I’LL HOLD THE FIRST TWO ROUNDS AGAINST YOU
BETTER HOPE YOU GOT SOMETHING MORE THAN IDENTITY ANOMIE
Disclaimer: I am not going to apologize.
The nonsense forms its own sort of identity.
In a world where everything is worth only a moment’s notice, I care most about the favor and the future of Willem Floures.
It might sound indulgent but it’s true:
We all fight to be recognized.
My ability to understand who I am has been slaughtered, the gore and blood smeared across national media. Every single article, be it a picture or a long blog post, an article for the Times or a video interview uploaded, I say what I say and I deny it in the next. I say one thing only to sever any understanding with a follow-up series of episodes.
The media thinks it’s all an act.
The media thinks of me as a nutcase. But they like enigmatic undertones; they love an eccentric personality.
They’d take tumor minds over yet another brandless tool.
And you know what?
I’ll take it.
I’ll take whatever I can get.
DID YOU HEAR SOMETHING?
I sigh, “Just tell me.”
YOU ALREADY KNOW
A moment later I did. I should be happy, thrilled.
It was going to happen.
Everything I had aligned made true.
Maybe I didn’t have it all figured out.
Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be this way.
But it was going to happen. Despite what it took to get there, for a brief moment, I would take the spotlight.
One last time.
VERSUS
Maybe you don’t trust me. I don’t trust me. Okay, fine. You don’t trust me. Well at least trust in the fact that I have this fight won. I am as prepared as I could ever be. Black Mamba hasn’t a clue what I’ll use, how I’ll fight, or how this will go down. It’s why he keeps asking me if I hear something.
I hear all.
So let’s stick to the basics, okay?
I want to explain something to you; I want to talk about the basics of the perfect boxing match. What can and will go wrong versus what can and will go right: the anatomy of a twelve round fight for the title.
So let’s have at it, but keep in mind that I didn’t get to the arena in time. Rounds one and two were withheld, via judge bribery, the match wasn’t thrown out but the first two rounds were certainly given to Mamba.
Foolish of me to think that it was Spencer that paid off the judges. Never would have thought it was Black Mamba’s camp that made it so.
But I guess they need this fight to happen.
They want the fight because they want the spotlight.
Spencer, he sits in the corner barking orders that don’t make any sense. And I mean that literally—
He shouts incoherent commands, a great frown on his face, followed by the only thing I can make out:
ARE YOU LISTENING?
I guess not. But I got this covered. Again, this is about trust.
Trust me more than I can trust myself.
Who else am I going to trust? I can’t trust Spencer, who systematically unwrites the entire league by capturing every single potential fighter before they’ve reached their fifteenth fight. I can’t trust someone I trusted for almost two decades. I can’t... even begin to finish that sentence.
TWO DECADES
More or less—all that time, my career being equally his career. I’m speechless just thinking about how much went into our professional relationship only to have this happen. He says I’m the one that’s changed. Everyone changes as they age. I think he’s changed for the worse.
I can’t listen to his lectures anymore.
They go right over my head.
ARE YOU LISTENING?
No I’m not but I hope you are.
Pay attention.
This one’s going to be a barnburner.
ROUND THREE
After a bit of crowd-pleasing via the ring announcer and one of the producers covering for my tardiness, I am in my corner and Black Mamba in his. Though he looks at me, I feel like he is looking through me. Looking past me. We walk to the center of the ring, touch gloves, and the bell sounds.
Immediately I notice something’s wrong.
I can’t place the problem, but it’s there. The entire fight is off; the momentum isn’t there.
At first I figure it’s because Black Mamba is a counterpuncher.
This is unexpected.
He waits for me to make a mistake and he counters with a combination, often trailing the light jabs and hooks with a shot that might just knock my head off. But they are few and far between.
For the duration of the round, I watch as Black Mamba maintains a defensive shell.
I am trying to figure him out and, for these first few rounds, I give him the benefit of the doubt: He’s probably doing the same.
Though I know what he’s thinking, just as he knows what’s swirling around in my head, between the physical and the mental there is a difference, an omission. I can surprise him with an instinctual strike or he might forego strategy and fight on pure adrenaline, feeling out the fight and nothing more.
That’s the thing about boxing—
Though it is a science…
Though it requires skill and intellect to master…
The body often falls into its own pace, its own groove.
Everything you build snaps into effect and during the best moments of the round, you are seeing a flurry of images; you are acting and reacting without any trigger of the mind.
It’s a lot like how time can pass so quickly when you are having a wonderful time; the round can pass by in a split second, leaving you reeling, catching images of various encounters. You can only hope you landed the most punches and the CompuBox has you on the up rather than down.
Plus, hopefully you aren’t bleeding.
No cuts, that kind of thing.
End of the round, I feel like nothing’s happened. Take it as another example of what I’m trying to explain.
During the best fights, I often feel like I am the one, the only Willem Floures. No shred of a doubt—I am who I’ve been and the reason I fight is because the fight keeps things simple and obvious.
Reason: You want to win.
Reason: You want to impress the world.
Reason: It makes you feel alive.
Reason: It’s the only thing you’re certain of—the fight involves not losing, winning to make everyone happy, and, last but not least, fighting is the truest testament to being alive.
If you aren’t fighting, you are dying.
ROUND FOUR
It passes in the blink of an eye.
I pretend to be frustrated, throwing lots of punches that don’t connect, so that I can set myself up for a surprise in the following round.
Mamba remains on the defensive, wasting away the round with very little activity. Between rounds, Spencer is still going on and on about something, shouting as loud as he can possibly stomach. I clear my throat, take in some water, breathe in and out three times; one of the crewmembers checks my face, looking for any cutting.
The last thing I want is to feel the vapors of the Vaseline on my face, the Vaseline they rub into every cut to keep from further tearing and damage.That’s reason enough to fight effectively:
Take no risks.
Know when to let go and know when to lead your opponent on.
And I’m not talking about first-date etiquette here.
ARE YOU LISTENING?
Spencer shouts. I heard that last part.
Fine, yeah. I nod. Whatever you say.
ROUND FIVE
I’ve encountered some of the younger ones trying to be a swarmer, thinking that the onslaught of punches and aggression will take me out, but remember what I said about my chin? I can take a punch. I can take a hundred punches and I’ll remain standing. Maybe not now, but back in the day I could.
/> Now I maintain the illusion that I can.
Hell, maybe I can; I don’t know.
Everything I’ve thought to be true has turned out to be false; everything I’ve thought to be false turns out to be true. There is no pattern and everything is a ploy trying to render me confused.
I’ve encountered one that wasted all his energy trying to knock me out with haymakers. He tried to bolo punch me into a situation where I’d fall into one of his power punches. Yeah right.
He lasted four fights before dropping the name.
Whoever he is now, he isn’t Willem Floures.
I can’t even recall his fight alias. What was it?
Black Mamba hides behind his fists. The thing about counterpunchers is they play conservatively but if you go southpaw and fight more like a swarmer, at least in small spurts, you will land a few punches. Even if he has a strong defense, he won’t be able to avoid every punch. First thirty seconds into the round, I begin to notice that every time I land a punch Mamba buckles.
There’s no way a single jab can hurt him.
I land a straight to the body and he buckles.
It’s these kinds of things that worry me. The majority of this round consists of idle jabbing followed by analysis of Mamba’s intentions.
I throw a succession of jabs, following it up with the clinch.
Spitting out my mouth guard, I whisper into his ear, “What the fuck are you doing? Fight!”
No response, not even a grimace or glare. Behind those lifeless eyes, I discover the fight to be a decoy, one that I can’t help but accept.
I have to win even though the worry is placed elsewhere.
The rest of the round, neither of us is active.
I hear Spencer’s hoarse voice in the background, disregarded commands from a once trusted source.
Even he couldn’t tell me what’s going on.
The fact that I know only makes this worse.
End of the round, back to the corner, the cutman rubs that Vaseline over my face, I spit into a bucket, take in deep breaths.
Spencer with commands, Spencer behaving as expected.
ARE YOU LISTENING?
No, I’m not.
I am two steps ahead, post-fight, looking back at what I had told you would be my comeback, a great fight. A real back-to-basics.
I never expected to face myself in the ring.
I know that’s a contradictory statement. I know, I know:
When have I not fought myself in the ring? The fight is an internal struggle. Yeah, all that philosophical stuff, but right over there, sitting on that stool, that thing staring back at me…
He’s not alive.
There’s no one there.
I can see right through Black Mamba. I see into the future.
I see into round nine when it happens.
I get my first knockout in quite a long time.
When the bell rings for round six, I can promise you one thing:
This fight will not go the distance.
ROUND SIX
He stands there, gloves up, idle and unwilling to trade punches.
Who are you to think that I will let you throw the fight! Hear those words echo out through my head. I see through Black Mamba and I see the perfect publicity stunt.
They have fallen for it.
The entirety of round six we stand there in the center of the ring, not a single punch thrown and yet the audience falls for it.
They devour every round like the main-event it should be, not realizing what has been derailed.
I drop my hands.
I look up at the crowd, scanning up to the nosebleed section.
On their faces are grins, smiles, shocked and amused expressions; on their faces are the indications of one of the greatest fights of all time.
I lower my gaze to the ring.
Mamba remains shelled up, predictable fighting stance.
I return to my corner, the rest of the round wasted.
Spencer delivers the memorized speech, the one I ignore.
ARE YOU LISTENING?
It is right then that I realize that it isn’t Spencer that’s asking me if I’m listening. It’s Black Mamba. I see that he’s still standing in the middle of the ring, his crew splashing water, Spencer his trainer, delivering similar lines, maybe the same lines, failing to notice that their fighter remains standing, waiting to beat himself up.
I hear the same garbled noises, the same use of Vaseline on nonexistent facial cuts, I notice the repetition of every minute detail, right before round seven begins. When it does, I watch the crowd, clearly aware that they aren’t tuning into the same fight.
ROUND SEVEN
I walk up to Black Mamba also known as me, also known as Willem Floures, a fighter past his prime but still doing whatever it takes to seize the spotlight; I walk up to myself and I say, “Open up, let your guard down.”
ARE YOU LISTENING?
Yes. I am.
So, why don’t you “let your guard down?”
What’s the worst that could happen?
ARE YOU LISTENING?
Let your guard down!
No one is going to do any favors. I have to be the one to get the job done. I start with the jab, purposefully hitting to the gloves, warming up to the combination left, left, right, right, mix-up of straights and hooks.
The more punches I throw, the more worked up I get.
I see Mamba’s body wince with every blow.
The audience continues to cheer; every moment is as exciting as the one before it. Hearing their laughter only makes me angrier.
I begin to treat Black Mamba like a punching bag.
The entire round he buckles with every single punch. I should be feeling what he’s feeling but, thanks to the adrenaline surging through my body, I won’t feel it until much later.
I return to my corner thirty seconds before the end of the round, just in time to see what I’ve done to Mamba.
He bleeds down the right side of his face and each breath he takes is pained, the evident wheeze of a winded fighter can be heard from my corner.
Spencer and crew begin tending to my body.
Wipe the blood away.
Tend to the cut on my right side.
I breathe out, my breath loud enough to drown out Spencer’s barks.
ARE YOU LISTENING?
This is the round where the illusion shatters.
This is the round where it ends.
This is the round where the confusion becomes cataclysm.
This is the round where something in my head ruptures, and the rendered image I am left with in the aftermath of this fight is less than the sum of both victory and media regard.
They see me as that fighter; I see myself as that husk of a being, idle and dead on his feet, standing in the middle of the ring.
This is where I hurt myself, and the injury lasts a lifetime.
ROUND EIGHT
I am listening.
I am listening to their laughter, their applause. Though I know it’s genuine, I also know that it’s not for me. It might be directed towards me, but it isn’t for me; rather, it’s for the ‘Willem Floures’s they have come to expect via all the publicity, every single video clip, interview, and sound bite given to the media for sculpting. They see the identity as brand rather than identity as person. I could be competitively dancing. I could be a pornstar. I could be a prostitute. I could be a slave under sinister purposes. The root isn’t important:
It’s what they think of you and the media’s portrayal provides the impression.
I am a fighter.
I am lost on my feet as I gain their undivided favor.
And it’s only because, well you know why, but I’ll say it again.
I’ll say it again, just to prove to myself that I’m listening.
I am interesting to them because they haven’t figured me out. The enigma, the walking contradiction that is ‘Sugar’ Willem Floures, is one that has yet to be analyzed. From su
spected murderer to suspected philanthropist, I am every much a threat to humanity as I am an asset.
Really though, I’m just a fighter, about to knock myself out.
So then let me show you how to fight before I go lights out.
ARE YOU LISTENING?
I am asking you. Hmm?
I hope so. This is valuable advice.
Anyone can fight but only a few can win.
JAB
You have the jab. Ease in with this punch.
This is a punch that should, like a gun, be the full extension of your arm. You reach out and test the waters. You create opportunities. You create volume; you create room between you and your opponent.
The jab is your ruler, your ability to measure and feel out the nature of the fight.
STRAIGHT
A powerful straight punch, often dealt with your rear hand. This is why the “one-two” is a classic building block for fight momentum.
One—a jab with your lead hand.
Two—a straight with your rear hand.
I mix up my combinations with a number of “one-two” combinations. The straight, or sometimes called a “cross,” is one of the most effective punches if hit flush and with full extension (of power).
HOOK
My favorite.
A mixture of left and right hooks to the body and face can, and will, confuse your opponent.
I can throw a left hook to the body like this…see?
And sure Mamba braces and ultimately blocks it but if I follow it up with a right hook to the body and then a right hook to the side of his head, the mix-up can affect his ability to defend.
Did you see how he kind of took the right hook to the face?
Hooks are great for rapid succession.
The Laughter of Strangers Page 14
