The Big Victory

by Ray Canada, SUNY Cortland, November 25, 2007

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I knew I could take him. He looked like he was about my size, maybe a few
pounds heavier. The heat from his burning stare left third degree burns on
my face and I knew my eyes could not withstand his gaze. It is possible for
a fighter to lose a fight based on the stare down he or she may receive in
the ring. The two warriors veer into each other's eyes taking turns grabbing
at each other's soul as if they were playing a game of mental mortal combat.
I remind you that this all happens in just a few short seconds and there is
a loser before you know it. Instead, I was distracted by other details that
led me to believe that I could beat this guy. Although I was nervous, I was
intrigued by the frame of his body. He looked fragile but fearless like a
porcelain God just waiting to be broken by my two solid, stiff, brick-like
fists.

This was my first amateur fight and my nervousness was unparallel to any
jitters I had ever felt before. Well, except for that time we moved to
Jersey. "Somebody help me, please!" a strange man screamed in the dark. It
was about two o'clock in the morning and I was on the couch and my mother
was in another room. He banged on the door repeatedly but thank God no one
answered. At first, I thought that Eric would let him in mistakenly thinking
that he was a friend. I was confident that Eric could make such a blunder
because he was an avid drinker. In fact, he was a drunk but he was mom's
friend. Mom always needed friends. Whatever the case, I remember gripping
the covers tightly thinking this could be the end of a six year old's
existence. The next morning when I left for school, you could see the man's
blood all over the front porch. There was a trail of blood that led all the
way up the street to where the cops found the victim deceased with a bag
tied over his head. My mother held my hand as we walked down the sticky
blood-stained stairs which glared angrily at a reflecting sunlight that
rarely shined its rays on our mean street.

The butterflies in my stomach had wings the size of kites and they fluttered
so hard I was forced to ask myself the question, "Why did I put the gloves
on?" The atmosphere was tailor-made for fear and I was alone. Boxing is a
loner sport. It¹s made for lonely fighters and lone souls; lone warriors who
wish someday to become lonely heroes. Boxing was for me. The only drawback
was that nobody cared. The guy in my corner shoved my hand in the glove with
a vicious push and my head was forced into a guard that was too small. The
odor of old sweat and leather filled my nostrils. I would have to fend for
myself.

The fact that I failed to come from a boxing background was not the
intimidating factor. What made the event so awkward was that I had never
done anything "big" before. There was no one in my family who ever had.
There were a lot of arguments at 86 Hempel St. and I was caught in the
middle of most of them. The people who lived there were mostly a bunch of
"talkers"; people who argued all day about how to change the world. My
family had no friends and rarely went out with other people. They were
always fighting each other, my mother and me in one corner and grandma and
grandpa in the other. They were the type that would say they were going to
do something today but forget about what they said tomorrow. Their idea of
victory was to argue nonstop for hours and whoever ran out of breath first
was the loser. The emotions that were set off during those bitter sparring
matches were like timers set on bombs. Explosions would result in someone
crying or saying something that no one should ever say to another family
member.

For the first time in my life I wanted a big victory. I am not referring to
winning something or being showered with praise. I wanted to do what I said
I would do regardless if I were to win or lose. I didn¹t want to disappoint
myself. I didn¹t want to hate myself. I didn't want to be like them. I
wanted to be something. This was the reason I was here. This was the reason
why I wanted to fight.

The ring was set up in the middle of the park and without a cloud in the
sky; the day was perfect for the afternoon festivities. Various boxing
clubs, coaches, and members of the Webster Park Community came out to
support the event. The sun was heavy and it beat down on my shoulders
forcing me to sweat profusely but it didn¹t matter, I was focused on the
fight. I did not hear the referee explain the rules when we faced off in the
ring. I do not recollect touching my opponent¹s gloves before going back to
our neutral corners. I do not recollect hearing the ongoing street traffic
or the commentary from the crowd. What I do remember is that I was in the
ring and everything that was happening was real.

"Ding!" We both came out swinging and I can still remember the sting from
his punches because the force pushed back my headgear. I had a little
trouble seeing but I was still focused on my opponent. I tried to settle
down on my punches and focus on using my jab but all of the sudden I started
throwing combinations. These combinations forced him into the ropes and now
I was able to land more punches.

"Whip his ass!" some crazy woman screamed.

The bell rang to end round one and we slowly went back to our respective
corners like two tired bulls that had been chasing red. We waited on further
instruction from our corners on what to do next. "Keep that jab in his
face!" Coach Lotta shouted fiercely. He had enough fire in his eyes to set
both of us ablaze. He had been a pro fighter himself. Once he fought the
lightweight champ of the world and lost by only two points. It was almost
like he was reliving his past in the ring with me. "You're doing well." "Now
keep the pressure on him!" he continued.

"Ding!" I came out swinging in Round two and I had caught my second wind. I
jabbed for a while and eventually rushed my opponent to the ropes for a
second time. Somehow he slipped away again and we met in the center of the
ring. I remember jabbing and then throwing a right hand at his face. The
punch missed and landed on his chest. Then I heard a loud thud that shook
the ring. "Boom!" He hit the canvass. I saw a look of pain that lingered in
his eyes so deeply that I could tell he was hurt more emotionally than
physically. "It was a slip!" the referee insisted.

The third round was about the same as the other two. I continued to pressure
him because my coach told me that the best defense was a strong offense.
When the fight was over, I had rushed him to the ropes a total of four
times. The fight was tougher than I thought because the kid could punch and
he swung as much as I did. We were brought to the middle of the ring and we
both stood on separate sides of the referee. He held each of our hands until
the winner was announced. "Ray, North of the Border, Canada!" I was tired
and weary but content. I hugged my opponent, received my trophy, and stepped
out through the ropes. I was surprised to see my aunt outside the ring
waiting for me. I found out later that she was the crazy woman screaming,
"Whip his ass, Whip his ass!" Then, later there was an older gentleman who
had approached me and had some questions concerning the fight.

The next day to my surprise my mother informed me that my name was in the
paper. The headline read, "A Rumbling of Small Fry, scared looks or fierce
looks, all fighters get respect." I felt empowered as if I were the phoenix
who had just plunged into the sun, fire shooting off of my back because of
the impact. What I felt could not be described or put into words. The
article was about the boxing matches and my fight was mentioned first.

However, my happiness was not long lasting. The more I read, the more I took
offense. The article mostly spoke highly of my opponent stating he had the
"look" and I looked like a scared rabbit. He also said that "I had the
reach" which indicated that I won because of a natural advantage and not
because of my skill. Now I get it, the guy I ran into after the fight must
have been a reporter. However, I did have the quote of the day, "I was
nervous. It was my first fight."

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