Godhand
02-10-07, 09:52 PM
((Hey, it's me. The idea for this came to me a couple of months ago, but I only recently felt the need to put it to paper. Maybe I've got my muse back; maybe not. You tell me.))
Almost Great
Once in a while, you take a hit that rocks you to your very soul.
Lying on the mat, I looked up at those twelve murderous lights on top of the Garden and wondered how it had come to this. The referee was counting, people were screaming and gallons of good beer had been spilled by six thousand sadists standing up at once. What had it been? Twelve minutes? Jack Skorski, The light heavyweight champion of the world, knocked out in the fourth by a Puerto-Rican with a meth habit. Jesus.
Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later, I thought. No man can cheat death forever, and I’d gotten further than anybody, myself included, had expected. The only reason I was even on pay-per-view in the first place was because of a tremendous right hook that, strangely, had yet to fade. That, and I could take a punch. I could take a thousand punches. Just not this one. Somebody screamed.
Get up, you bum!
Bum? I could knock the religion out of you, asshole. At least that’s what I tried to say. I couldn’t talk so good at that point. I could feel my breath start and stop a lot which, of course, makes anything you say difficult to understand. I felt compelled to make some sort of effort, though, to at least try to stand up. No good. I was stiff; stiff from spine to soul. Stiff like a suicide in a bathtub. And anyway, why the Hell should I get up? The mob? Fuck ‘em. What had they done for me except shout in my earhole so fucking loud I couldn’t hear myself think?
Suddenly the ridiculousness of the whole Goddamn thing became apparent to me. What was I doing here? What was I doing here in this ring with this seedy motherfucker who used to make a living beating up mobsters and taking the money out of their wallets? I must be crazy, I thought. A boxer will beat a slugger nearly every single time, and I wasn’t even that great of a slugger anyway. All I had was that one hook. That’s what had gotten me this far and it had been bound to give sooner or later.
I could stand up to traditional fighters, though. I could soak up a ridiculous amount of punishment for a bum, and between my hangovers and my continued romantic disappointments I was vicious and wounded and confused enough to go twelve rounds with practically anybody you could name. Joe Frazier had proven that if a boxer can’t beat you with his jab he can’t beat you at all. He’d damn near murdered Ali back in ‘71. The rest of us knew the score.
The real problem was when a boxer didn’t know he was a boxer. That’s when he became a sort of terrifying boxer-slugger hybrid that was simply fucking impossible to defeat. When some son of a bitch is dancing around the ring at seventy miles a second and then throws a straight left that makes you think some evil Goddamn promoter slipped George Foreman in against you on no news, that’s when you know you’re in trouble. There is no way to beat these men in the ring. You just gotta hope the drugs get to them and they crash their car or get struck by lighting the week before the match. As for you, you might as well pack up your six ounce gloves, go back to Ohio and start selling used cars or whatever the fuck it is you were doing before accidentally knocking out the former light heavyweight champion in a drunken fury at the Last Chance Tavern.
I heard the bell ring and then the pressure was off. The bells are magical. The bell had sounded strange though; almost electrical. Did they make electric bells now? Well, this is Madison Square Garden, I thought. Anything can happen on Dempsey Street.
Most fighters will tell you that once the bell rings and the loss is official, it suddenly becomes very easy for you to get up. They aren’t lying. I instantly felt the strength come back to my limbs, like sunlight warming a dead calf, and I got up without even stumbling. I smiled at the champ through a nightmarish jelly of blood and sweat. The belt was his now; let him go get butchered by a gigantic Goddamn negro in two or three weeks or whenever Don King woke up with an erection.
The referee was hanging off of my arm, shouting and talking and making hand signals. What is this son of a bitch so excited about, I thought. Not hearing anything through the beating inside my skull, I just grinned and nodded stupidly. He nodded back and then walked away. I looked at the champ and walked forward, hand extended. I had resolved to shake his hand, glove and all, and wish him the best. The poor bastard had no idea what they had in store for him.
Pop!
I stumbled back. I was shocked; the son of a bitch had hit me! I looked at the ref and held out my arms in a sign of protest, but he didn’t seem to care. Nobody did. Was I the only one who heard the fucking bell ring? I couldn’t understand what was going on.
Pop!
Holy Jesus, this son of a bitch is gonna kill me! I looked around again. Security didn’t seem to be rushing in. As a matter a fact, some folks were even cheering. What the fuck is wrong with these people? Somebody had told me before the match that the pope was going to be in attendance. Why wasn’t he stopping this?
Pop!
That was it. I looked at the kid winding up his left cross, his killer punch; the one that had knocked me out not twenty seconds ago, and I threw my right hook. Jack Skorski, former light heavyweight champion of the world. Jack Skorski, former used car salesman. Jack Skorski. I threw my right hook.
The kid, the champ, he hit the mat. I could see his eyes glazing over; the meth had finally gotten to him. The referee was clinging to my arm again. This motherfucker, I thought. Where was he five seconds ago? Where was the pope, for that matter? Attempted murder and the crowd was loving every minute of it. The ref threw my arm up suddenly and I leaped back, ready to take him on. Of course! The two of them were accomplices! But suddenly my whole Goddamn corner jumped into the ring and swarmed me like a horde of diabolical ants. Is this what Caesar felt like, I wondered, when he was stabbed to death by the senate?
Jack Skorski, former light heavyweight champion of the world. Jack Skorski, former used car salesman. Jack Skorski, former man. Killed in the first televised homicide since the mob shot Oswald. The pope will be asked to testify.
I was suddenly tossed around like a battered rag doll before being hoisted up on the shoulders of my cut-man. The crowd was screaming my name and the judges were jabbering to each other excitedly like three old ladies who won a new iron playing Church bingo. I laughed. The whole world had gone insane.
And so had I.
Almost Great
Once in a while, you take a hit that rocks you to your very soul.
Lying on the mat, I looked up at those twelve murderous lights on top of the Garden and wondered how it had come to this. The referee was counting, people were screaming and gallons of good beer had been spilled by six thousand sadists standing up at once. What had it been? Twelve minutes? Jack Skorski, The light heavyweight champion of the world, knocked out in the fourth by a Puerto-Rican with a meth habit. Jesus.
Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later, I thought. No man can cheat death forever, and I’d gotten further than anybody, myself included, had expected. The only reason I was even on pay-per-view in the first place was because of a tremendous right hook that, strangely, had yet to fade. That, and I could take a punch. I could take a thousand punches. Just not this one. Somebody screamed.
Get up, you bum!
Bum? I could knock the religion out of you, asshole. At least that’s what I tried to say. I couldn’t talk so good at that point. I could feel my breath start and stop a lot which, of course, makes anything you say difficult to understand. I felt compelled to make some sort of effort, though, to at least try to stand up. No good. I was stiff; stiff from spine to soul. Stiff like a suicide in a bathtub. And anyway, why the Hell should I get up? The mob? Fuck ‘em. What had they done for me except shout in my earhole so fucking loud I couldn’t hear myself think?
Suddenly the ridiculousness of the whole Goddamn thing became apparent to me. What was I doing here? What was I doing here in this ring with this seedy motherfucker who used to make a living beating up mobsters and taking the money out of their wallets? I must be crazy, I thought. A boxer will beat a slugger nearly every single time, and I wasn’t even that great of a slugger anyway. All I had was that one hook. That’s what had gotten me this far and it had been bound to give sooner or later.
I could stand up to traditional fighters, though. I could soak up a ridiculous amount of punishment for a bum, and between my hangovers and my continued romantic disappointments I was vicious and wounded and confused enough to go twelve rounds with practically anybody you could name. Joe Frazier had proven that if a boxer can’t beat you with his jab he can’t beat you at all. He’d damn near murdered Ali back in ‘71. The rest of us knew the score.
The real problem was when a boxer didn’t know he was a boxer. That’s when he became a sort of terrifying boxer-slugger hybrid that was simply fucking impossible to defeat. When some son of a bitch is dancing around the ring at seventy miles a second and then throws a straight left that makes you think some evil Goddamn promoter slipped George Foreman in against you on no news, that’s when you know you’re in trouble. There is no way to beat these men in the ring. You just gotta hope the drugs get to them and they crash their car or get struck by lighting the week before the match. As for you, you might as well pack up your six ounce gloves, go back to Ohio and start selling used cars or whatever the fuck it is you were doing before accidentally knocking out the former light heavyweight champion in a drunken fury at the Last Chance Tavern.
I heard the bell ring and then the pressure was off. The bells are magical. The bell had sounded strange though; almost electrical. Did they make electric bells now? Well, this is Madison Square Garden, I thought. Anything can happen on Dempsey Street.
Most fighters will tell you that once the bell rings and the loss is official, it suddenly becomes very easy for you to get up. They aren’t lying. I instantly felt the strength come back to my limbs, like sunlight warming a dead calf, and I got up without even stumbling. I smiled at the champ through a nightmarish jelly of blood and sweat. The belt was his now; let him go get butchered by a gigantic Goddamn negro in two or three weeks or whenever Don King woke up with an erection.
The referee was hanging off of my arm, shouting and talking and making hand signals. What is this son of a bitch so excited about, I thought. Not hearing anything through the beating inside my skull, I just grinned and nodded stupidly. He nodded back and then walked away. I looked at the champ and walked forward, hand extended. I had resolved to shake his hand, glove and all, and wish him the best. The poor bastard had no idea what they had in store for him.
Pop!
I stumbled back. I was shocked; the son of a bitch had hit me! I looked at the ref and held out my arms in a sign of protest, but he didn’t seem to care. Nobody did. Was I the only one who heard the fucking bell ring? I couldn’t understand what was going on.
Pop!
Holy Jesus, this son of a bitch is gonna kill me! I looked around again. Security didn’t seem to be rushing in. As a matter a fact, some folks were even cheering. What the fuck is wrong with these people? Somebody had told me before the match that the pope was going to be in attendance. Why wasn’t he stopping this?
Pop!
That was it. I looked at the kid winding up his left cross, his killer punch; the one that had knocked me out not twenty seconds ago, and I threw my right hook. Jack Skorski, former light heavyweight champion of the world. Jack Skorski, former used car salesman. Jack Skorski. I threw my right hook.
The kid, the champ, he hit the mat. I could see his eyes glazing over; the meth had finally gotten to him. The referee was clinging to my arm again. This motherfucker, I thought. Where was he five seconds ago? Where was the pope, for that matter? Attempted murder and the crowd was loving every minute of it. The ref threw my arm up suddenly and I leaped back, ready to take him on. Of course! The two of them were accomplices! But suddenly my whole Goddamn corner jumped into the ring and swarmed me like a horde of diabolical ants. Is this what Caesar felt like, I wondered, when he was stabbed to death by the senate?
Jack Skorski, former light heavyweight champion of the world. Jack Skorski, former used car salesman. Jack Skorski, former man. Killed in the first televised homicide since the mob shot Oswald. The pope will be asked to testify.
I was suddenly tossed around like a battered rag doll before being hoisted up on the shoulders of my cut-man. The crowd was screaming my name and the judges were jabbering to each other excitedly like three old ladies who won a new iron playing Church bingo. I laughed. The whole world had gone insane.
And so had I.