The man’s trainer edged his head around the shower room wall and called out:

‘Your guy’s in a bad way, he’s been put into an induced coma, doctor says there’s an eighty percent chance he’ll come out a vegetable or worse’.

The man cursed his trainer’s matter of fact honesty and replied.

‘Thanks for the great news Terry, now fuck off and leave me alone’

He laid his palms flat upon the tiled wall and let the warm water beat upon his scalp. The red water ran rivulets past the welts and bruises on his chest and down around his legs before spiralling into the drain. He lifted his head to let the spray attack his Face, felt the shower stream sting the cuts upon his face then opened his mouth to let it fill with water. The salty combination mixed in his mouth making his inner cheeks sting and teeth throb, so he spat the dark red mixture down into the drain. A crimson pool collected at his feet. Shocked he stepped back and pondered if all the blood was his or the man he had just incapacitated. He twisted the temperature control to increase the heat to how far his injuries would tolerate. Induced coma? That can’t be good. Barely an hour had passed since he left this room where once he was stricken with doubt and anxiety. But now, after being beaten to a bloody mess and punching a man into a coma, all he felt was a dark feeling of shame.

An hour previously, the Fighter was waiting in the changing room with only his trainer, brother and corner team for company. Selected well-wishers and local business men would dart in and out to offer encouragement, each blandishment incrementally increasing the pressure upon the boxer until the burden of occasion was near overwhelming. He barely recognized the visitors, merely nodding to acknowledge their admiration. Now was not the time for conversation. He briefly shadow boxed for the camera crew and his trainer assented by shooting orders and drilling and reminding the fighter of his requirements. When all his obligations had been fulfilled he sat on the wooden bench and laid back against the changing room wall, closed his eyes and feigned a state of mediation. He was scared to death of failing. Petrified of being humiliated in front of everyone he knew and respected. Of being knocked out cold like a novice and carried from the ring. This mental torture was far worse than any punch, the self-doubt degrading his core like a dentist’s drill and the anxiety welling up to his limits of submission. He briefly thought about chucking it in, of slipping out the window and returning home to his new wife and mother, neither of which ever attended any of his fights. He opened his eyes and scanned the room of solemn faces, immediately catching his little brother’s admiring gaze. His sibling exchanged a smirk and clapped his hands together:

‘Once you flatten this donkey, we’ll shoot up to the pub, have a few pints then bring home mum a curry’ ordered his brother.

‘Your shout kid?’ responded the fighter.

‘No way mate, you’re the champion with the big bucks now’

His brother stood up and crossed the changing room towards him. They embraced and exchanged the types of stare only family understand.

‘He’s an old fucker mate, he’ll be done by the middle rounds’, said his brother. ‘listen to Tel and keep to the plan’

His brother exited the changing room leaving only the barebones of the corner team. A young man with a headset around his ears peeked his head through the door before it closed.

‘Ok guys, you’re up. Soon as the bass kicks in you start your walk down to ring ok’

The fighter and his corner team walk to the edges of the crowd till the fighter feels the spotlight beam upon his face. The crowd roars their approval to his entrance. On cue, the bass kicks in and fighter starts jogging down to the ring with a camera crew a few metres in advance. He reaches up to touch the outstretched palms of the adoring audience, accepting their adulation while hundreds of camera phones flash into his face. Upon reaching the ring he climbs up onto the blue canvas and bends under the thick, braided red ropes that surrounds the squared ring.

There’s a hotchpotch of faces surrounding the ring: camera men lean their elbows on the ring apron ready to shoot, managers and promoters scheme and calculate while bloated journalists scribble on notepads. In the first rows suited flyboys, soap opera actors, gangsters and glamour models all wait to be entertained. There’s a selection of old pugs sitting more rows back, their blunted faces twitching from years of abuse. Their trophy wives sit next to them each with bouffant hair dos and deep orange tans. A beery smell of revelry fills the arena, the booze fuelling the crowds’ determination to support their man and create an upset.

The fighter’s Mexican opponent is like an old dangerous dog tied up in a back garden. He’s growling and glaring from across the ring desperate to attack. His ripped muscles are stretched taught over his small frame and his bulging veins wrap like ivy around his arms. His overblown physique reeks of steroids, far more chiselled and defined for a man in his late 30s. And yet there is a paunchiness to his mid riff, a clear indication of misbehaviour. Hubris. The rumours of too much partying; not enough fights and too many late nights begin to look true. The fighter glowers back at the angry face of his opponent with customary flat nose and thick battered lips. He has impressive dark Aztecan Tattoos inked across his chest and many Spanish slogans down the arms. The green, red and white of the Mexican flag colour his long, tasseled shorts to complete his battle dress. He is a walking stereotype, fiercely proud of his country and eager to show loyalty.

The referee invites the men into the centre of the ring and explains their duties. The boxers stare, each man trying to extort a measure of fear from each other. The first round begins with the boxers tentatively circling the ring as feuding tomcats. The fighter jumps on his tip toes, bouncing, feinting and throwing out probing headshots. He jockeys from side to side not wanting to provide a stationary target and goads his opponent like a playful puppy. The Mexican grows impatient and attacks. The fighter tries to ward him off, but his jabs are eaten like popcorn, so he covers up and accepts the inevitable early onslaught. The fighter notices the face of an ex-champ and boxing legend sitting ringside. He’s humbled to see such a legend attending his fight. The moment of reverie is all the opportunity the Mexican needs. The next second the fighter is on his back, lying flat as if he’s basking in a field looking up at a blinding, bright sun.

The referee starts counting “ONE… TWO …”

His trainer slaps the canvas of the ring and screams “Get up! Get fucking up’

“THREE”.

The stunned fighter feels the shuddering of the canvas and wakes from his slumber.

“FOUR”

‘UP, UP’ screams the crowd.

The fighter rises without thinking, plants the soles of his feet upon the canvas and tries to uncloud his confusion. He bangs his gloves together in frustration. Stupid. The referee stops at the count of eight and takes the fighter by his gloves. The fighter looks deep into the eyes of the referee, eager to prove his capability to continue.

“You ok kid? ready to continue?” asks the referee in dirty, New York accent.

‘Ahhm ok ref, let’s go, let’s go’ he responds.

The referee steps backwards to reveal the opponent who’s waiting in a bundle of murderous intent, eager to inflict a final blow. The fighter pulls his arms tight to face, summoning punishment and expecting an onslaught. Punches reign down upon his skull, chest and arms, thundering shots that shudder the him to his core. He reacts, counters then cowers like a hedgehog. The bell rings to end the round and the referee separates both fighters to their corners. The crowd roars their support relieved to see their favourite survive.

The fighter slumps back into the waiting stool and a sponge is squeezed above his head, emptying water on his scalp and cleaning the bullets of sweat from his forehead. His trainer wipes his face like a mother and inspects his cheeks and eyelids for cuts. Exhausted and confused the fighter is relieved to be in the sanctuary of his corner. He drops his gumshield into a cornerman’s waiting hand and water is scooshed into his gaping mouth.

‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ scolds his trainer ‘You fuck about and this guy’ll take you apart, you can’t afford another mistake like that son, keep your fucking guard up, always’

‘Ah know Tel, ah know’ responds the fighter.

‘You’ve got to be smart son, don’t stand there and trade punches, punch and move, cover up then escape, you know the fucking drill’

‘Ah know, ah know, punch and move’

‘Stick to the plan son, he’ll be fucked in 3 rounds but remember to hit back, rile him up, get him mad’

‘Ah know Tel but his punches are hard’

‘They’re supposed to be mate, it’s boxing not a tickling contest …. you’re tougher than him, stronger and smarter, remember your training’

The Mexican has already risen and is prowling the ring ready to herd his prey like a sheepdog manoeuvring lambs. The fighter again bounces on his tip toes until the bell tolls and the referee directs them both back into conflict.  He sways and shimmies, but his opponent incrementally steers the fighter back into the neutral corner. The Mexican is an expert body puncher and relentlessly chops at the trunk of the fighter, whacking at his ribs and sides. Each punch powerful and pin point accurate. The fighter clinches, smothers and spoils the onslaught, soaking up the violence. Before the punches become too unbearable the fighter offers a straight right hander then twists out of the corner like a trapped rabbit. Hit and move, hit and move. His coach screams directions from below, manic like a panicked parent and the crowd bellow their support, thousands of them all desperate to see their champion ride out the whirlwind of punishment. The fighter slides along the thick blue ropes then lies back pulling his arms in close and gloves up to his face. The Mexican pursues relentlessly, dictating the pace with all the subtlety of a wolverine. At the bell the fighter tumbles into the corner and collapses onto the waiting stool.

‘You alright kid?’ asks his trainer ‘He’s not got much left now mate, he’s blown himself out, ah told ye he would’

‘Ah fucking hope so Tel, ah can’t take much more of those body shots mate’ responds the fighter.

‘C’mon mate, be strong’ pleas his trainer.

The next two rounds pass with the same violent intensity. The fighter dances around the ring until he is trapped in the corner and cramped in a coffin. He covers up and adopts a peek a boo style: hiding behind his gloves then offering a sly stinging strike to enrage the Mexican and rile him into a mistake. The fighter has been drilled to encourage his opponent’s rage. Fuel the fury. He swallows the impact of the punches with his body and absorbs the punishment.

Mid way through the 5th round the fighter finally notices the Mexican’s sure footing falter. The signal that his opponent is starting to tire. Like a leopard after his chase the Mexican has exhausted himself, expended all his energy and is now at his most vulnerable. The fighter moves in the centre of the ring and begins to intimidate the bully. His solitary punches expand into combinations then unanswered flurries. The crowd screams their approval, revelling in the brutality of the retribution. Every one of his punches is landing while nothing is coming back. So sharp, so fast. It’s as if he has an extra second to think and act. The Mexican feels the power and falls back on his heels, shot worn, the juddering punches wear him down him until his hands drop with exhaustion. He stumbles like a drunk, wounded and defenceless but the fighter is unmerciful. He twists his torso and steps into his final strike feeling the jaw bone crack through his glove. The stricken Mexican slumps unconscious to the canvas. The referee pushes the fighter to his corner and immediately waves off the contest from above the opponent who lies as dead as a deer in a roadside ditch. The referee hooks the Mexicans gumshield from his mouth with his finger and summons a doctor from the corner. The only proof of life is the Mexican’s stomach which is inhaling and exhaling violently, desperately overworking the oxygen around the boxer’s body. The fighter’s glove is raised in victory and a jubilant mob envelop the ring.

After all the celebrations and coronation, the man stood with the gold covered belt around his waist as a congregation of strangers and friends alike sidled up to take photos and offer congratulations. His hands pulsed and his face stung with salty sweat, but the adrenaline was still masking any major pain. His corner team were ebullient, revelling in the frenzy of the triumph. It pleased the fighter to see his pals reap such joy from his exertions.

Then his coach whispered it into his ear: ‘The Mexican’s in a coma, they’ve taken him to the General Hospital, doesn’t look good mate’

The fighter slumped back onto the wooden bench of the changing room and dropped his head into the palms of his hands. His coach draped one of the red stained towels over him and began to knead his back. Half an hour earlier he had been anointed, his arm held aloft victorious; a champion who had knocked out the best in the world in the very city he had grown up. But his triumph was ephemeral and had evaporated. The new information spread around the room like a virus it’s import contorting the many smiles into grimaces. The congregation that had gathered to share the post-fight bliss were no longer able to buzz on the vapour of victory. The congratulations morphed into condolences, praise into pity and the once swollen entourage sat down their plastic cups of champagne and slowly drained out of view.

‘He was a fighter just like you son, he knew the risks, we all do’ cajoled his coach. ‘You’re still the champion of the world kid, nothing can take that away’.

The fighter nodded in affirmation. Tell that to his family. You still expect to go home after a fight, no matter how hard. The fighter threw the towel onto the ground and sat back against the cool, brick wall of the room. His arms panged with pain and his chest wheezed with the efforts of the night. The soothing adrenaline had begun to thaw leaving a throbbing ache in its wake. He picked at the bandages swathed around his knuckles and began to unwrap his hands. There was nothing to say. Nothing that could bring that man back to his family in the way he entered the ring. His coach ushered the remaining hanger-on’s out into the corridor and left the boxer to stew in his misery.

‘Get yourself cleaned up and I’ll be back in 10 mins son’ said his coach.

His bare knuckles were swollen and bruised, creaking as he straightened them for the first time. He turned to the wall mirror to inspect the cuts and grazes upon his bloated face but was shocked by his reflection. The laces on his boots were painfully loosened before being placed beside his world championship belt. He dropped his shorts and groin protector to the ground and waddled naked into the shower room, every step agonizing, every slight movement of his body met with excruciating pain.