I found myself in the ring. From my corner, I was called to the center by an improvised referee. In front of me was my opponent. He wasn’t a big, chunky guy. Rather few muscles, but well defined. His shadow, cast by the spotlights in the ring, was huge. As I approached, everything fell silent.
The voice in the train’s loudspeakers announced “The next stop is Manchester Victoria. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform edge.” It had been several months since I last visited this city. The persistent rain, the cold, and the darkness of the night fogged the windows inside the train. Only a few twinkling lights filtered through, announced the proximity of the city.
As I got off the train and walked through the station, my figure mingled with an organized crowd. Fleeting faces of all shapes and colours crossed my path. For a moment I could imagine us as a line of insects, going in all directions and congregating in this great anthill.
The outskirts of the station offered a melancholic atmosphere. Despite the movement, the people sheltering from the rain had their eyes lost, some accompanied by a smoke and others in their device. The streetcar crossed the roads with misted windows and with a cautious speed. The delivery boys were riding their bicycles regardless of the rain, with huge boxes on their backs.
After looking up the gym’s location on Maps and putting on a Stormzy song, I adjusted my hood and ventured out to brave the rain. Honestly, that was the least of my worries. No matter how hard I tried, it was impossible to stop thinking about the 6 pounds I had left in my account after buying the train ticket.
As I walked through this impromptu procession, I thought again about what the hell I was going to do. No job, no money, passing through the sofas of friends whose generosity was wearing thin. Every passing car, every stylish person, and every tourist taking selfies made me think about how the hell you live. How do all these people live like this? Without so many anxieties and worries.
Luminous advertisements in stores began to daze me. So many restaurants and pubs. So many tech and clothing stores. So much opulence was offered to me, and I couldn’t even have enough for tobacco. Without really knowing why a new thought invaded me. As if out of nowhere, enthusiasm filled me with energy. Perhaps it is the blessing of having nothing to lose. The voice on the phone told me that I was very close to reaching my destination.
Days ago, I had met some lads in the Morrisons parking lot. In a conversation that began when they approached me to borrow my lighter, they shared a bit of their experience with me. In a situation like mine, they told me about a boxing match in which, without winning, just competing, they had made 70 pounds. Although at first I suspected it was bullshit, the red knuckles and a swollen cheekbone lent credence to the story.
My boxing experience was scant. Many years ago, when I was a child, I used to train at school, but the pints, the smoke, and the laziness made me give up very soon. The little instruction had helped me get out of some street fights alive and land some good punches, but I had always been far from being a good fighter. If I had to define my style, I would say that it is like life; The most important thing is to know how to defend yourself and wait for the moment to strike the most accurate punches you can.
Without having another alternative in sight, I took the info about those fights and sent a message to the number they gave me. When asked if I had training experience, I did not hesitate to lie and gave the name of the geezer I met in the parking lot as a reference. As confirmation, I received the date, time, and address.
Seeing the doors of the gym, I thought again about this shortage. The idea of having nothing, no plan, no future, was not sad. It just pissed me off. When I came in, I was very upset. Pissed off with those wealthy people, with anyone who had anything. Pissed off with myself. Because of my bad decisions. For my ambitions. Far greater than anything I could get.
Although some spotlights were on, illuminating the ring as if it were a coliseum, the place was lonely. Only a couple of lads fighting to each other, and a few old men witnessing the fight. Maybe coaches, maybe idle with nothing better to do.
A bald old man approached. After looking me up and down he asked if I was there to fight. He looked my name up on a list and pointed to the dressing room for me to change. I must confess that while I was preparing, I was quite scared. However, I thought being furious would be a much better strategy. I remembered again what I don’t have and how difficult everything has been. It was not a complicated task.
Returning to the ring the bald bloke gave me a pair of gloves and some instructions to which I paid no attention. My mind was fixed on one of the lads giving up the fight. His nose was broken, crooked, and leaking blood, but not from the nostrils but up, on the septum, close to his eyes. Protecting myself was the only thing on my mind. Meanwhile, the old man was talking and making gestures that I can’t remember.
Without much waiting, I found myself in the ring. From my corner, I was called to the center by an improvised referee. In front of me was my opponent. He wasn’t a big, chunky guy. Rather few muscles, but well defined. His shadow, cast by the spotlights in the ring, was huge. As I approached, everything fell silent. I didn’t hear anything but my breathing. The referee gave some indications, but everything was silent for me.
There I met the look of the rival. At that time, I could not see another person. What I felt was that I was seeing my reflection. The intensity of those seconds reminded me of the hours I’ve spent absorbed looking at myself in the mirror, wondering if I was real, if this really exists and if everyone perceived the world the same way I do. The sharp sound of a bell marking the start of the fight brought me back to that moment. I took a few steps back and got ready for my best defense.