Palookaville

I was the underdog. It was a set up, I knew it, and I was way behind on the cards. I couldn't try to win a 10 point must fight, anymore. I needed a knockout. He was a boxer weaned on tomato cans, I was a slugger forged in club fights- styles make fights. You might call it a bum rush, but I knew this guy didn't like a physical fight. I led with my head and hit him with a body blow. Another body blow, and an uppercut to the chin. “Still life in the old dog yet, eh Churchie?” Suddenly, everything comes to a standstill. A punch travels slow motion. Sweat sprays from my snapping head. A deep water whale song barely distinguishes the warbling sound of slow motion words, “stop the fight...!” The ref stands in to wave it off. I beg him “no!” My wife's words ring in my head, “I don't want to be married to a human punching bag!” I couldn't let them throw in the towel. If I lost this fight it would be a one way ticket to Palookaville- the natural home of the mediocre and incompetent. I could of had class, I could of been a contender. I grab the champ and strong arm him into the ropes. Early morning runs down by the docks, the countless rounds pummeled by faceless sparring partners, the camaraderie scenes with my team at local taverns; training montages race through my mind. Orchestrated music accompanies every punch in a crescendo of left and right hooks battering body and head. You have to take the belt from the champion. Pinning him against the ropes, I dig to the champion's body. The champ connects with a desperate counter attack. With this last effort, I feel that his legs are gone. In fights like this, it's about who wants it more. So, I fight back with everything I got. I land lefts and rights. I don't hear the bell. The referee pushes me off the champ, slumped in the corner. My hand is raised in victory. It was like I didn't know how to lose that night.