Undefeated

Undefeated

“With your heart kid, you could be undefeated.”

            My dad’s voice fluttered into my head as it often did these days. He was dead, but my brain liked to play tricks on me. Only twenty-five years old and already I had taken one too many punches.

            Say what you will about my old man, but he was right about that. I was undefeated. Five, going on six, years of experience with the sweet science and at 22-0 I had yet to drop a fight. I had been dropped myself, half a dozen times in fact. But I always got back up, always. I was less a boxer than a fighter, or that’s what my coach told me. I had gained a reputation as a brawler, taking one or two to give three or four. He told me, my coach that is, that I couldn’t live like that. Eventually the ware and tear would take its toll and I’d be waking up in a hospital bed, but good luck convincing a 25-year-old with a perfect record that he wasn’t doing it right.

            My record was undefeated, but it was far from perfect. As mentioned, I had hit the canvas a fair amount already in my career, promoters and scouts didn’t much care for that. I had a tendency to take a few too many hits and in over twenty fights I had only recorded nine KO’s. Not exactly earth-shattering power. Power wasn’t my strength, I was fast but not much faster than the other pros. I didn’t have many decided physical advantages. My greatest strength was my conditioning which, coupled with my natural tenacity, made me a handful for just about anyone. Most of all, however, I was handful for my coach.

Like so many others, I was a troubled teen when he first started working with me. Channeling my angst and aggression into simple, tiring exercise. He found that the anger which fueled me was boundless and so naturally, my cardio grew rapidly. See, it’s a common misconception that conditioning is somehow about heart rates and proper breathing; in reality, great cardio came from fortitude. It came from an innate ability to say no; no to my tired legs, no to my burning chest and no to my pulsing head. Once you learned it was that simple, everything else fell into place. I had fought guys faster than me, stronger than me and even guys more skilled than me, but after a while of putting the pace on them I watched each of them break one after the other. Several of my wins were tight bouts which I barely edged out. Usually beginning with me taking a handful of avoidable punches in the early rounds only to outlast them and take the later rounds, winning in a close decision.

Still, the pieces were all there. My dad had seen it, my coach saw it and every poor bastard who thought they had me on the ropes learned it the hard way. My coach, ever the motivator, used to tell me; “You could be a champ if you learned to keep your fucking hands up.” Which was the NASCAR equivalent of saying, “You could be the best in the world if you just remembered to keep your hands on the wheel.”

It wasn’t any mystery why I couldn’t quite put it all together. The best boxers in the game today were just that, boxers. And, like I said earlier, I wasn’t much of a boxer, I was a fighter. In the modern game if you weren’t a jabber or a counter puncher you didn’t have a prayer. Not to mention, in today’s game, you were either thirty and zero with twenty-five KO’s or you were a nobody. Me, I was a nobody. But I was an undefeated nobody and that was more than most.

Ultimately, it was my mentality which made me what I was. It was the only reason I won half the fights I did and was also the primary reason I would never be anything more than what I was right now. A struggling undercard fighter with a crap apartment and pregnant girlfriend. It was impossible to know for sure where that mentality came from. Where it was, I learned to be a fighter. My Pop’s was a fighter, I knew that much. While it wasn’t luxurious, my pa had managed to make a living for me and him without so much as his GED. No degrees or diplomas, but my old man always knew the best places to pinch some copper from abandoned houses and any other such schemes. He was never without a con and had managed to provide for me as best he could. Walking out of prison twice, both times with the same faint smile, leather jacket and dull kindness in his eyes. Part of me thinks that’s where I got it, but another part of me thinks maybe it was from my mom. She was on welfare her whole life and had a list of mental and physical illnesses so long, I could’ve used it to wrap my hands. She was a quitter, a broken spirit, someone who took comfort in knowing she had given up a long time ago and everyone, myself included, could go straight to hell for all she cared. So, it was hard to say if I was a product of my father’s positive but imperfect example or if I was just desperately trying to outpace whatever mental weakness had claimed my mom decades ago.

Not that it really mattered now. My dad was dead, he passed a year ago after a heart attack. Me and my mom don’t talk much, she doesn’t even come to my fights and I don’t remember the last time we really shared anything. For instance, today could my big break and she has no idea. Tonight, I’m taking on Acho Marquez for a chance to be ranked among the top fifteen in the IBF Super Middle-weight division. It’s another Undercard fight, but the type of Undercard fight that promises the winner a spot in a future Main Card.

You might be wondering how someone with my record, flawed or otherwise, could have gone this long without a single Main Card appearance. Well, the answer to that was fairly simple. I had asked coach that same question prior to my twentieth fight. A big-time scout had been present when I eeked out a close decision against a tough up and comer.

“What did he say? We get the fight?” I asked eagerly, my eye swelling shut and my mouth still ripe with the taste of copper.

My coach wouldn’t look me in the eyes, his hands on his hips.

“C’mon Maurice. Don’t leave me in suspense. Just fucking tell me.”

“We got a fight. Just not the one we wanted.” He said with a sigh. “Harper; they’re giving us Harper.”

My head was slow, a few too many punches that day. “Harper? He’s a nobody. He’s not a step up, he’s two steps down at least.”

The irritation rose in my voice the more my head started to grasp what was happening.

“They’re fucking us over.” I said.

“Fucking you over, kid.” My coach said. “They’re saying they don’t think you got it. That you’re not ready. Too dangerous for the middlemen and not dangerous enough for the top guys.”

“But I won.” I said. “I fucking won. Shit, all I do is win. Not one of these fuckers has gotten the better of me yet.” I stared at Maurice; my eye totally swollen shut now. “Right Maurice?”

He kept his gaze on his own feet as he spoke. “Well, kid that’s not what I would say. I think they’re right not to give you the fight. Not yet, anyway. I think the last three guys have all gotten the better of you. You just got the better of the scorecard. You’re not ready. Not yet.”

“But I fucking won.” I said, trying to be angry but my head was spinning too fast to keep up.

“Yeah, you won.” He looked up at me. “And you won ugly, again. You always win ugly, which means, if you lose, you’re gonna lose ugly. It means nobody wants you near their fighter. If they beat you, they look bad doing it and if you beat them, they lose everything.”

I spat a thick wad of blood into the floor. “That’s bullshit…”

“It’s business, kid.” He placed his hand on the back of my neck and held me close like I was his own. “All we can do now is train. If we get you better, get you to fight a little cleaner…” Neither of us believed the words even as he said them, “…who knows? Maybe one or two clean wins and we can get something even better, even bigger.”

Maurice always smelled like old cigarettes and an empty beer bottles, it reminded me of my dad. He stepped back and delicately turned my head from side to side to assess the damage.

“Fucking hell, kid. You need to learn to put your hands up.”

My left eye had lost all vision, something I was becoming increasingly accustomed to.

“If you can teach me that, I’ll be a champ in no time. Aye, Maurice?” I laughed, despite the constant rattling in my teeth and the stinging sensation in my split lip and bleeding tongue.

He smiled back at me, “Damn right kid.”

“So, when do I get my shot at Harper?” I asked.

“Six months.”

“Six months? Why the long wait? I’ll be ready to go before that.”

A pitiful admiration flashed across Maurice’s face.

“We’ll let the doctors decide that, kid. You just rest and when you’re ready to go we’ll get back to work. Let’s, you and me, try and make this next one clean.”

“Sure thing, coach. You got it.”

I didn’t make it clean; I beat Harper ugly like I did everyone else. Then I won the next one even uglier but was fortunate enough to end it in the ninth with a well-timed left hook. Funny how the world works, from a technical standpoint my last fight was the weakest performance of my career. The anniversary of my dad’s death was only two days earlier and it took a couple extra rounds and a couple dozen extra hits before I realized I was in a fight. But, with one left hook and a conveniently placed fan who was recording the whole thing on his phone, the KO became the biggest and only highlight of my career thus far. Social Media blew it up and suddenly there was just enough heat on me and my undefeated record to get my name involved with Acho Marquez.

Now, with all the lung burning jump rope, road work and live rounds behind me, I was in the limo with Maurice and a few of my friends from the neighborhood on the way to TD Garden. Christie, my girlfriend, was at home. She hated my fights and being eight months pregnant didn’t help. Training camp had peaked at just the right time. Even as I sat in the limo with my coach across from me, I was in a consistent state of exhaustion and readiness.

“Don’t forget he’s a tough son-of-a-bitch…” Maurice said, anxiously going over Marquez’s strengths and weakness, something he would be doing all the way up until the opening bell and then likely every round in between. He had an endearing tendency to be more nervous about my fights than me. I wasn’t nervous, I knew Marquez was tough, the best I’d ever fought, but I also knew I would beat him. His best years were behind him, back when he had a brief share of the WBO Middleweight title, a reign which lasted all of three months and only six rounds.

“…but he has a tendency to load up on his left. He aint as fast as he used to be, but do me a favor a don’t let him fucking hit you. His chin and right hand are the only reason he still has any credibility. He cuts easy though, so target his left eye. I want jabs and straights, break his nose, disrupt his breathing and hurt his timing.”

I sat patiently nodding, knowing it was no use to tell Maurice that we had watched the tape a thousand times over and all his counters and combos were seared into my psyche like the choreography of a Broadway musical.

We arrive at the venue early, passing the time in the back room the usual way. Starting with the breathing exercises Maurice taught me. It was a way to calm my mind, clear the fog, so I didn’t use up all my angst before stepping into the ring. A calm mind was a dangerous one. That was what Maurice taught me. Then when fight-time was getting close, I would tape up and we would get to work on the pads.

Maurice coached his way through the anxiety as he always did. Taping my hands, he knelt down in front me, still talking as he had since we got into the limo that afternoon.

“He doesn’t really throw uppercuts, but when he does…”

“He throws them with conviction.” I cut him off with a cocky smile on my face.

He looked up at me disapprovingly.

“Damn right. So, when he throws it, make sure you’re not there to be hit. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Pinching his brow skeptically, Maurice continued.

“He’s got a decent engine, but his output will hurt him late. From round seven on he should start to fold. Which means…”

“We need a couple of the early rounds, just to be safe.”

I felt him stop wrapping my hands.

“I just want to be sure that you’re ready for this kid.”

“And I just want you to know that I am. How could I not be? You haven’t stopped coaching me since we got the call.”

He smiled, a loving and nervous smile.

“Okay, kid. Okay. You got this.”

I placed my hands on his shoulders.

“Damn right. I fucking got this.”

“Remember. If we do this, and we do it clean…” He stressed. “We can get springboard to another real contender and finally build you up the right way.”

I nodded.

 He finished wrapping my hands and then held my head close to his. As was custom for Maurice, with closed eyes he muttered a prayer in Spanish and then kissed my forehead before stepping away so I could get to work on my warmups; mostly just footwork and some shadowboxing.

It was so much like any other fight and yet different in the strangest ways. Perhaps the only real difference was my realizing just how similar this fight was to all my others. Still an undercard fight, still an underwhelming purse on the line, and the same nervous jitters guiding my feet around the room. It felt like I had been here before, in this exact spot at this exact time, in a dream or maybe in a past life. Déjà vu. Somehow, the surreal feeling of having been here before combined with my excessive preparation left me in a bizarre state of calm. An unfamiliar tranquility swept me away as my hands got loose on the pads and my feet moved laterally across the carpeted floor. I was going to win, and I had never been more certain of anything in my life. He would be tough, it would be tough, but he would crack, and I would stay undefeated.

I was so uncharacteristically calm that my attention began to track to the television in the corner of the room. It was broadcasting the fights which were happening live in the stadium just down the hall. At the end of every round they would remind the viewer about the Main Event.

Simon Webber vs Bernard Mako, tonight at 8pm.

Something about the sight of the number four contender in the world, Bernard ‘The Shark’ Mako, struck me as funny. Not him obviously, his cut-up physique and infamous scowl were the antithesis of comical, but our history together was interesting. Brief as it was, there was a time, only three or four fights ago, when Mako was on our docket. We were set to fight in the summer before last. It was obvious they were using my record, 18-0 at the time, to try and put him over. He had been 17-0 then with 16 KO’s and it felt like a logical move on their part. But Maurice assured me that, as good as the kid was, he had a cardio issue. If I could last through the fifth, he would be mine. Of course, Mako’s team dug deeper into my record; passed the knockdowns and close decisions, which made me look like an ideal steppingstone, and found the perfect pressure fighter to dismantle their golden boy. They backed out a week later, finding some soft 18-2 with a meaningless title shot on their record. Mako steam rolled him, putting his ass down in the third round. Since then Mako had three straight KO’s all culminating into tonight when he got his shot at the title against an ageing and vulnerable, Simon Webber. As sure as I was that I would win tonight, I was just as sure that Mako would drop Webber somewhere between the sixth and ninth round.

That was boxing, no more romance, no more wonder, just good business.

I was pissed at the time when it happened, but in retrospect I don’t blame Mako. Fighting me wouldn’t have done him any favors. Either he would have got the KO he could have gotten off anyone else or he would run the risk of losing his zero to me and being set back a couple years while he tried to rebuild his hype. Title shots had been in the cards for Mako since he first stepped onto the canvas with a devilish smile and destructive left cross. Still, it would’ve been nice to beat his ass or at least test myself against him.

A slick sweat was building now, over my brow and down my back, just in time for the close of the fight preceding my own. It was a decent technical display between two middle of the road contenders, neither was going anywhere special and the tight decision coupled with their clean faces was proof of that. They were here to get paid, not for glory.

Before I knew it, we were walking down the tunnel toward the amphitheater. I could already hear the stir and commotion of a crowd still filing to their seats and increasingly desperate for some action. Two duds to start the card, I hoped I could be the one to give them what they wanted. As the double doors opened, the rumble of the crowd burst into thunder. The stadium rattled and rocked; it was these moments that, when I retired someday, I was going to miss the most. They weren’t cheering for me, mind you, just cheering for the prospect of another fight. Another opportunity to drunkenly shout and holler at a pair of fighters as they attempted to earn their money with blood and bruises.

I stepped through the ropes; Maurice, the cut-man, and some other trainers I barely knew were surrounding me in the corner as I short hopped and shadow boxed in place to keep the sweat flowing and my body loose. My song; Victory by P-Diddy and the Fam, came to a close and the faint blues and reds which streaked across the dim smoky air came to a close. The crowd quieted just before the next song, Jesus Walks by Kanye West, blared out over the speakers, accompanied by deep purple and green stadium lights. The crowd popped, roaring back to life. It was a better reception than I expected for Marquez, but I was happy for him. An exciting fighter who had fought the best and held his own. In an era where shameless clout chasing took precedent over integrity, he had done it the right way and deserved the admiration of the crowd. He stepped through the ropes, his trunks were green and red, his body was long and lean but deceptively strong. The scar tissue was thick over his eyes and while he was only thirty-four years old, he looked nearly a decade older.

He eyed me from across the ring, a natural anger in his stare and beneath that a faint hunger which had, no doubt, once been more potent, but it was blunted by years of punishment and moderate success. While he paced, keeping his eyes fixed on me; I swayed from side to side, stretching my arms and flashing a confident smile his way. 

Let’s give ‘em a show, brother. I thought, knowing the sporting sentiment didn’t flow both ways.

The ring announcer stepped to center-ring, an ivory-white suit with a red bowtie immediately grabbing the attention of the cameras and the crowd.

“In this corner, wearing white trunks with black trim…”

With my introduction out of the way, the portion of the crowd who wanted to pull for the relative unknown and betting underdog erupted in applause. Then the ring announcer turned toward Marquez, the cheat card in his hand.

“Now, in this corner. With a record of thirty-six wins and three losses, with twenty-five big wins coming by way of knockout, we have the former WBO Super Middle-Weight champion and number eight ranked Super Middle Weight contender in the world! The pride of San Diego California, Acho ‘The Mauler’ Marquez!”

The introduction got another huge pop from the audience which was almost full now. We were the last fight on the undercard, meaning even the casual fan’s just trying to make the most of their Friday night would soon find their way to their seats.

“Remember, stay outside. He’s dangerous early. We close the distance late!” Maurice was screaming in my ear, but I wasn’t there anymore. I was two rounds ahead, with a marked-up face, heavy breath and a delightful lightheaded feeling already pulling me through the pain and away from the dangerous punches.

…The first two rounds were feelers, by my standards anyway. I tried my best to stick to the plan, resisting the urge to give back twice whatever I got. For the first two rounds, everything went according to plan….

Round 3; Things opened up, or I did anyway. I got lazy inside and took a mean shot to the forehead, I split clean open, the blood was gushing, but not into my eyes, so the fight wasn’t going to get stopped. That was good, but my face was a crimson mask by the start of round four….

Rounds 4-6; The middle rounds were as advertised. A turbulent exchange of leather. Rib rattling hooks and head snapping jabs. Marquez waded into the center, winning the fourth and likely the fifth in the pocket. Out of his prime or not, he was fantastic. His feet were light when moving and firm when planted. More than once my feet buckled under me from the force of his right hand. The sixth was mine, and with it came the momentum. I finally got him back for the third, splitting his head like a melon, his scar tissue peeling away like a bad paint job….

In the corner between the sixth and seventh, Maurice finally stopped with the technical talk, that was out the window and it was time to get dirty. “He’s fucking folding kid, he gave you his best in the middle rounds. He’s all yours. Nothing stupid. Controlled aggression.” I never learned to keep my hands up, but controlled aggression, that I could do…

Round 7; It was in his eyes; that is, what little of them I could see past the swelling and natural drooping of his brow. He was tired, hurt and on the verge of breaking. I was down on the cards, I didn’t need Maurice to tell me, I knew. It would take me winning every round to steal the fight. Admittedly, I should’ve played it smarter, but I didn’t. We went right back into the pocket, blow for blow. But where mine were still stinging with the same intensity as round one, his crushing blows were coming slower and slower. Just like we practiced, he loaded up on the left, leaving himself exposed. I threw a right cross over his dropped shoulder, his jaw shifted against my fist. In that moment, I had broken my hand, but I had also broken his jaw. He wobbled, his firm base gone, and a dazed look veiling his eyes. He was looking everywhere and nowhere. I backed him into the corner and let loose with my combinations. Eventually, I tripled up with the left hand, three consecutive left hooks found their mark as he leaned against the turnbuckle. Finally, not a with a violent thud but with a stumbling whimper, Marquez dropped to one knee and the ref pushed me away. Kneeling, Marquez shook his head as the ref administered the count. He wasn’t regaining his senses, he had those back already, he was just disappointed in himself. Perhaps it only dawned on him now, with a young kid beating his head in, he was getting too old for this. Taking the eight count he stood back up and nodded as the ref asked if he wanted to continue… Maurice was screaming from my corner. “Finish him! Fucking finish him, kid! He’s folding!” He was, it wasn’t even the damage that dropped him, his labored breaths made it clear it was the pace which dropped him. With only twenty seconds left in the round, he had the heart to hold on and get to the bell…

Rounds 9-10; The closing rounds cooled just a bit. My right hand was broken, and I couldn’t land with the same frequency or fervor as before. Plus, he was a tough son-of-a-bitch. I only dropped him once more in the tenth, again more tired than hurt. The final bell rang and we both embraced each other, each having left our mark on the other, permanent scars which we would wear for the rest of our careers. We exchanged words of praise and encouragement, mine laced with a thick urban accent and his in fractured English.

In the end, the crowd was on their feet. There was no belt, no title, not even a promise of anything great to come. Our reward was the applause; the whoops and cheers of the crowd. I knew in that moment, as my head pulsed and my hand throbbed, that this was the best it would ever get. I would never wear a belt that called me the best, never beat a fighter better than Acho Marquez, and never fight for more than peanuts and applause. As the harsh reality of the moment hit me, robbed me of my smile, I felt that maybe that was okay. Not great, not even good, but better than terrible, maybe.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maurice with Donald Flemming, the most recognizable executive in boxing, Flemming was leaning in close and shouting something into Maurice’s ear. Whatever it was, likely a fight opportunity, Maurice just shook Flemming’s hand and gave him a thumbs up. I hoped it was either of the opportunities that Maurice had mentioned earlier. Shaye or Olynek would be good matchups for me. Guys I had a real shot of beating, but who were far enough ahead of me that it would take my best to pull it off. Renewed optimism entered my head. If I got either of them, maybe I could finally learn a thing or two, finally build a real brand and then get a title shot by the year after next when I’d be ready for a real shot. Make a real run at this thing.

Probably important that I mention, I won the fight. It was close, ugly, but I won. Unanimous decision. Acho Marquez made his way through the crowd filling into the ring and placed his hand on my shoulder. I respectfully returned the gesture.

“You’ve got a bright future ahead of you, brother. Keep it going. Keep it going.” He said.

With another embrace, I replied. “Thank you, brother. Nothing but respect, champ. Love and respect.”

I patted him on the chest, he leaned in and tried to share some old-time wisdom with me. Trade secrets and well wishes. He was classy in defeat; I appreciated that. Not to be disrespectful, but at this point I just wanted to get out of here and talk with Maurice about what happens next, about what Flemming had told him. It meant a lot, don’t get me wrong, to hear shit like that from a guy who had been to the top, no matter how quickly he was knocked back down. But the cruel fact of the matter was, I was a kid being told he had a bright future by a guy whose future was well in the past and wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Unlike other fighters, I was under no illusions, no delusions of grandeur or self-deception. And maybe that was my real problem. Maybe I could stand to be a bit more delusional, a little less mature and a little more stubborn. The truth was, my future was now, it wasn’t bright and beaming in the distance it was small, faint and no more than a few short strides away. I had beat Acho Marquez, and I had beat him ugly. That was my peak and there was no running from that. Not unless I retired right now, called it quits at 23-0, but everyone knew that would never happen. No, I was on a collision course with my future, with my destiny, and the bravest most admirable thing I could do now was run headfirst toward it and accept it.

In a punch-drunken daze I lurched out of the ring and toward the back room, Maurice helping me stand upright as the adrenaline faded from my system, leaving me weak legged and dead tired. Once in the backroom, he sat me up on the table to examine my face and assess the damage.

“I thought we were gonna stay on the outside…” He said.

“I did.”

“Sure, for all of about ten seconds. Then you stood there, waiting to be hit like a heavy-bag.”

“I beat him… just like I said I would.” It was difficult to speak through my labored breaths.

“You sure did.” Maurice affirmed. “You sure did.”

With some hesitation, I finally asked the question that was on my mind.

“I saw you with Mr. Flemming. Did we get it? Did we get the fight we wanted? Shaye or maybe Olynek?”

He pressed his thumb against my forehead, both avoiding eye contact with me and studying the severity of a cut just above my left brow.

“No, kid. We didn’t get Shaye or Olynek.” His voice was hoarse and hollow, I knew he was holding something back.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, Maurice. I know I fucked up. I should’ve listened… but I fucked up like I always do.” He didn’t say anything. “Who we got next?”

For a long moment, he couldn’t speak. He was choking on his words.

“… Spencer. They gave us Spencer.”

I felt lead fill my veins, a shiver rushed up the nape of my neck into the back of my eyes.

“The champ?” I said sheepishly.

“The champ.” He affirmed.

We both said nothing. Just seated in silence with my coach pressing various places on my face while trying to hold back his emotions.

“They want me to fight the champ?” I asked, the shock giving way to disbelief.

Maurice’s face buckled, and he pulled me in close. Squeezing my head against his chest, I smelled the familiar scent of cigarettes and empty beer bottles. He began to cry and patted the back of my swollen head.

“That’s right kid. You deserve it, kid… you deserve it…”

I put one arm around him but never felt any burning tears building behind my eyes.

“Love you, kid. You didn’t fuck up. You did great.” He said, but as he cried it was clear that neither of us knew how to feel.

“Love you too, Maurice.” I said flatly.

He stepped away and composed himself with a tug of the shirt and quick wipe of his eyes. I watched him, looking for any signs on how I should feel myself.

“We’re gonna get you healed up and healthy. That’s our first priority. Then we can start working on a game plan. Looking for ways to snatch some early rounds off of him.”

I nodded quietly, “He’s the best Maurice.”

Maurice just stared back at me. We had never been dishonest with each other, not once. We both saw what the other was thinking and were only half surprised to find we were thinking the exact same thing.

“He is.” Maurice conceded. “So, let’s make it one hell of a fight. Aye, kid?”

“Sure thing, Maurice. Sure thing.”

Another long pause. He rubbed his hands together and began to walk toward the door.

“Your dad would be proud of you, kid. Damn proud. I know I am. You deserve this, don’t forget that. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”

I had nothing to say, I just nodded. He turned and walked out, leaving me alone in the room with a swollen face and aching body.

It would be a Main Card fight, probably the Main Event. That was cool. I had sacrificed my body, my brain and likely twenty years of my expected lifespan, but I had finally made it to a Main Event. The same Déjà vu feeling overtook me again, the feeling of having been here before. It was just my battered brain playing tricks on me. Spencer was the best, the real champ. I didn’t stand a chance. I knew it, Maurice knew it and Spencer’s team knew it. That was why they picked me after all. They saw a beatable kid with a perfect record and were gonna pluck me before I was ready to do anything other than lose in style. But fuck them. I had won ugly my whole career, and now I was face to face with my future, my peak. If I was going to lose, and I was, then I was going to lose ugly.

My dad’s voice fluttered through my head.

“With your heart kid, you could be undefeated.”

I remembered the deep and dumb pride in his eyes when he told me that. The tears I couldn’t find before now burned at the back of my eyes.

“I was undefeated dad.” Acceptance washed over me. “I was.”

END