Amazing what you can come up with after waking up to Eye of the Tiger on the radio. Enjoy!
It was the fight of his life. Within minutes, he would be out there facing his worst enemy. And it was not the man he was to fight against in the ring, but the millions of eyes that rested upon him. The thousands in the hall, and the millions in front of the television screens all around the world. And it was as if they were already peeking at him in voyeuristic manner hoping to make out either the steadfast determination he was so famous for, or a crack in this façade revealing a champion about to fall.
Even the iron door he sat behind seemed like only a veil between him and the rest of the world that could be blown away by so much as a sigh. And he dreaded the pressing-down of the door handle that would send an echo across the room, empty save for a sandbag idly hanging down in its centre and a wooden stool, and on it, the remains of a man who had come so far, from a dark and dirty back alley to this point with merely his wit and his bare hands.
Somebody had once told him after a glorious victory that his left fist alone is worth a million dollars. Now it seemed that every one of them weighed on it like lumps of lead, and even the sweat on his brows seemed too much of a burden to be carried by his mountain of muscles. He knew that for all the people in the world who would watch him tonight, who would cheer for him and yet secretly wish for his public demise, he would be out there all by himself, forsaken and lonely. And all the people that had waged their money on him would take his victory for granted but unload all responsibility on him for his defeat.
But what could they get him for? He was merely a man with two fists and all he ever knew was to take blows and to deal them out.
And now, within the faint flickering neon light that gave the room a ghostly colour neither bright nor dark, he knew that he had already won. Even though he was going to take on the world all by himself, he now felt as its undisputed king, and he would never feel a blow on him again. If he lost, all those greedy and grimy creatures that bet on him lost with him, and their desire to gather and hoard the money that would yet never saturate their hunger for more would die on those boards as he fell down with the sweat on his brow having turned into blood, mere human blood and not the nectar of the gods that some believed was flowing through his veins. Never again would they bet on him and the heavy burden they had loaded on him would fall off all by itself and drown in the sea of disappointment like a heavy rock never to surface again.
And if he won, he would never have to fight again. For once, he would have all earthly powers in his clinched fists and step to the audience that would be eager to suck up every word of his as if it were the revelation of the Allmighty himself, and he would say two simple words which had more meaning to him than all those hopeful eyes that cheered for his victory as they would have cheered for his defeat: “I quit.”
A hint of a faint smile emerged at the corners of his mouth as his stare wandered to the million-dollar fist that would perhaps save his world tonight but not that of those who had laid their hope on it. He had already won, and they had already lost. It was a mere matter of carrying it out.
He was ready.
The Boxer
It was the fight of his life. Within minutes, he would be out there facing his worst enemy. And it was not the man he was to fight against in the ring, but the millions of eyes that rested upon him. The thousands in the hall, and the millions in front of the television screens all around the world. And it was as if they were already peeking at him in voyeuristic manner hoping to make out either the steadfast determination he was so famous for, or a crack in this façade revealing a champion about to fall.
Even the iron door he sat behind seemed like only a veil between him and the rest of the world that could be blown away by so much as a sigh. And he dreaded the pressing-down of the door handle that would send an echo across the room, empty save for a sandbag idly hanging down in its centre and a wooden stool, and on it, the remains of a man who had come so far, from a dark and dirty back alley to this point with merely his wit and his bare hands.
Somebody had once told him after a glorious victory that his left fist alone is worth a million dollars. Now it seemed that every one of them weighed on it like lumps of lead, and even the sweat on his brows seemed too much of a burden to be carried by his mountain of muscles. He knew that for all the people in the world who would watch him tonight, who would cheer for him and yet secretly wish for his public demise, he would be out there all by himself, forsaken and lonely. And all the people that had waged their money on him would take his victory for granted but unload all responsibility on him for his defeat.
But what could they get him for? He was merely a man with two fists and all he ever knew was to take blows and to deal them out.
And now, within the faint flickering neon light that gave the room a ghostly colour neither bright nor dark, he knew that he had already won. Even though he was going to take on the world all by himself, he now felt as its undisputed king, and he would never feel a blow on him again. If he lost, all those greedy and grimy creatures that bet on him lost with him, and their desire to gather and hoard the money that would yet never saturate their hunger for more would die on those boards as he fell down with the sweat on his brow having turned into blood, mere human blood and not the nectar of the gods that some believed was flowing through his veins. Never again would they bet on him and the heavy burden they had loaded on him would fall off all by itself and drown in the sea of disappointment like a heavy rock never to surface again.
And if he won, he would never have to fight again. For once, he would have all earthly powers in his clinched fists and step to the audience that would be eager to suck up every word of his as if it were the revelation of the Allmighty himself, and he would say two simple words which had more meaning to him than all those hopeful eyes that cheered for his victory as they would have cheered for his defeat: “I quit.”
A hint of a faint smile emerged at the corners of his mouth as his stare wandered to the million-dollar fist that would perhaps save his world tonight but not that of those who had laid their hope on it. He had already won, and they had already lost. It was a mere matter of carrying it out.
He was ready.