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It’s amazing the things
that go through your head when you’re getting the snot beat out of you… By Perry’s skull was like bark; pieces
chipped off, it always looked strained, stressed, and awkward, but in the end
it would take an axe to split it in half. But at this moment, it seemed the other
fighter might’ve been the axe. His face crunched; the slap of a boxed
fist sounded like a wet steak pounding on a stiff pillow. Indentations on his visage looked like
little black and blue rivets, disfiguring the already odd-looking deep-set cheeks
and elongated brow. Over and over the
droplets of sweat sprayed back and forth, back and forth. Perry’s eyes were alien under a bashed and
sickly, brown tinge. Crack! That was the next sound, it was horrifyingly
subtle, but quick; never the way you’d think it would be in the real
world. Conversations continued to ring
out from the violence, the heavy clenched glove made the aching bones debate in
sharp accusing tones. But no matter how
hard, fast, or unforgiving those softened red fists were, Perry didn’t fall and
no one yelled timber. Translucent stains made the white floor a
greasy, fried, gray mess. Thump, thump,
thump, echoed the next three hits.
Shoes bent and crossed and swung in twirls as they danced around and
around. Perry watched his opponents’ feet, he always watched their feet. Brutal ballerinas was what he called some of
them, they dance with all the grace and precision of Swan Lake but make dents
in iron with their movements. Perry always took this time to think;
when they had waltzed him into the ropes, his fingers loose under their tight
bandages and heavy red cushions. So
serene and resonating was the dance that he couldn’t help but loose himself in
it and think. Think about his first fight, his first
dance. He remembered it vividly, as do I. The gym was stench-filled and raw. Bags of
stuffed fabric swung back and forth with salty sweat layering each hit it
took. By himself like every other day,
Perry was dancing in the ring. He
didn’t have much to his name. No
family. His last memory of that going with his sister in ‘59. No home.
A Negro, let alone a boxer, could fine few places of refuge and
sanctuary in the big city in ‘64. Perry
only found it in the arena of his time; the boxing ring. So, Perry was there all the time, dancing to
the silent rhythm of the cars outside and the swish, swish of his arm as he
punched the weaving phantom in front of him. But, I’m lingering a bit too much on the
details. Perry’s first dance. There he was swinging and dodging in the
little ring. Most of the ring was ancient, warped wood and the ropes were slick
and stretched. You could see little
tuffs of the string and fabric that held the stitching of the ropes, bearing
themselves in the funnels of light that poured through the windows. Everything was so very clear to Perry in
moments like this, dancing in the ring, alone, made everything fine and right
to Perry. You see, Perry for a long
time didn’t want to actually compete in matches. No, he did the training to keep himself motivated; to keep
himself alive. Perry, as simple and
uncomplicated as he was, feared the prospect of Death. He didn’t know this though, but every inch
of his life revolved around it. When
was he going to die? How? Where? Why? Everyone has that point of realization
about Death. That moment when they
realize that their mortality does exist.
That they won’t live forever, and worst of all, they’re forced to wonder
what will happen after all of it finally comes tumbling down. Regardless of his mother’s bout and loss
with leukemia, of his father’s overdose, or his sister’s random shooting,
regardless of even his dog Dodger dying, Perry never came to this realization
in all of his young years. Perry was
lucky to be a man of simplicity and ignorance, and unlike many other people was
able to forget about the determents of life and focus on something that kept
him going. The training. He wouldn’t have to face the realization
like everyone else until he was 23. On
that day while he danced in the ring. Perry realized it as he was swinging a
vicious right hook. When he did he went
into an immediate denial like almost everyone else does when Death is on their
mind. Death was there in his head but
he didn’t want to think about it. So I
had to show him. Death is often mistaken in its tangible
identity. Some imagine Death a woman,
or as a pale and sullen man of lamentation and chess. Some see skulls, others see nothing. In all actuality Death is something or someone motivating you
towards the ultimate end. I, in the
end, am simply a guide. So I appeared to Perry, right there in
front of him, and gave him something to fight against. Weaving, slinking, leaning, I dodged all
those magnificently fierce blows of his.
Crunch! Crack! My bare knuckle
drove true and smashed his face in.
That’s when Perry let it all out.
Like a hurricane, an utter and pure force of nature, Perry crashed and
punched and broke. His fists were part
of the very atmosphere itself. So
undeniably passionate and magnetic were his moves and his dance, that it
attracted all the eyes in the gym. Each
and every one of them. “Look at that!” they said. “Shit he’s moving fast,” another
beckoned. And as he pummeled me he became a wonder
and paragon of boxing. Not ever had
anyone seen the likes of Perry, and no man in that room would ever see boxing
like that again. When I had fallen, Perry had been so
utterly winded and spent that he collapsed right then and there against the
ropes. After awhile he saw all the onlookers,
and he saw me gone, no longer manifested upon the ground in a bloody pulp. Perry had faced me and had shown something
within himself and his skills that were beyond the average of any human. It was then, that I had done my job. “Perry?” asked a voice from the crowd. “Yeah?” “That…that was incredible, kid. You got feet like they were fucking wings
man.” “Thanks.” ”I got a fight I could set up with
Wally. You wanna give it a go, kid?” “Yeah,” said Perry, “Yeah, I think I
might.” That brings us back to now, doesn’t
it? Perry against the ropes watching
the fleeting and dangerous dance of his opponent and taking the beating that
comes with it. Small drops and lines of
blood sprayed across the mat. Perry
took every mind shattering blow and bang.
Deafening crescendos from the audience woke him from his stupor. It was too late for Perry, far too late. Over the 117 fights Perry had since that
dance he had with me, he had contracted a multitude of injuries, fractures,
lesions, and all around damage to the head.
Granted, Perry wasn’t exactly the brightest man to start with, but do
enough damage to the brain and that might not matter anymore. The last hit he took rattled his mind. It finally did him in. And Perry, who had come face to face with
me and obliterated me all those years ago, had finally come back to me. There he was, broken and battered on that
ring floor, sinking deep into a wallowing concussion that’d he’d never come
back out from. I came, helped him up, and took him home where he could dance
for as long as he wanted to. Who said Death, in all its incarnations,
wasn’t compassionate?
IT’S NOT AS BAD AS YOU MIGHT THINK
Carlton Stevens