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Member
Join Date: May 2007
Posts: 3
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A Toast in Summer
We could not recognize faces. All we could see were just silhouettes sitting, walking and standing above that hill over there. The summer solstice was responsible for that. We could not recognize faces, even the hill was a mere dark figure facing us.
“They should hurry,” you said. “In times like this, they should hurry. It's not a party, and it's getting late. Why did they choose to do this this late?”
“Why won't we join them?” I said. “We should be there.”
“You go if you want. I'll stay here. Go there, tell them they should hurry.”
But I didn't go. We just watched them from here. We could not recognize who those persons were. I asked you to point your mother out of those olio of silhouettes, and promised that if you could, I would lend you my bicycle for two days; and if not, we play boxing and you let me win. I was in my precarious mind when I made the bet but I felt it safe. I thought you couldn't be so sure where your mother was. They were all similar figures up the hill.
“She's somewhere out there,” you said.
“Now, I can knock you down!”
“It's a give-away question, Bogs. If you really want to win over me, give me another question. I know mother completely, and what she wore today. I can point her right out. How about this. It's a greater challenge for me.”
“Say it.”
“I'll point someone, and I will tell you who that person is. After that, you go there, you see if I got it right.”
“Deal!”
“See that one over there?” You shut your left eye as you stretched your right arm and targeted your subject with your forefinger.
“Where? Who's that?”
“That is my father.”
You got me in my own throat there. And I really felt sorry for raising such an untimely game for you. I was aback.
“See that one? That rectangular figure carried by one – two – three – four – five – six... six men. That's my father inside that coffin!”
“Sorry Bogs,” I said.
“Who's sorry, Bogs? Didn't I get it right? How many dead people do we have in that hill?”
“O-o-one.”
“Ha-ha! Oil your bicycle Bogs, so I can make those two days worth the ride!”
Three days later your father's burial, you came to our house with my bicycle. Your house was just six blocks away from ours, but you seemed very tired. I thought you might have really made the day worth the ride.
“Bogs!” I called to you.
“Hey,” you got off the bicycle and handed it to me. “Where you there yesterday?”
“Yes. Everyday.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Tell coach, I'm sorry for missing bouts. I think I will be absent tomorrow, until... I don't know.”
“That's alright. Coach understands. Be back soon, Bogs. I'm getting better.”
“If you don't knock me down when I come back, I'll knock you down... with my uppercut.”
“You have my word Bogs,” I brought the bicycle inside as you left. I leaned it to a post of our porch. I felt my right calf wet – it's the grease in the chain – and it's almost as thick as when I put it on the last three days.”
After that day, you were sent to the hospital but was soon released a day after. From the hospital, you went to that unfinished gymnasium where I was boxing.
The fellow boxers – young, younger, and some not so old, and the other spectators – who hemmed around the fight slowly packed their things up.
“You're late, Bogs. I knocked him out.”
“Who?”
“That guy over there.”
“Whow – he's big.”
“He's sixteen. He's two years more powerful than me – than us, but I knocked him out.”
“Really? How?”
“He didn't expect my moves.”
“What moves?”
“We're both southpaws but you won't expect them too. I'll let them talk for you when it's our time.”
“You know I'm not so taciturn in boxing. I can handle talkathon if boxing's the case.”
“I'll make them stronger because I know you're a tougher guy. I'll make them stronger – stronger that they shout, and so I can't hear your replies anymore.”
“That's very loud, I may say. You'll break the audience's eardrums if that's the case!” We chuckled, and you unfastened the loop fastener straps of my gloves.
“How are you?” I diverted the talk.
“I'm fine. It's a simple headache.”
“I got headaches but I was never sent to hospital just for that.”
“My mother is just so concerned about me these times.”
“I see.”
“My father could've never died in this place if he didn't have the headache. He could've surely knocked his opponent down if he didn't have the headache,” you suddenly turned sober. “Father could've been a professional boxer.”
“Really?”
“If he didn't have the headache.”
“What? Did your father always have headaches?”
“I don't know. But that's what mother told me. Father applied to be a professional boxer but he was refused because he had headache.”
“Maybe only for that time. He should've applied the other time.”
“Yes. If I were him, I could've taken your advice.”
“Well, he's famous here. And he's respected by everyone. Maybe that's why he didn't apply again.”
“But he could've been more famous, and he could've gained more people's respect if he became a professional boxer.”
“You're right. If I will be a professional boxer, I will be more –“
“That's right. And we are on our way now. Some little time to go and we are professional boxers. Let's celebrate!”
“Hmmm... I figure it out. You have your own way convincing someone to treat you. That's clever. I won 500 pesos. I'll give 400 pesos to mother – “
“And the one-fifth?”
“What?”
“Mathematics. The fraction thing. The one-fifth.”
“What's that?”
“The 100 pesos!”
“Now that's easier.”
“Where is it going?”
“To... to our becoming professional boxers!”
“Cheers!”
After our celebration, you just said you're going away. You said that your mother said that without things being said, this place was just unhealthy for your family – for the two of you. Again, I was aback.
After almost eight years, I didn't see you again. You didn't even visit this place. I didn't know where you went. You didn't tell me – simply because you, too, didn't know where you were going, and your mother didn't tell you.
It was Sunday and I had a fight. Someone had challenged me. It was Sunday and mother was in the church praying for my victory.
“This will be your final shot, and I can help you apply for professional boxing,” coach said. “Big money is at stake. Expect this to be tough. Just expect it so you won't get shocked.”
“The Panzer!” The announcer called my name. It's what I labeled myself. I got up the ring.
“The Torpedo!” The announcer called again. The name's quite destructive so I just expected – Bogs!
“Bogs!” you shouted back.
I wasn't sure when I shouted. But you shout-back affirmed you.
The referee called us to the middle of the ring. He explained the rules. And your eyes were like boxing me already. The referee summoned us to our respective corners. We remained yet.
“This is boxing, Bogs,” you said.
“And some little time to go we are professional boxers.”
“Cheers!”
This was just a very short talk for the reunion of the two who had been apart for eight years. But we both understood – we just do the talking on the ring.
First round. You rushed me to the ropes. Raining punches beat my body. But it's first round yet. Though your initial attack stung, I still had enough power to stir.
Second round. I launched a left hook. You evaded and then fired a heavy right-left-right combination. It sent me wobbling through the ropes. Ting! Ting! Ting!
Your attacks made me more comfortable to box. Those moves, those combinations... I expected them. You really handled the talkathon. And you really made the first two rounds worth the ride. Now I found the next round more exciting!”
“How come you don't talk Bogs!” You challenged, revealing your black mouth guard that looked slide with your accumulated saliva.
“You just've asked me.”
I give. You take. You give. I take. That was almost the system. Our moves were disturbingly harmonious. It was not just a mere talkathon. It's a debate of punches. And whose punches spoke more articulately and powerfully should win the debate.
And it was in that particular round. Maybe if we boxed in that ring where professional boxers box, we could call ourselves as one. We boxed as if we'd never met before, or as if we're mortal enemies.
I could calculate most of your moves, because it's how you knocked me down several times years ago. I knew that almost every after you throw three-punch combination, there's a left uppercut for the kill.
It's fifth round and our faces were swelling as our hearts were also swelling in constant happiness inside the ring. The rally of punches rose in crescendo. Though I could calculate your moves, it's harder for me to really stand for the exchange. You had that stronger and faster left arm. So I decided to bring the rally to diminuendo. I danced away every after I threw punches, and before you could connect your jabs to my body. All I needed was time.
You seemed impatient and irritated on how I fought that time. You didn't like the idea of just winning by the judge's decision – the scorecards. You really didn't like the judges to make the decisions. You wanted it to be you or me. You wanted the fight to be won in knock out.
“But this is boxing, Bogs.” I said to myself. We'd sized up each other on the earlier rounds, and you proved to be much more powerful. It's time for me now to use some mind.
I was almost in the corner. You hurled your left straight – I ducked – sidestepped to the right – jabbed your left lumbar. You let me do it but you looked shocked on the result. I used to have a weak right but now you figured out. You reeled to the corner ropes. Your right arm hung out of the ring. Your armpit enfolded the second-from-top turnbuckle. I followed the jab with a left straight to the epigastrium, then a right straight to the sternum. It was the perfect time to deliver my full-force left straight to your head. I fired it – you berthed yourself to the post – I didn't hit you. The force I used was so strong. It sent my whole body forward until I lost my balance. My neck was caught by second-from-top rope. It choked me. Then my knees were in contact to the canvas. It's a knock down. The referee counted. I stood right away. It was my own strength that knocked me down.
You looked hurt by the assault I gave you. After that, I could just break your defense and deliver again my onslaught attack.
We were at the center of the ring now. You rushed, then I rushed. You got the action first and threw that combination. I lowered my body a bit so I could have a firmer defense. I still assumed the southpaw stance. You were mostly in my left side – this was perfect. It's the third punch of the combination. Uppercut's next. It's now your fixed attack, I knew. I lowered my defense so I could deliver a stronger right hook. You slightly ducked to prepare for your killer left uppercut. My jaws were very open now for your uppercut, while your left ear was inviting my right hook. “Come what may!” Two of us might have said this that time.
Right hook's faster than uppercut, and I launched it first. The hit was a very sure thing. Plus, your head was in the perfect angle. I landed my right hook and the ten ounce leather glove to you left ear by the time you released your uppercut. You lurched to your right while your right glove traced the canvas until you finally crashed. The strength you used for your uppercut that's wasted the air aggravated the knock down. The uppercut that came out was a travesty of your own killer attack.
You were counted the mandatory eight count.
We were both again on the center now. I could hear the crowd's monotonous yelling. I was taken by the action and by the sight of you knocked down by my punch. The referee signaled fight!
I stepped my right foot far forward and propelled my special left straight. You were in your groggy orthodox fighting stance. But as my left fist was nearing you, you hardly pressed your temples with the knuckle part of you gloves and flashed that most painful and bewildered scowl I've ever seen in your face. It was too late for me to figure out what you meant – you're off-guard, and my force landed to your face squarely. Then... you plunged to the canvas. Your nose bled.
You shouldn't have fought me, Bogs, if you had the headache. You said that the bell rang as you had your headache. You said that the bell rang as I punched your left ear with my right hook. You said that you raised your arms after the bell rang. You said that I shouldn't have punched you after the bell rang.
But it's boxing, Bogs. You shouldn't have raised your arms when the bell hadn't rang yet. We were just in the middle of the round that time. And it's not the bell. It's just my right hook punch.
Anyway, I won a big amount in our bout. I gave to my mother the... well, I can't say it in fraction thing, but I gave some amount to her. That's it. Aren't you going to ask me where the remaining goes? Of course not. You should not. You'll scare me. I can't imagine a ghost talking to me right now in this... never mind. Stay put there. Just listen.
You know, you're fond of not letting me know about your decisions. Why did you choose to be buried here? You're supposed to be with your father up there in the hill. Well, I don't need an answer for that. Just wondering.
Summer solstice is responsible for this. I can't recognize faces, except for one. You know her completely, Bogs. That rectangular figure carried by one – two – three – four – five – six... six men. That's your mother inside that – No! Sorry, Bogs. We should be celebrating right now.
Here's a toast, Bogs. Just some little time to go… some little time…
Professional Boxers!
Last edited by alongne : 05-08-2007 at 12:47 AM.
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