by T. S. Easton
‘You do,’ she said. ‘My mum couldn’t make it.’
‘I just … I just wanted to make sure …’
‘What?’ she asked, turning to me. I was interrupting her preparations.
‘It’s just a demonstration match, yeah? We’re not going to go at it hammer and tongs?’
She fixed me with a glare and a wicked half-smile. ‘I don’t know why you’re here,’ she said. ‘But I’m here to fight.’
Then the lights went down.
The crowd hushed as I heard a squeal of feedback. Ricky had brought a guitar amp and a microphone to make the announcements. I peered through a gap in the curtains to watch while Bonita shadow-boxed behind me, puffing and hissing.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ his voice boomed out. Sharon rushed to turn the mic down a bit. ‘We have saved the best for last. Tonight, for your viewing pleasure, we have the first ever women’s boxing match at Bosford Boxing Club. The fight will be three rounds, each lasting one minute. So without further ado, may I present to you for the very last fight of the evening: iii-ii-in the blue corner, weighing in at seventy-two kilos, we have the “Bosford Fist”, Bonita … Clark!’
Bonita shoved past me through the curtain to a brisk round of applause. She ran down the steps and down the aisle towards the ring, shadow-boxing as she went. There were a few whistles and cat-calls too. I watched her climb into the ring where she was met by Alex, who took her towel and squirted some water into her mouth.
‘Aaaaaaa-and in the red corner,’ Ricky continued, ‘weighing in at sixty-five kilos, we have Fleur “Killa” Waters!’ The crowd clapped politely. I heard a few cheers and whistles. This was it. The butterflies in my tummy exploded into a frenzy of fluttering as I came out from behind the rope and trotted down the steps. I wasn’t sure what I should do but everyone was watching, expecting me to do something boxer-y so I sideways-skipped my way down the aisle, swapping over halfway, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. I heard Pip whistling loudly and Blossom shouting out my name. Joe held the rope as I climbed into the ring and stood on the canvas, the spotlights dazzling me. My heart was thumping like the bass line at Lick’d. I turned 360 degrees, looking out at the crowd. I saw Blossom and Pip, I saw the Thursday ladies cheering like mad. I saw the boys, wraps off, fights over, watching us, clapping and stamping.
There was Dad. Smiling encouragingly.
And next to him sat Mum. I hadn’t spotted her before, tiny as she was, and I’d assumed she hadn’t come. But she had. I felt myself flush. On the one hand I was relieved and grateful that my mum had come to see me, even though it must have been the most terrifying thing she’d ever done, but on the other hand I now felt doubly nervous, knowing she was there. The pressure was really on.
Must not get killed, I thought to myself. Must not get killed.
She sat there, staring at me. White-faced, clutching a tissue. I waved a glove at her and she forced a quick smile. Dad reached over and squeezed her hand.
‘Come on, Killa,’ Joe said. ‘Time to fight.’ He led me to my corner and held my wrist.
‘Seconds out!’ Ricky cried. ‘Touch gloves. Back to your corners, then come out fighting.’ I walked forward to Bonita and we touched gloves. If I’d hoped I might see some kind of mercy, or even nerves, in her eyes, I was wrong. She stared at me, emotionless. Like Drago, the Russian fighter in Rocky IV. I knew she wasn’t going to go easy on me. That just wasn’t in her blood. I swallowed nervously, my heart hammering inside my chest like it was trying to escape. We each turned and walked back to our corners.
Then Ricky rang the bell.
Round One
I don’t know what I was thinking really. We’d already done the touching gloves thing. Ricky had said ‘come out fighting’. But when I stepped forward I wasn’t ready. It was as if I hadn’t actually realised I was in a real fight this time, that it wasn’t just sparring, or drills. I walked right up to Bonita with my gloves down and she promptly hit me in the face.
The crowd gasped and I staggered back, feeling my legs go but just about managing to stay upright. There was no time to recover either because she was coming after me, glowering, clearly wanting to finish the fight before it had even got started. Bonita didn’t want to just beat me, she wanted to drive me into the ground.
But I’d trained hard too. Bonita may have thought I was some useless piece of dental floss who’d never worked hard for anything, but she was wrong. I’d run, I’d cycled, I’d lifted weights over and over until I hated the sight of the damn things. And I’d been there, doing my drills, hitting the bags, tapping the pads, working my abs, and eating. Oh, so much eating.
So I didn’t go down. I stayed on my feet. And I didn’t let her hit me again. I lifted my gloves and took guard. Bonita rained furious blows down on me. She was powerful and had such a long reach I knew I could never get close enough to return her hits. But I knew how to block. I was a Saxon after all. Gradually my head cleared and I remembered about moving my feet. I crabbed my way to the side and circled round her, getting away from the ropes.
Thud, thud, thud went her gloves against mine, my arms soaking up the impact. I heard someone shriek in the audience, it could have been Mum. I was on the back foot all right, but I knew if I could just get through this round, then I’d have a chance to recover, get my breath back and think about what I was doing.
Boom, boom, thud-thud. The punches kept coming, mostly jabs, from the face, but she dropped a few times to try a few hooks, one of which got me right in the left breast, causing a sharp pain. I gritted my teeth and kept up the gloves. I could hear shouts from the crowd. ‘Hit her. Keep going!’
‘Come on, Fleur,’ someone cried. Maybe Blossom.
I realised I hadn’t actually tried to punch Bonita yet. There hadn’t been much opportunity.
A minute is a long time when you’re being pummelled. I was forced back on to the ropes twice more, but managed to slip away. I could see Bonita starting to get frustrated. That was good: in fact some of her punches were starting to look a little loose, her gloves dropping, leaving her head open. Could I perhaps …?
The bell rang.
Round Two
‘You haven’t hit her yet,’ Joe said as he squirted water into my mouth.
‘I’m too busy trying to keep my head attached to my shoulders,’ I gasped.
‘You missed a couple of openings,’ he said, wiping my chin with the towel. ‘She’s strong, but she lacks discipline. She’s all over the place.’
‘That’s where my teeth will be if I drop my guard,’ I said. ‘All over the place.’
‘I thought you were going to go down when she punched you,’ Joe said. ‘What were you thinking walking out with your arms by your sides?’
‘Do you have any useful advice?’ I said, exasperated.
‘Keep your gloves up and not down.’
‘Yeah, learned that one. Anything else?’
‘Try hitting her?’ Joe said. The bell rang and I hauled myself to my feet. Joe’s second piece of advice might have sounded straightforward enough, but I had no intention of following it. Ricky had said to keep my guard up and I should get through the three rounds. I’d lose on points, but I wouldn’t disgrace myself and it would be a good example to show the audience that women’s boxing was safe.
So round two started off just as round one had finished, with me skipping around the ring, retreating from Bonita and weathering her constant attacks. Now I’d recovered from the initial blow, I felt better able to cope. Bonita was strong but she was heavier and slower than me. I was fit and, by constantly moving, I was making it difficult for her. I could see her frustration growing, her face becoming redder and her breathing more and more laboured.
When I thought I saw an opening, I jabbed once or twice, and one of my punches even got through. I think I might have scored a point, but wasn’t sure. My problem was that she had so much more reach than me. I had to get in very close to get a jab through her defences. Each time I tried it she redoub
led her attacks, driving me back again. Though I think I boxed much better in round two, she still out-punched me by twenty to one. As the round neared the end and I was wondering if the bell had broken, Bonita lurched forward and shoved me hard against the ropes. Ricky jumped forward to pull us apart, but not before she’d got in a few hard punches to my stomach. I hit back almost instinctively even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to in the situation and felt my right hook connect satisfyingly. She grunted in pain.
The bell rang.
Round Three
‘Only one more round to go,’ I said, panting. ‘I can do this.’
‘Do what?’ Joe said. ‘I haven’t seen you do anything yet.’
‘I got in a couple of punches,’ I replied, slightly miffed.
‘Well I didn’t see them,’ Joe said. ‘Except for that hook, but that won’t count. Why don’t you try that when you’re not in a clinch?’
‘Because that would leave me open,’ I said. ‘I can break the cavalry if I keep up the shield wall.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘I mean I can get through the round if I can keep my guard up.’
‘But what’s that worth?’ Joe said. ‘What’s the point of doing it at all if you’re just trying to survive until the bell?’
‘That’s life, Joe,’ I said.
‘No it isn’t,’ he replied. ‘Look, forget what Ricky told you. He was a great boxer, Ricky. Could have been a champion. But he was always cautious, played the percentages, you know? Sometimes the best thing to do is drop your guard and just hit the bastard.’
Then the bell rang again and I hauled myself up.
Again I felt less than inclined to follow Joe’s advice. If I let myself get KO’d by Bonita in front of my mother, I’d never be allowed to box again. It would be bad news for the club. Also, more importantly, it would really really hurt. No, the sensible, safe thing to do would be to carry on blocking and let Bonita take the win on points. There was no shame in that.
She came at me hard again and I tucked my head down behind both of my gloves, forming the shield wall. The Iceni could batter themselves against that if they liked, I wasn’t going to show so much as a chink in the armour. By keeping my elbows tucked in tight, Bonita couldn’t get through to my torso either, and being lighter on my feet and fit as a puma, I could keep moving, tiring her out.
As the seconds ticked down, I could feel her battering harder, hear her panting as she grew more and more frustrated. The occasional punch burst through, and she got a couple of round-house hooks into my sides, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I was giving away points here and there, but that didn’t matter.
Then once again, Bonita rushed forward and embraced me in a clinch. ‘Come on, Petal, fight,’ she hissed. ‘Take a bloody swing.’ As Ricky pulled us apart, she jabbed out at me, hitting me in the breast again. I gasped as the pain hit me and my entire right side seemed to freeze up. Shocked into immobility, I could do nothing but watch as Bonita came at me again and slammed a glove into my face. The crowd roared as I staggered back and spun, hitting the ropes hard, my head reeling. If this was a cartoon, little birds and stars would be circling my head. If I hadn’t been held up by the ropes, I would have gone down for sure. The crowd roared at the blow. In the maze of blurred faces, I saw Dad, his mouth open in an O of horror. Next to him sat Mum, looking absolutely terrified. I had to do something.
I spun back around dizzily to see Bonita coming in to finish me off. She grinned and pulled back a fist. Keep your gloves by your cheeks, I heard Ricky say in my head. Punch from the face. Bonita hadn’t done this. She’d bent her arm right back, exposing her head. Her other glove was down and wide, forgotten. In her desperation to land the killer blow, she’d forgotten the lesson we learned right back at the start. She’d left herself open. Suddenly my head cleared as I was flooded with a jolt of adrenaline. I knew exactly what I had to do.
Should have listened to Ricky, I thought as I danced forward in slow motion and hit her as hard as I could with a left. Not my strong right hook. Not my killer uppercut. Just a simple, straight left, because that was the right punch for the situation.
There has never been a blow as sweet as that one. Not Ali. Not Joe Frazier. Not Rocky bloody Balboa ever put as much into a punch as I put into that left. Every mile I’d cycled, every step I’d run, every leg I’d raised, every sodding packet of biltong I’d eaten, went into that hit.
As Bonita went down it occurred to me that she’d probably never been hit before. Not like that anyway. I knew what it was like when Destiny got in a good one, and then again when Ricky ‘tapped’ me last week. But no one had ever put one on Bonita’s buzzer quite like I had. She hit the canvas hard, and to utter silence. Just like when I’d scored the goal on the hockey pitch, it seemed no one could quite believe what I’d done.
Then Ricky darted forward to tend to the fallen Bonita and that triggered the crowd to react with an enormous roar. I spun, confused, and saw that everyone was on their feet, clapping, cheering, whooping and whistling. Joe ducked into the ring and gave me a massive hug.
‘You did it, Killa! I bloody knew you’d do it!’ Then Sharon was there, and Blossom and Dad, but not Pip because he’d got caught in the ropes. I caught a glimpse of Mum in the crowd, sitting bolt upright, white-faced, clutching her handkerchief and staring right at me in astonishment. Tarik squeezed me in a great bear hug. Everyone was clapping me on the back but all I could think about was Bonita. I pulled away from the crowd and knelt beside her. Ricky had helped her into a sitting position.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked. She blinked at me, trying to focus.
‘Good hit,’ she said. ‘Bloody good hit.’ And then I was dragged away and it was time to go and celebrate.
Eleven Beers. One Coke, Full Fat
We went to Chickos for the post-fight meal. We pretty much filled the whole upper floor. Sharon had reserved loads of tables. I’d wanted to ask Bonita to come, but she’d slipped off. Ricky had been a bit worried about her because she’d been so quiet after the fight, but the St John Ambulance lady checked her over and said she was fine. Part of me felt bad about having won. I almost felt like I’d tricked her into opening up her guard like that. That I’d won by a lucky blow. But Joe told me I’d played it perfectly.
‘Sometimes your opponent beats himself,’ he said. ‘And you should let him.’
‘Or her,’ I reminded him.
‘Or her. The trick is never to try and play him … her … them at his … her … their own game. Play it your way. Wait until he … she … they make the mistake.’
‘That’s not what you said before the fight, you just kept telling me to hit her.’
‘And you did. Eventually,’ he said. ‘The thing about you, Killa, is that you don’t like being told what to do. You do things your own way.’ I looked at him, wondering how he knew me so well. Either he was an experienced observer of human behaviour or I was just a very transparent person. While we were waiting for the food to arrive, I went over to the next table and sat opposite my mother, who was staring at Simon’s electronic tag.
Mum looked at me and breathed in. Then she smiled. ‘Well done,’ she said. I inspected her to try and get a clue as to what she was thinking. Was there a hint of pride in her expression? If so, it was heavily masked by a look of relief combined with nervous exhaustion.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you came.’
‘I hated it all,’ she said. ‘But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
I laughed.
‘So are you going to keep it up?’ she asked. I nodded. I hadn’t even asked myself the same question yet, but I already knew the answer.
‘I know you think it’s dangerous, Mum,’ I said. ‘And I suppose, honestly, it is a little. It’s a contact sport and there’s always a risk. But everything in life is risky, at least everything worth doing. And with proper training, and proper rules and a supportive group of people behind you … well, I think the risk is worth
taking.’
I was dragged away at that point by Jerome and Simon who wanted me to come and have a beer with them. I drank some, just to be polite, but I didn’t really enjoy it. Mum and Dad left soon after. I was exhausted and I headed home after an hour or so, leaving the party in full swing. As I pulled on my coat and headed out into the December chill I heard someone follow me out of the door.
‘Hey you,’ Tarik called.
I stopped and turned. ‘Hey yourself,’ I replied. He walked over to me, in his shirtsleeves, his face lit by the Christmas lights running down the high street.
‘So I guess you didn’t see that coming, huh?’ I said. ‘Me beating Bonita.’
‘Of course I did. I knew you had it,’ Tarik replied. ‘You were playing it cool. Waiting for the right moment.’ Suddenly he was standing close to me and my tummy was feeling a little like it had just before the fight.
‘I’m really not that cool,’ I said. ‘She just opened herself up and I took my chance.’ He stood there, not saying anything, as if he was waiting. A newspaper page flapped by, picked up by a gust of wind. Tarik shivered.
‘You’d better get back inside,’ I said. ‘Before you freeze.’
‘I’m not cold,’ he said.
‘Well I am,’ I replied.
‘I think you’re amazing, Fleur,’ he said.
‘It was just a lucky punch.’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ he said. Then he leaned forward and hugged me tightly. I wrapped my arms around him, feeling his taut muscles through his thin shirt. He shivered again.
‘Get inside,’ I ordered, pulling back. ‘You’re in training.’
‘OK, coach,’ he said, grinning. Then he leaned forward, more quickly this time, and kissed my cheek. His lips lingered for a fraction of a second. A fraction of a second that said everything. He paused, his face close to mine.
‘See you tomorrow?’ he asked.
