In the Eye of Carnage

Second sparring session in four years last night. The first one didn’t go so well. Head wouldn’t move. Feet were uncoordinated. I kept getting stuck behind my jab. Couldn’t time my right hand.

Across from me stood a twenty six year old amateur boxer mere months away from turning pro. Nice kid. Polite and full of warmth when the gloves are off. But with his headgear on and his gargantuan hands wrapped in sixteen ounces of leather and padding, he becomes a furious demon.

I can feel the heat in his gaze when he sizes me up from his corner. He wants to put his knuckles on my chin and keep them there. I know it. I can see it in him.

I stare back, unafraid of this monster I’m about to engage with. He’s not the first one. I’ve faced down unruly giants before. I’ve spent over twenty years running headfirst into the storm. This is nothing new. Take a deep breath. He’s mortal. He makes mistakes. We just have to expose them.

The bell rings. Third round. My thirty nine year old knees squeak as this well-oiled machine steams toward me.

Stiff jab. Straight right to my solar plexus. Left hook to my ribs. Inches from my liver. A little more power and a slight change in angle would’ve put me on my back. I didn’t see any of it.

I spend the weekend thinking about that combination. Why am I still doing this? I’m about fifteen years beyond the remote fantasy of fighting professionally. What am I trying to prove? I can’t possibly be one of those dopes who suddenly take up some dangerous activity to fend off the woes of a midlife crisis.

No, that’s not me. Like these very words you’re reading right now, combat sports are as much a part of who I am as the blood that trickles out of my nose from a well placed uppercut.

I stand in the shower thinking about that combination. I’ve become obsessed with it. Stiff jab. He likes to throw them heavy. He’s not snapping them off. They’re slow. Parry, right hand over the top. That’s the answer. Disrupt his rhythm at the beginning. He’ll never make it to the rest of the combination.

The next week I play it out in the back of my mind. He’s aggressive. He likes to control the ring. That’s his game. This week I’ll stay on the back foot. I’ll draw him in. I’m a counter puncher by nature. I’ll use my best tools on Friday.

Second sparring session. The bell rings. He comes forward. My knees squeak some more.

The first few rounds are a repeat of last week. He’s applying pressure- a lot of it.

Break before the third round. Frustration boils inside of me. I’m a shadow of the man I was four years ago. I haven’t been punched in the face since 2018 and it shows. I haven’t sparred with a competent boxer in even longer.

I take off the headgear. I can see. It’s like removing the blinders from a veteran horse before the starter pistol fires and the race begins.

The bell rings again. Third round. I’ve removed a vital piece of my armor in a final attempt to conquer this beast. It’s him or me. Caesar would be proud.

He swings and misses. I pivot, snap off a good jab. I’m lighter now. Two hundred and forty some-odd pounds moving like the wind. Elation floods my body. I know this feeling. My feet shuffle along the canvas, my legs snap into form. The vague memories of who I was returns to the present day. 

Jab, straight right- I slip both. Jab again- I block it with my shoulder. He can’t hit me. It’s perplexing him. How can a man this large be so hard to hit? I see confusion in his expression. It’s the same bewilderment I’ve seen in years prior. I’m a defensive strategist. Make them miss. Make them angry. Anger makes them stiffen up and throw heavier blows. The stiffer they are, the slower they become. Bring them to a comfortable speed then hit the gas pedal and move. Overwhelm them. Transition from a seemingly unmissable target just out of reach to a blanket of horror swallowing them into darkness. That’s my game.

I never get that far. The bell rings and the session is over. I spent the third round on my back foot in preparation for a set up I was in the early stages of designing. That’s ok. Next Friday. Now I remember. I’ll get him then.

The gloves come off and the jovial kid flickers back into the monster’s eyes. We bump fists, exchange compliments, laugh a bit about the round we just completed; camaraderie built through violence.

How beautiful it is.