Underdog

When he arrives at the venue, the ‘arena’ as it is labelled by those who attend the fights, the first thing Dion does is to apologise to Bernie for his tardiness.

It isn’t normal for the fighter to run late. In fact, he hates being late. A learned disdain he picked up because of Bernie who drilled into him that by not being prepared he was taking the first step along a path toward failure. It’s a lesson Dion is pleased he learned even if it hasn’t assured a victory in the ring. Not that it was ever meant to. Realistically it was meant to help give him a better hope for success. There are no guarantees. Except for when you throw a fight.

He still remembers the first time he was asked too. Bernie didn’t like it. Said it was madness. Claimed there had to be another way but at that time, there wasn’t. The money was controlled by a select few. This was before a series of changes made the bare-knuckle fighting scene in Parnice explode. That happened once the greedy worked out just how many fighters, of decent enough expertise, there were. Plus, how much money said fights could bring them.

In some ways Dion wishes it was still the few ‘agents’ like it used to be. Alas, when anything is success and grows it changes. Sadly the change was not to his benefit, especially as the calibre of fighters improved across the Allied States of America.

And yes, this Parnice is named after a city that once existed on the continent of Europe. In fact, it’s named as it is because many of those from the ASA Parnice are descended from those who originated from the city of the same name in Europe. Naming wasn’t high on the priority list back in the day when humanity was struggling to survive and so often places names have been reissued or marginally altered with a new affixed.

In this instance however, it was done as an ode, to honour those who didn’t make it out before the disasters came rushing through, turning everything to rubble, burying people alive in their homes as they slept. At least that is how the story goes. There is no way of knowing for sure if it’s true. It was hundreds of years ago. No one from that time is alive, obviously, and all records have long since been lost. After all, what good were records for a place that no longer existed? The answer was, at the time, none, and so they were left. Sure, someone could, if they were so inclined, return to what little remains of the original Parnice to see if anything can be reclaimed. Doubtful you’d find much, which is one of the reasons as to why no one has.

Back in the present, Bernie accepts the apology. He feels it would be in poor taste to chastise a man who is putting his life on the line by continuing to fight in the ring. Also, this is a one off. Not a habit. The only reason Bernie had been so hard on Dion when he was young was because he’d been a lost kid who’d never had rules forced upon him, at least not successfully anyway. So to ensure the adolescent understood the importance of rules Bernie had made damned sure they were enforced and drilled into Dion’s head. It clearly worked; he didn’t end up behind bars. That was where his trajectory up until that point had been headed. Yet, Bernie continues to feel as though he has failed Dion. It’s why he cannot help back ask, “Are you sure you want to go through with this fight Di?”

Before the fighter gets chance to answer his coach adds, “I know you’re suffering memory loss. I don’t think you should fight…”

The fighter in response raises his head and fixes Bernie with a stare. It’s a damning look the older man isn’t used to seeing turned on him. And it does not escape the older man the irony of what he is saying. In many ways it is no different to what Marla said a couple nights ago, for what seemed like the last time. For it was she, largely due to her mouth, who tended to bear the brunt of these sorts of looks for saying things like he is currently. Though, Bernie’s manner of going about this is nothing like hers had been. She always had to make things a fight, a battle to be won. The coach by contrast is far too old and tired for that. It’s why his voice, his expression, is marked with sadness while hers had dripping with violent anger.

Alas, the response the old man receives is little different from that which Marla would have got. “Yeah, I’m sure I want to go through with this, coach.”

The statement, followed a shrug, is not left at that. Rather, Dion adds, “I feel different tonight.”

There is no more said on the matter by either of them following that. Not because there is no more to say but because Bernie has no wish to argue. It’s why he nods, absentmindedly more than he needs to, dons some gloves which date back to when he used to fight, and drops into a ready stance for them to begin sparring.

Quickly, the coach concludes that Dion seems to be performing much like he always does, perhaps a tad slower if he was to be highly critical. Regrettably, it is doubtful that it’ll be enough.

Why would it be enough now? Up to this point it never has been. It might have been different once, when Dion had been young and if Bernie had insisted that first fight had not been thrown, but he didn’t. At least he didn’t argue against it nearly enough, as much as he should have, and so this is where they stand today.

You can’t change the past; he hears the voice say in his old head. He is fully aware of that but doesn’t feel that it mean he wishes it weren’t different. He does, and thinks not pushing Dion to win, and instead accepting his decision to take a dive, is the biggest mistake he ever made. That’s saying quite a bit because Bernie is fully aware he’s made many a mistake during his time in the world.

You see, Bernie never got married, had kids, any of that normal stuff. He did much the same as Dion has, he kept fighting. It’s why he feels the blame rests largely on him, for if he hadn’t trained the boy he probably wouldn’t be as stubborn as he is, so might have had a normal life. One where he settled down with Marla, had kids.

Or maybe he wouldn’t have. He can’t know. It’s just he feels it might have been possible if not for his influence, his presence, his ‘teaching.’

When the old coach looks up at the clock on the wall he finds that it is almost time for Dion’s fight. He gestures to bring an end to the sparring. It’ll have to be enough for there is no more time to prepare, not that more time will fix the issue. In fact, more time is the cause because more time losing meant Dion got older, which in turn made the fights more difficult. Most men get out of this bare-knuckle fighting game young, late twenties. They move onto bigger and better things. But that has not been the case for Dion, he’s stuck, remained where he began.

“You ready Di?”

“I am. Let’s go.” The fighter says with confidence.

The pair leave the dressing room shortly after, walk the narrow corridors only to step out onto the ‘arenas’ floor. It’s filled to bursting with bodies. These same bodies chant, scream and whoop. Not for Dion but for his opponent, Butcher Benson.

Dion has heard the name. By all accounts Butcher is supposed to be a tough SOB, but until this very moment, laying eyes on him, the forty year old had not realised how much bigger and younger Benson is. It should fill him with fear. He knows it should. He feels where the fear should be sat, dead centre of his chest, but he feels nothing. He wouldn’t call it a void, just an absence. That strikes Dion as odd and looking back he tries to ascertain if what he feels now is like the fog that had engulfed him during his last fight. No, it isn’t. It’s nothing the same. That was caused by receipt of Marla’s note. So, to be honest, he doesn’t know what this feeling is, or whether he likes it.

While Dion is stepping into the ring, Bernie is left with fears over how this fight might end, and that is before it’s even begun.

If he could he’d end it, but he can’t. He doesn’t have that power. Only the fighters do and that is a semi-lie truthfully. So all he can do is watch whatever happens next. Not because he wants to, but because he needs to, should.

“Gentlemen, this is to be a clean fight.” The referee says, his gaze flicking from Butcher to Dion and back again to Butcher.

The younger of the pair has a wide grin on his face, the result of arrogance born from victory. It must be nice and isn’t something Dion understands for he has never won, not once. Still, he intends to wipe that smile off Butcher’s face. For this is going to be his night. He can taste it in the hot, sweaty air.

Right after the thought enters his head he waits for the denial. The voice, which always strikes, to tell him he’s wrong. On this occasion it does no such thing.

“With that… PLACES… FIGHT!” The referee roars at the top of his lungs, ending Dion’s thoughts as swift as a hot knife might cut through a slab of butter.

Yet, before Butcher gets chance to throw a punch Dion begins to stagger. Only the forty year old knows why and it’s because he’s been hit by a flash. It blinds, momentarily, leaving him dazed. Butcher’s brow furrows in confusion. His head turns toward the ref in silent query, the crowd meanwhile stare is disbelief for they have never seen a fighter react without a punch first having been thrown. All of them think it like Dion has been hit by an invisible force. Most of all it leaves Bernie fearful. He is sure this is the beginning of the end for the man who is like a son to him. He damns himself for his inaction, for his failures believing this to be the manifestation of the brain damage suffered over a quarter century of being in the ring getting pummelled.

Shaking his head Dion doesn’t know what is happening but he thinks it’s over. Right then another flash strikes to prove him wrong. This time it is not so fleeting like the first. Rather, it lingers and is soon answered when a smile splits across Dion’s face.

Butcher, bored of waiting, decides to get in there, strike while the iron is hot and so he throws his first punch whether his opponent is ready or not. In his eyes that isn’t his problem. After all, he gets paid to fight, not stand around as an old man way past his prime fumbles about like a newborn.

With a quick weave Dion evades, much to everybody’s shock, the punch. Then he blocks the second and counters the third. His punch, unlike his opponents, lands sending Butcher staggering back a couple paces.

The crowd are gobsmacked, jaws hanging lose, mouths agape for until this moment no one had made Butcher take more than a single step backward.

Just beyond the limits of the rope Bernie too is smiling. He knows he shouldn’t be but try as he might he cannot stop himself from hoping with wide eyed optimism that perhaps today will be the day. It shouldn’t be, far from it. In fact, this fight should be a slam dunk for Butcher who is yet to lose against guy he’s faced because of his ferocious jabs and yet…

Butcher recovers and presses forward on the attack. He’s angry. His expression is proof enough of that but Dion is less concerned about the twisted snarl on his opponents face and more about the series of jabs which accompany it.

The older fighter dodges, left and right, avoiding what he can as they come his way. A couple land but are absorbed by his raised arms shielding his head from the worst of what would otherwise batter him senseless.

Unlike previous fights, for lord knows how long, Dion does not continue to stand and take more from his adversary, rather he fires back with a punch, weave, punch, block, counter, punch combo.

This is what he knows he must do. It’s what those flashes in this vision showed him. They were glimpses at the future. He doesn’t know how or why but that is what he believes them to be. And thus far he hasn’t seen reason to consider otherwise as everything is unfolding exactly as he saw it. Not from his point of view but another. It was as if he was watching the fight through someone else’s eyes.

Why he saw them he cannot say. Much like he cannot say as to whose eyes it was he was looking through. What he can say however, is that as a result of what he saw the fight is not one-sided.

Yet, before long it does end up that way. Just not the way anyone would’ve considered for it is one-sided in Dion’s favour. The man choosing to continue to push his advantage and not allow Butcher to land a single desperate punch, though he does try here and there.

Inevitably, due to the success from the forty year old fighter, the bigger younger man ends up against the ropes. Not in an almost down and out manner, but rather in a; he has nowhere else to go sort of way. For Butcher is backed into a corner of the ring.

Every now and then he tries to get in a lucky hit. As yet it has not worked for Dion continues to dodge them as if they were nothing and then return to his own onslaught. Until, Butcher grabs and pulls him close. Dion snarls; he didn’t see this. Soon it becomes abundantly clear as to why when the younger fighter fires off a quick hidden jab, which lands. No one sees it. Dion surely as hell feels it, though refuses to relent.

A half second pause is all the reaction he allows for the underhanded attempt and right after it he returns to beating on his opponent. He didn’t feel much mercy previously but now he feels none. Butcher Benson will get what he deserves.

Groans escape Butcher’s mouth some time later, and following a string of them Dion feels it necessary to step back, to assess the situation. If he doesn’t the ref will only step in and demand he back off, so might as well pre-empty it he thinks.

Quickly it becomes clear that the bigger younger man is barely upright, stable, capable. Still, the older fighter feels it prudent to check, after receiving a nod for him to continue from the ref, by dancing back and forth. The hope is that if Butcher is playing this should draw out a rash reaction. There isn’t one, and he becomes sure at that point that Butcher is spent, can take no more. He’s certainly wide open and so seeing little reason to delay Dion obliges by delivering a knockout blow.

The reaction is instantaneous from the formerly undefeated younger man is a creaking jaw, spit cast wide, his gum shield cast wider still.

A second after Butcher’s body slams to the mat in a heap, he is out cold. The crowd, disbelieving of their eyes, erupt rapturously, filling the venue to bursting with cries. Yet, the best reaction is from Dion himself who’s face splits wide with a smile, relief and joy filling his chest. At last he has won his first fight. He might be the oldest to manage to achieve such a feat, though doesn’t care whether he is or not. Rather, he’s too busy drinking in his victory as he spins around, hands and arms high above his head in celebration.

Quickly, his eyes settle on the crowd and the faces of those gathered, who have watched this historic event. Still, Dion continues spinning, slowly. He intends to savour every second of this. And why should he not? This is a lifetime in the making. He’s earned it, so the least he is entitled to is basking in this moment, his moment, for as long as it may last.

That is until all of a sudden he stops his celebration. It comes when he catches, quite by accident, sight of a familiar figure. Not Marla but the ‘person’ he bumped into out on the street earlier in the day.

Memories flood back into his head. He recalls they had three fingers and that… He can’t explain the face, other than to say it wasn’t like his. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen before. Those twin clusters of eyes, skin hairless and smooth…

The ‘person’ tips their head forward revealing just enough of their face so that when they wink it is obvious and not misconstrued. Yet, a wink is not all Dion is offered. A smile too is issued, impossibly wide and then they disappear from sight. It happens between blinks of Dion’s eyes. Searching the area he wonders if he is mad, not only for believing in what he thinks he saw but for having lost them too. His eyes continue their search. They ‘person’ is nowhere to be seen. He could’ve sworn they were real.

Realising where he is and that he’s been stood staring stupidly; Dion shakes himself free of the delusion, which he concludes it must have been, and returns to his celebratory posing. Yet, he cannot help but wonder if the ‘person’ was ever real at all. They certainly seemed it, both this time and the first. He feels he should tell someone, but who? No one would believe him. He isn’t even sure he believes him. So he settles on keeping it to himself as he exits the ring, hugs Bernie and heads to collect their money. Because there is no way Dion isn’t sharing the winnings with the only person who has stuck by him throughout the time they have known each other.

As to whether he’ll continue fighting, well he’ll make that decision some other time. For now he intends to enjoy his victory, party, count the money he’s won and think about his future at a later date. He has the time, but will have to ask Bernie to cancel any fights they’d arranged. He thinks there were two more this week. Not anymore there isn’t. He’s on hiatus for the time being for he has achieved the one thing he’s always wanted; a win.