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SHORT STORY: Cost of becoming a champ

Friday June 22 2018
ndondi

By the middle of the round, the torrent of punches had slowed me; I was bleeding from a cut on my eyebrow and was completely winded. ILLUSTRATION | JOHN NYANGAH | NMG

By ZACK OMORO

That evening, a celebratory party was held in my honour at a leading hotel in town. Everybody had a good time. It, however, felt like a dark moment to me.

I am the world welterweight boxing champion. Hwa Sun Mitoko, the Southeast Asia champion had challenged me for the title.

The welterweight boxer weighs an average of 65kg. At this weight, you have the advantage of being heavy enough to pack a power punch and light enough to move fast.

Mitoko had turned professional after a sterling record in the amateur ranks. He was likely to be a tough opponent; he had style, and moved gracefully in the ring. He had rhythm, rolling with the hard punches from his opponents.

It was fight night. Mitoko in the adjoining dressing room was preparing for the fight, singing in a shrill voice, punching the wall and making wolf-like noises.

His singing grated on my nerves, but I understood the significance of his actions as I too was tense. It is impossible for a pugilist to remain cool before a big match. Impossible.

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It is a joy to watch two trained boxers in the ring. The strategy, the skill, the footwork, the finesse. The perfectly delivered punches and the counter blows are the reason that the modern gladiator sport has been dubbed the “sweet science.”

Professional fights last 12 rounds of three minutes each, with a minute’s break in between. A boxer wins if he has delivered more power punches to his opponent’s target area, which is the front of the body above the waist.

A boxer could also win the fight if the referee —based on his judgement — stops the contest for any number of reasons.

Mitoko, being the challenger, entered the ring first. He was dressed in his usual baggy black shorts with silver lace on the sides, and black boxing boots and socks. He climbed into the ring amid tepid cheers and scattered boos.

As for me, I walked from the dressing room into an explosion of camera lights. I was fighting in my hometown and the crowd thundered. I was too tense to wave. I walked slowly in step with the song they were playing — Auld Lang Syne.

I stepped into the ring and danced around with my hands up in the air, acknowledging the admiring crowd. The referee was bald and short with large biceps.

The referee moved into the centre of the ring, raised his hands and the crowd went quiet. Theatrically, he kept his hands in the air longer than necessary.

Then he clicked his fingers and summoned us to the centre of the ring where he gave us a pep talk.

I heard nothing as I was intent on avoiding direct eye contact with Mitoko. I sensed him glaring at me, daring me to lock eyes. I noticed jerky movements in his wrists and his nose twitching. This restlessness confirmed that he had taken drugs before the match.

We touched gloves as per the referee’s instructions, and moved back to our respective corners and waited for the opening bell, I glanced again at Mitoko and I sensed that he was going to beat me.

At the opening bell, Mitoko rushed at me, throwing hard blows in quick succession. His jabs were fast, flicking like lightning and pounding my body incessantly.

By the middle of the round, the torrent of punches had slowed me; I was bleeding from a cut on my eyebrow and was completely winded. The first round ended with me clinging to the ropes after a haymaker punch had struck me under my heart, driving the wind out of my body.

Three types of punches are allowed in the ring. The jab is a straight punch thrown from shoulder level; it is meant to open the opponent’s defence and also keep the him at bay. It is the easiest punch to throw. It also drives up the points. The swing, sometimes referred to as a hook, is a knockout punch with power behind it.

Boxers sometimes refer to the swing as a hook due to the bend of the elbow joint as the punch is delivered. The upper cut is delivered from about waist level and is aimed at the opponent’s chin. A well-connected uppercut could lead to a knockout.

The second round was a repeat of the first, with Mitoko leading the fight. I danced, bobbed, weaved, ducked, blocked and parried, but he was too fast for me.

The few jabs I threw were off target. The bell saved me as a fist that felt like a sledgehammer had left me stunned, lying on the canvas. As I was going down, Mitoko had smirked showing crooked teeth: “You whore!”

My coach led me to my corner for a welcome breather. All I could hear was an emptiness, as if my head were under water.

“You are doing fine,” my coach muttered. “You are doing fine.”

And suddenly, there was hope.

My coach noticed that Mitoko had grabbed the water bottle from his second, and was gulping water.

Boxers only sip water between rounds; too much water sloshes in the boxer’s stomach, slowing him down. No boxer has ever won a fight after drinking a lot of liquid in between rounds. Mitoko’s action was an affirmation that instinct had taken over training.

My coach was now smiling. “He is breathing hard. He is blowing,” he said.

Blowing in boxer’s jargon is when a fighter yearns for more air and breathes through his mouth as if his nostrils were not wide enough.

Normally taciturn, my coach was now ecstatic.

“Take your time in the third round,” he instructed. “ Simply hang on to the ropes to catch your breath, only planting the jabs, set him up. Don’t try to knock him out.”

The bell sounded. And once again Mitoko swarmed over me, applying consistent pressure, taking away my space and timing, closing inside and delivering flurries of hooks and uppercuts. The home crowd was silent.

I found myself merely putting up a passive defence, trying to stay on my feet and not get badly hurt. It was all over, I thought. The belt was gone I was no longer the champion. I had been outclassed.

Even without seeing him, I sensed the referee moving in to stop the fight.

With a sense of desperation, I reached back, swung forward and threw a punch with all my strength. It was a hook, and a lucky punch.

Mitoko did not see it coming. The punch landed between his left ear and shoulder. His eyes bulged and he grunted, and went down in a heap. I stumbled to the neutral corner for the referee to commence the mandatory count.

“Stay down,” I urged him from my heart. “Stay down.”

He obliged, opened his mouth, spewed a projectile of vomit and stayed down. Forever.

There is no pride in killing a man. Mitoko’s death constantly haunts me, and I find myself engaging in constant silent dialogue with him.

I’ve found peace by adopting that famous prayer— asking for courage to change what I can, serenity to accept what I can’t, and wisdom to know the difference.

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