A gaping chasm suddenly appears in the sea of bodies. Edged with steel and men (in badly fitting suits) they repel the tide as it scrambles forward again and again. Faceless parasites with Nikon 1 clicks and no compassion for their fellow man attempt to get ‘the shot’ their editors-in-chiefs so cravenly covet. The blockade holds firm, as it sets out a corridor lined with waving hands and screaming fans.
Of all the places to take my life this is my chosen path, where a thousand men have tried and failed, their pain, sacrifice and toil nothing but a distant memory as the crowd expects, no! demands entertainment. They love a warrior. Someone who will continue until breath can’t be drawn from his body, a battered and bruised bloody mess lying on the wipe-clean canvas, but this only makes them hungry for more – the glutinous thieves of my life.
Starting the procession in earnest, my head clad in black silk and regrets – I am lost in thought, trying to center myself for the trial ahead. When first facing an opponent in the ancient art of pugilistic combat I truly believed that some choices are made for a man, and for some choices a man is made, by the end of that first night I was sure the answer was the latter. How foolish the young can be.
This part of the entrance goes past in the usual blur, having seen it all before; the drunken revelers chanting their chosens name, the business men showing off to clients, the bored trophy wives that have been dragged along by their all too-living rich old husbands, the A, B or C-list celebrities trying to get their faces into the media and me. Me walking the gauntlet of them all ready to die for their blessing…the rueful smile stays in place.
Stopping ten feet in front of my alter, my place of worship, where my soul is set free, my regrets flow from me like a waterfall in monsoon season and the old survival instinct of the hunter starts to take control. Eyes now closed, zoned out of my manager’s false praise and coach’s words of advice, still seeing it perfectly. A steel and canvas square construct, raised 6 feet from the floor, it measures 23 feet on each side with 7 feet high posts at the corners. The posts are connected via loosely tied multi-colored ropes – and woe betide anyone getting caught against them. Stools rest in two opposite corners and a man, standing off centre, with short sleeves and a dickey bow waits patiently for the contest to begin.
I look for my girl in the crowd, front row and center same as always, a worried frown creases her unblemished features – pangs of guilt hit me harder than any punch ever will.
With a wink to her that I don’t believe in I climb the stairs ready to put my reputation on the line, to defend my title, my honour and my legend. Greeting Mr. Broughton, under my breath, for the very last time in the process.
Sweat begins to run down my face as my opponent comes out into the arena, the younger man, the fitter man, the stronger man, the challenger to the throne. They say heart doesn’t cut it when there is nothing left to back it up but they obviously haven’t stared into the abyss as many times as I have without blinking. When a wolf pack corners a stag, one of the wolves is going to get gored. He is all ‘swagger’ as he greets the fans and stops for his own microsecond snapshots of his chance at becoming a legend. Seen his type before. He won’t last.
As the lights burn with an uncompromising strength, I feel a single drop of sweat running down my cheek holding for a second then falling to the canvas flooring as gravity wins the first fight of the evening. As it hits, I blink and 30 years have past. Still able to feel the trail of the sweat on my face, only now it’s a tear, as I stare out in to the black abyss again but this time it’s different, this time it’s full of empty seats, the silence mocks me. Last nights beer and stale popcorn strewn around like a hurricane passed through taking the baying mob with it.
One solitary light shines – barely illuminating the ring, holding back the darkness as it tries to capture me in its cool embrace. Off to one side caught in the lure of old glories, I silently cry, tears being shed, for forgotten dreams, for relived regrets and for lost loves.
Looking down my girl doesn’t sit front row and center for me anymore, gone to a better place the priest says. I miss her still.
The night guard calls to me in the background and the last remaining light goes out. The lamp element looses heat and light all too quickly leaving me standing alone with my memories, for once in a fight I wont win.
The lights have gone off for one last time.
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