By Bart Barry-
It finds the men squaredoff and relaxed in their postures from the prebell instructions of their trainers, assurances of their conditioning and readiness and the high number of times those trainers have been there, here, exactly in this place, so trust me.
It starts in the tops of the hips a quarter of the way from the points to the knees and hollows them, thinning their thighs from dense meatslabs to brittle scaffolding to papier-mâché shells. Knee weakness sings the alarm causing fright. The doublingback on itself begins nature’s progression: Notice begets more fatigue begets concern begets more fatigue begets worry begets more more fatigue begets fear begets more more more fatigue begets panic begets more more more more more fatigue begets resignation. Tension succeeds by beginning its doubts here: Am I ready for this? why do I ask? because I don’t know if they know what they’re talking about? but if they’ve been here so many times before? have they? was it like this? were others like me? were their opponents anything like him? why did I agree to this? what happens tomorrow? when, demons, will that bell ring?
It finds the ref watching the fighters closely because he wants to be fair clearminded effective in his task of ensuring a just outcome imposing little permanent injury as possible. There are the cameras to mind. His trademarked tagline shouted he wants to be deliberate not fidgety; he wants to be invisible to the spectators unless some intolerable something happens then be fleet. But if he’s invisible he relies on chance to get noticed all that fairness effectiveness wasted ignored unacknowledged. Be noticed only to be recognized by strangers? No not that – to be seen participating interacting watching closely watching in case something like that other time happens and a kid falls of his own weight really not a punch, sideways, a slipped punch that began a tilt that became a lean that fired the canvas’s upwards launch at an awareness disconnected offduty lazy. No count, the tension reminds him, no need for a count but flailing at a wrong corner as from a different corner men rushed towards the center of the ring a brother trainer or father and the stretcher paramedics’ scrabbling for an oxygen mask.
The tension gets him by a proportion this queer: The louder the applause for the departing gurney the greater the recrimination for the referee who let the fight go too far.
It finds the judges confident in their intention or their execution of someone else’s. “Score a round 10-10 if you have to and let posterity work it out,” one tells himself and affirms it with a quick nod. Then the cheering becomes disproportionate for the right ethnicity and he begins bleeding from a punch caused by a cut or was it butted accidentally – damn it why doesn’t this referee e-nun-ci-ate for us like the cameras when he tells us these things! The tension mounts him and his two peers with iterations of the same thought: If that round was close and they both scored it opposite the way I scored it my card will look wrong to the majority and I’ll have to defend myself to the commission next week unless I’m sure so I better watch both guys (the other guy) more closely this round in case it’s close.
It finds the promoter defacto manager of the a-side considering his work a success arena full and television revenues pop an accidental cut on the a-side makes the crowd gasp. Awkward as all hell that sound. We haven’t recouped even the signing bonus, says the tension, much less the dozen signing bonuses for other prospects much less the broadcast idea the studio stupidity the infomercial production a hundred takes at a hundred a take, and kid’s up there hamming and gushing and gushing and hamming round like the blood is rolling in his ears listen to the crowd for God’s sake.
It finds the publicist happily looking over press row counting noses ranking noses numbering distribution lists and enthusiasm so very much for the YouTube highlights 20,000 hits and the merchandising to come. Look for action to remind the major writers about: Remember when he landed that left hook, kaboom, the way the crowd jumped this guy told me he had a soundifier-thingy app on his phone and he’s’n last row of the upper balcony, and when the left hook landed, this guy tells me, his app gets an error cause it can’t read that much sound. Not sure his name but I’ll find out. The tension finds him watching the writers watching and squinching their adoring faces about just a little bit of blood no big deal best cutman in the business and you get hit more when you hit the other guy a lot. Boxing 101.
It finds the writers in their usual spot the tension doesn’t have to search for because it never departs them.
It finds the celebrity actorguest with his fist raised for the roving camera that records him to have an image to beam at the arena to ensure the unfortunates they’ve attended for once a happening and are exotic. Did it linger on me long as it lingered on the basketball player long as it lingered on the former fighter? The tension finds him and asks why if he is the star of an incredible upcoming series is his date looking at the former fighter who is shuffling over with a fake smile for him and an arm round her waist for a selfie she promises to send him if he gives her his number?
At the arenaback in the filthy b-side dressing rooms filmed by wet tape shreds and bloody towels it finds the vanquished studying their commission checks and wondering if there’ll be more checks and this one’ll get the eviction sticker off the keyhole of the tiny apartment he shares with his girlfriend and her newborn son Gustavo.
Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry
