The icepack made his eye feel sick, like the disappointed queeze inside his stomache. No pain could overshadow the crippling defeat. Ten years. Days and days of six hour jogs, thousands of sit-ups, hundreds of healthy meals forced down the hatch, broken hands, pints of blood, tears, and all of the grunts and squints that come with a man’s struggle to perfect himself over ten years, wasted. Ten years of work and dedication all collapsed within as he searched every corner of his mind for an answer to why the lights shut off.
Somewhere old rivals laughed in a room full of beers, pretzels, and outsiders, celebrating the fall of the champion. His mother cried in worry, as men aimlessly roaming Vegas celebrated their big come-up. Every gasp of disbelief coupled an “I knew it” from self-proclaimed prophets of luck and oddsmakers of silence. People who never took a punch struck up the type-writers across every major city, describing how bad his technique was, how he had no foot-work, how he never really fought a tough opponent, how he was too old.
The champ cried, uncontrollably, as tears seared into open wounds and beaded sweat. He knew what was being said, and he had nobody else to blame. There were no teammates to pick him up, nobody else to scathe, no coach making decisions, no pit crew to fix him. The humiliation was his to own, him alone. The loneliest man in the building sat on top of the world two hours prior, and held no pride of himself. He felt the world looking at him, turning on him, doubting him. He clenched his fists, slowly cycling through a swooping rhythm with taped hands, bobbing and weaving the unknown challenger.
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