Into the ring

Last fight. Heavyweight final. Conclusion of the two-day boxing tournament. Crowd at its peak. Blood lust galore.

Me in one corner. Guy who looks like me in the other corner.

Both of us wanting the trophy. The glory, the glory of the trophy. Both of us wanting it, both of us wanting it bad.

Me wanting it more.

Me hitting him harder than he hit me. Me watching his head snap back, his feet leaving the ground. His body in slow motion. Almost stopping in mid-air. Laid out.

Unconscious.

His body hitting the ground. The canvas. And bouncing. Bouncing.

Lifeless.

I was never so scared in all of my life. All aggression, all adrenaline, all urge to win, all conquering hero left my body and bounced with the body on the canvas. All wanting to knock out my boxing opponent left me forever as I watched a good man, a good brother, a good son crumple, lifeless, to the ground.

I ran over to help him. The referee, thinking I still wanted to hit him some more, stepped in front of me with sorrowful Spanish eyes, crying out above the din of the crowd, “No, no, he’s down! You go to neutral corner!” I did as I was told, telling him, “He’s hurt, he’s hurt bad, he’s dead!”

There was no need for a 10-count. He laid there as silent as the grave.

Managers and doctors rushed , kneeling over my opponent, bowing over the fallen warrior, the way people have knelt and bowed over fallen warriors since war began. Doing what they had to do. Because of me.

I felt sick.

The referee led me to the middle of the ring, and to the cheers of the crowd, the crowd that didn’t know, raised my right hand, still gloved and taped, into the air, as if I were the winner, the champion, the Big Man.

I never felt smaller.

They handed me the trophy, the wonderful silver and marble trophy I had planned on placing on top of my mantelpiece in honor and glory for the rest of my life as proof of what a big man I was.

It felt strange.

I handed it to my boxing coach, but he wouldn’t take it.

“You hold it,” he said.

I held the trophy like a murder weapon.

I went over to the group of people huddled over my enemy.

Was he alive?

I felt like dying if he wasn’t.

Suddenly, he moved, and everyone relaxed a little. I relaxed a little. And then he slowly sat up.

I felt the noose leave my neck.

As if in a dream, I left the ring and headed for the locker room to clean up. There was blood on my face, and chest, and even on my shoes. The waning but still-excited crowd was waiting. Total strangers patted me on the back, telling me, “Good fight.” Even fathers, even mothers, even sisters, even brothers. I couldn’t speak.

When I think back on that night, I feel ashamed of myself. By becoming a hero to the hometown crowd, I became pathetic to myself. I had no right to hit that man like that.

By winning the fight, I lost my self-respect.

The trophy became bad luck.

So, I put it away. In my father’s attic, in a box. And there it stayed for years.

Now I got it out. It sits on a shelf, in my kitchen, behind the Wheaties and the cooking oil. A reminder.

Not of what a good boxer I am.

But of my last fight.

And what I learned that night.

– Curt Melliger