by James Tow
my family.
24. May We Reign Victorious
I turned onto Lamar Boulevard in search of a Lord’s Gym. Spenser, sitting in the passenger seat of the Humvee I drove, along with Keith and Ebben, in the back seats, kept their eyes peeled for help. In my mind, I pictured a massive gym with several boxing rings, an elaborate work out station, a nice locker room—everything a nice gym has to offer.
“Up ahead,” Keith said in his squeaky voice. That’s probably why he doesn’t talk much.
Where Keith pointed was a crowd of about two hundred standing next to an old run down building. I parked behind a bus that sat on the sidewalk.
We started walking toward the crowd, when Ebben said, “It’s 10:10. You better hurry.”
There was a long line of bulky males that lead to a black punching device that sat against the aluminum wall of the gym. I took my place at the end of the line as I examined the gym more closely. I smiled to myself when I realized this was a real boxing gym. I bet if I were to walk inside, it would hold the stale smell of sweat, blood, and hard work.
I stepped to the side to get a good look at the machine the line of hulks was to hit. It consisted of two black columns, each having a large base, and they connected to a large platform at the top. A speed bag hung from the front of the platform—it swung into the platform when each competitor punched the bag. On a large digital screen, the platform measured the force of each punch. The record of ‘902’ stayed on the screen in between each punch.
The next guy, a middle-aged fat man, walked up to the speed bag, then took two steps back. He crow-hopped and threw his body into a punch that shook the whole machine. I watched the digital numbers start from ‘1’ and speed it’s way past ‘800’ and eventually crawl to a stop at ‘889’. The audience, along with the line of competition, applauded as the man took a bow and flexed his biceps. Prick, I thought as he continued to bow and taunt the rest of his competition.
“Get some, you pansies!” he yelled and walked off.
Most of the other punches barely passed ‘700’ when a few scarcely passed ‘800’. This might be harder than I expected, I thought when the burly man in front of me landed a powerful punch to the bag—but his score was only ‘823’. I stepped forward when he shuffled away angrily.
“Name and faction please,” said an old lady holding a clip board—she wore the same white collared shirt and blue jeans as the other workers.
“Pau…Patton Churchill. Omega Unit,” I told her. I forgot about the accent—my mind was on this bag that I was about to knock the leather off of.
I stood two feet behind it, and waited—trying to get ‘in the zone.’ I took practice steps to help judge the right distance. I’m taller than the bag, so I should punch downward—the extra force should add to my score. “Let’s see what I can do,” I whispered to myself. I took a quick shuffle with my feet then stepped forward with my left leg. Throwing everything I had—body weight, speed, and any other outside force I could muster—into the downward punch, the bag flew into the machine with much force that rattled even the aluminum wall of the gym.
I took a step back and watched the digital numbers fly past ‘700’. I could feel the tension creep through my body as the numbers passed ‘860,’ but at a slower rate. My heart stopped as the score inched passed ‘900,’ and the crowd gasped as the numbers stopped at ‘907.’ I turned and shrugged at the crowd when they just stared at me. Keith, Ebben, and Spenser ran up to me, jumping and cheering, as I tried to walk out of the spotlight.
Most of the crowd dispersed, knowing they wouldn’t make it to the finals. All of us stood waiting for the announcements of the four finalists. I wasn’t as antsy as the other competitors. I knew I made it.
“I hope this man doesn’t make it,” Ebben said pointing at the prick from earlier. He was trying to intimidate the others with his slow-spoken words.
“Why are you still here?” he’d say to someone then turn around to say, “You look like a bitch.”
“I hope he makes it. I will feel so happy when I break his face,” I told Ebben.
“Hell yeah!” he cried and punched me in the arm.
The old lady walked through the gym doors with the clip board in her hands. Immediately, she started announcing, “Patton Churchill, with a score of ‘907,’ will also be awarded five extra points for having the highest score.”
“Sweet man,” Spenser said.
“Yeah, we’re definitely going to make it past preliminaries!” Keith exclaimed.
The lady continued with her list, “Hunter Watson, with a score of ‘902’ will be in the semi-finals.” I looked around to see the other finalist, but I couldn’t tell for half of the crowd cheered for this Hunter Watson. “Justin Flowers with a score of ‘889’ will advance.” The lady announced.
The prick with the big mouth threw his arms in the air, “What did I tell you? You guys don’t have shit on me!” he exclaimed.
“That’s why you got third place,” Keith said. Justin Flowers pointed at Keith and said, “Hit puberty before you talk to me boy.” Keith just hung his head.
“Anthony Brewton, with a score of ‘872,’ will be our last semi-finalist,” the lady finished. A body builder of a man started jumping up and down screaming “YES!” told us who Anthony was. “I can’t believe it!” he said in a voice even more pathetic than Keith’s.
“He needs to hit puberty,” Keith said laughing at the squeaky voice.
“Will the semi-finalists please approach,” the old lady said. Three men walked forward, and I watched, examining each one. Anthony shouldn’t be a problem. Justin was heavy and appeared slow—the only problem he will be he may take more hits to bring him down. And I finally got my eye on Hunter Watson. He was also big and sloppy—he was a little stockier than the others though.
The four of us walked up to the old lady and she started explaining the set-up. “There will be two fights between two of you, and then the finals to follow. The first set of fights is three rounds with three minutes each round. The final fight consists of five rounds with three minutes each. Only the fighters and the judges will be in the gym during each fight—no spectators.”
Damn. A cheering crowd always gives me an edge—no matter who they cheer for. She continued, “The first fight will be Anthony and Hunter. The second, Justin and Patton.”
Yes! I thought. Goosebumps ran up my arms with the excitement. Then Justin whispered in my ear, “You’re going down bitch.” That’s the fuel I need. Keep going fat man.
“Fighters, please proceed,” the lady said and motioned them toward the door. I looked at their choice of clothing, and it got me second guessing mine. Anthony and Hunter both wore tight sneakers with loose gym shorts. Justin wore the same. I looked down to my loose khaki pants and white shirt. At least I got my good luck Chucks on.
Next to me, Justin threw punches against the air and danced around. “You can’t handle this. You might as well go home,” he said between punches.
“This is home,” I told him.
“Then you don’t have far to walk,” he laughed with one eye brow raised. What a douche bag laugh. I just stood there, imagining different ways I could beat him up. I pictured my fists ripping through his face and cracking his ribs with the thrashing I’d throw down on him. My thoughts got carried away as I soon pictured grabbing a steel chair and smacking him across the face with it—but it was relieving, so I let it wander.
The doors opened as I was tearing off Justin’s limbs with a chainsaw. Hunter walked out—sweating and breathing heavily. Behind him walked out two men, holding up a bruised and beaten Anthony.
“That’s going to be you,” Justin said and jogged inside the gym—still punching the air. But my attention was focused on the broken body of Anthony. Hunter is a contender…should be fun.
“Kill ‘em!” Ebben called out from the crowd. I gave him a thumb’s up and walked inside the gym. The room was small—as I expected. Workout gear and punching bags cluttered the walls and the outside of th
e ring. The ring itself was ragged with yellow rope around the perimeter, dark from use and had a series of blood stains. I stopped in my steps, closed my eyes, and took in a deep breath—I was at home. The aroma of hard work rushed to my head, and I could feel the animalistic ferocity yell within. I felt heavy with anticipation.
A long table of four judges, wearing the same as the old lady, sat outside the ring, and waited for me to enter the ring. I stepped under the ropes—but the monster within wanted me to start the fight now—I have to control myself. Take deep breaths. In the opposite corner, Justin continued to jump around and punch the air. A corner man went to Justin and started putting gloves on his hands—another did the same for me.
“You sure you can fight in those pants?” he asked as he put on the second glove. I didn’t answer, I just stared passed him—waiting for my chance to pounce on my prey. “Now that’s a game face,” he said and fitted me with a mouth piece. He took off my shirt and I turned to face my victim. He was ready—hopping around, gloves on, mouth piece in, and shirt off.
A heavy set man walked in the middle of the ring, and told us to come together. “This is boxing gentlemen—keep it clean. No rabbit punches, nothing below the belt, no kicks or knees. Anything illegal will get you disqualified. Three rounds at three minutes each. You can touch hands if you want, and may the best man win,” the man
