Fight night - a short story

The autumn had arrived early that year and with it a fierce cold wind from the east. The town seemed almost in the grip of winter as, excited, I left the warm house and headed down to the club. A fight night promised a good evening of entertainment and after the lack of good news since the plant closed, we could all do with a good night out. The lads had gone down earlier and by the time I arrived, the hall was nearly full.

At the door Dolly gladly took my basket and emptied the contents onto the table for the pot-luck. Considering the times we were in there was a good spread. A ring had been erected at the far end of the hall and the chairs set out close by were already full. A local comedian stood in the ring going through his routine to warm up the crowd. Everyone seemed in the mood to laugh at the familiar old jokes. Three hundred sweaty bodies in the already warm room had created an equally familiar odour.

My eldest saw me and moved across to where I stood on the edge of the crowd. His usual greeting was a high-five but that night he just said “There is something you should know Ma.” I waited but he seemed not to know how to continue. His pause was fatal because at that moment a roar went up from the crowd as the MC for the night announced the arrival of the fighters in the ring. 

Conversation now no longer possible, he turned from me and looked at the ring and my eyes followed his gaze. Horrified my legs turned to jelly and I grabbed hold of him to steady myself. Jimmy was being introduced as the first challenger of the night. Jimmy wasn't a boxer. My little Jimmy was strong and a hard grafter and his half naked torso was impressive but he is not a fighter.

I made to push my way to the front but Tom, my eldest, kept my arm in a restraining hold.

“Its what he wants to do Ma.”

They were saying all sorts of nonsense about the forthcoming battle. The announcer, now in overdrive continued, “How will our first young challenger fare against old bruiser Bates here. Has this fine young figure of a man got what it takes? It is for you to judge. Bets now being taken.”

I could take no more. Someone said that having two sons would sooner or later give you heartache; I now knew the truth of that saying. I looked longingly at Tom and shook my head. A stoic grin froze his familiar features from me. I turned and headed for the door, ignoring all in the hall around me.

Exiting I felt the cold hit me like a wall. I made my slowly up the familiar road home, the poorly lit street uninviting in the gloom. All the while my mind a whirl of emotions. I knew anxiety, fear and at the same time annoyance with myself for not being able to stay and watch.

I thought of little Jimmy as an infant. His small hands, his kindness and his gentleness with smaller children. I remembered his early school days. I recalled the day he had come home with a cut on his knee where he had fallen on a cinder path. I remembered how I bathed his injuries and bandaged up the hurt. How it hurt me then to see him hurt. How much I shared his pain.

And now he would be being hurt as I trudged up the hill. His body, so soft and perfect would be bruised and sore.

But I was more than angry. The fight night had not been explained to me as a competition. The last time we had a fight night at the club a couple of professionals put on a great show in the ring. They were good. They had planned the moves and we were caught up in the staged action. Neither of them was hurt. It was show business. Something at the back of my mind hinted that prizefights had been made illegal. Did that happen? Or was that some liberal politician pleading for a lost cause. If it were true then Jimmy could not only get hurt but end up in the dock as well.

When I arrived home I decided to be practical. I emptied the first aid box, such as it was, and looked at the poor assortment of plasters and ointments we owned. How I hoped we would have enough.

Then I had to wait. Tom would bring Jimmy home. Tom looked after his little brother. I should be there to look after them both but I couldn't face having to watch the pain. I stared at the embers of the fire and tried to block from my mind the dire thoughts of what was happening at the hall.

Every minute seemed like an hour and the chimes of my mothers old clock on every quarter seemed hours apart. Perhaps I slept a little or at least dozed but eventually the door opened and I jumped from my chair.

Jimmy was leaning on Tom and he looked exhausted. There were grey rings under his eyes and dried blood on his nose. His face had the beginnings of puffiness and I knew it would look much worse in the morning. But he was standing.

He handed me a bag.
“What is this?” I asked.
He sank into the chair I had recently vacated and muttered through swollen lips, “I won Ma. I won.”
The bag was full of a large bundle of notes.
I was speechless but I have hated all boxing since that night.

RISK

To laugh is to risk appearing the fool,
To weep is to risk being called sentimental.
To reach out to another is to risk involvement.
To expose feelings is to risk showing your true self.
To place your ideas and your dreams before the crowd is to risk being called naive.
To love is to risk not being loved in return,
To live is to risk dying,
To hope is to risk despair,
To try is to risk failure

But risks must be taken, because the greatest risk in life is to risk nothing.
The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, is nothing, and becomes nothing.
He may avoid suffering and sorrow, but he simply cannot learn, feel, change, grow or love.
Chained by his certitude, he is a slave; he has forfeited his freedom.
Only the person who risks is truly free.

This inspirational piece is often attributed to the poet and thinker, Leo Buscaglia, however, I believe the author was Janet Rand.

My photo from the Hebrides, Scotland.