing but silence, even though people are loud and cheering, as he strides up and into the ring. The referee mutters some words. Dion, if he were not in this state, would hear them. He doesn’t. Not that he needs to. They’re words he’s heard a thousand times. It might actually be that many. Only he and Bernie likely know for sure. And then the fight begins at the cry.

Dion raises his fists, instinctively, and prepares himself. He dodges one jab, two, the third hits. He spins round, stumbles but continues. His opponent hits hard, they all hit hard. He is a passenger. His mind reeling. He throws punches of his own. A few connect but none appear to make much impact upon the man he’s facing.

The rounds pass. Dion is battered black and blue again, like he was the night previously, but he remains on his feet. Even manages to land a number of hits. His opponent takes them like they are nothing. Dion isn’t aware. Then he is hit, knocked to the mat. His head spins, he can see out of only one eye. He fights back to his feet. His legs ache, his arms are heavy. He shields his face. His opponent breaks his guard. They dance around the ring. Another series of blows are let loose. They land. Dion falls back onto the ropes. They are all that is keeping him upright. The other guy lays into Dion who takes it with little reaction.

Finally thoughts drift into the forty year old fighters head. They are of Marla. He hears her voice and follows it. Recounting their time together he sees all the mistakes he’s made. Then a fist lays him flat out. Dion’s face is a mess; far worse than it was following his last fight when Marla had roared at him for continuing this ‘insanity’ as she saw it.

The fight is called. Dion has lost, yet again. He remains on the mat as his opponent drinks in the cheering praise for his victory and parades around the ring like a king. The defeated man doesn’t see it. He’s oblivious to the screeches and cheers of joy. He’s continues to sit, wallowing in the fog. Bernie appears over him.

“Jesus Di, you look bad. Di, do you hear me?”

The downed fighter nods weakly. It’s all he can manage. Not because his jaw is swollen, like it was the other night, but just because he can’t find his voice.

He might be looking up at his coach though he can’t really see him and not solely due to the damage done to his face. Something else is limiting his view. The fog in his brain, it seems to have crept over his eyes.

“You can’t keep doing this Di.” Are the next words which register in Dion’s ears as Bernie works on the younger man’s face trying to seal the wounds and reduce the swelling.

He’s doing the very best he can but Bernie has to admit the effects are not as potent as they are usually. He wonders why, his expression a mask of concern.

“You’re in real bad shape. We need to get you outta here.”

The fighter doesn’t agree. He feels… He feels nothing. There is only a void; a massive gaping hole in his chest. He both adores and loathes its presence. So much so he wishes to better understand what it is, and why it’s there but at the same time feeling the need to run from it, run very far from it.

“You really need to consider retiring before…”

“I’m not quitting coach.” Is the reply from the fighter who is looking toward the older man with white hair beside, not above, him. His words are slurred. Far worse than they would be if he were drunk, not that he really notices it. Dion has become so used to his words being slurred when he talks that at times it sounds more normal than his real tone.

“If you enter another fight you might not…”

“I know. But I have to. I’m not cancelling. I’m not quitting.” Is the assurance issued from Dion who refuses to listen to reason while continuing to slur his speech.

It hits the fighter that he’s no longer lost in that fog. Rather, it’s cleared considerably. Though, he continues to feel its presence. It resides at the periphery for now. Regrettably that means he can feel the pain in his body. He casts his eyes around and realises he isn’t in the venue.

“Where am I?”

The space looks familiar and yet he cannot place it. That should be a worry to him. It isn’t. At least he doesn’t allow it to be. Others might but not Dion. It is far from the first time he’s felt like this.

“You’re at home, in your apartment.” Dion’s expression twists into a silent question; how? “Got some help from a guy who was passing.” There is a pause, just long enough for a breath, then Bernie continues, “Just as well I did ‘cause those stairs ain’t easy, you know. Especially when dragging a guy of your size up ‘em.”

The words from Bernie are honest. It’s comforting, and normal for he rarely sugar coats anything. Though, it seems this time he misses out a key statement he’d like to voice. Certainly it would’ve been about how getting Dion up here almost killed him. And no, Bernie wouldn’t have left it out so as not to alarm the younger man of a potential impending outcome for his old coach. Rather, it would’ve been done to avoid mentioning death to Dion who might himself be much closer to the end. That is if he continues to fight, and they both know he will.

“Anyway, you need some rest. And I better be going. It’s getting late. Even for an old goat like me.” The old coach Bernie is deeply worried by the lack of recollection that Dion has; the gaps in his memory. It’s something he’s seen before, and it’s always a bad sign. Not an early one either.

For a long time they have both ignored it. He is sure Dion is aware of what it is, brain damage. He’d broach the subject but…

“Get some rest Di.” The old man advises unwilling to cause ructions at a time like this, when Dion needs rest.

“Thanks coach. Fight still on?”

Bernie had a feeling that question would be coming. He doesn’t like what he has to say next, “Yeah, it is kid. Now rest up. You’re going to need it.”

With that Bernie leaves Dion’s apartment, sighing, his heart heavy, his conscious not at all clear. If it were he wouldn’t have trouble sleeping. But he does, because of guilt. He knows it. Like he knows he should stop Dion from continuing. But he doesn’t, hasn’t.

If anyone is a coward it’s not Dion, it’s him. As a coach he should’ve stop this by now.

Dion might think he has no future if he doesn’t fight, but that isn’t true. There is always another way. Bernie would help him. Alas, it’s too late for that now. The old man knows it, that he is the cause.

He shouldn’t have pushed Dion the way that he has since the day they met. Maybe then he wouldn’t have turned out to be so pigheaded and determined. However, you can’t change the past and so all the coach can do is be there for Dion, encourage him to retire and help as and when he can. Doesn’t make it any easier watching the younger man suffer like he does though.