Solitude enveloped me within the confines of the boys' locker room, illuminated solely by the soft glow emanating from my computer screen. The gentle warmth emanating from the screen provided a comforting atmosphere, and a subtle sheen of sweat adorned my face as I sat alone.
Clad in shorts with my hands carefully wrapped, donned in a robe, I was ready for the challenges ahead. However, at that moment, I watched, I observed and I studied, a masterclass was being put on.
Brooke's jab was a thing of precision. She used it not just as a weapon but as a tool for control, measuring distance and disrupting Sandra's rhythm. Each jab snapped Sandra's head back, a clear sign of Brooke's sharp timing and speed.
Brooke's footwork was equally impressive; she glided around the ring, cutting angles and creating openings without overextending herself.
As the rounds progressed, Brooke's strategy became evident. She targeted Sandra's left eye with surgical accuracy, her right hand finding its mark repeatedly. Sandra's attempts to counter were met with deft slips and rolls from Brooke, who seemed to anticipate each move before it was made.
The disciplined approach paid dividends. Sandra's left eye began to swell, and as the rounds went by the swelling worsened, and Sandra's vision was compromised. She became more hesitant, her strikes less frequent and more desperate.
By the middle rounds, Sandra's eye had swollen shut, and the ringside physician was called upon to assess the damage. After a brief examination, the decision was made to stop the fight.
I let out a deep breath, stood up and began to hop in place, practicing my combinations. It would soon be time.
I sat back down after several minutes. It was time for Mikaela Vs Damaris.
From the opening bell, Mikaela had established her dominance with swift jabs and calculated combinations, her experience in the ring evident in every precise movement.
She had been methodically targeting Damaris's body with thudding hooks and exploiting openings with her signature straight right. However, Damaris's corner had been studying Mikaela's patterns, advising Damaris to adjust her stance and timing to anticipate these shots.
"Too repetitive with these shots Mikaela," I whispered under my breath.
As the match progressed, the initial skepticism of the crowd began to transform into enthusiastic support for Damaris. Her resilience in the face of Mikaela's onslaught had won over the hearts of the spectators. With each successful block and counter, cheers of encouragement grew louder, rallying behind the underdog.
The atmosphere was electric, a collective breath held with each exchange, the audience riding the waves of tension and release.
Damaris began to incorporate more head movement, slipping under Mikaela's jabs and responding with her own crisp combinations. She focused on varying her attack, mixing in quick, snapping jabs to disrupt Mikaela's rhythm, followed by sudden, explosive flurries aimed at the midsection to sap her opponent's stamina.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the eighth round, a clear victory for Damaris. Mikaela settled onto her stool, flanked by Brooke and Kelly in her corner. The crowd voiced their disapproval with boos, angered by Mikaela's post-bell punches and a defiant gesture aimed at Damaris's corner, who called for a point deduction.
Despite the crowd's discontent, Mikaela wore a confident smile. She appeared to relish the chaos and the competitive atmosphere, finding enjoyment in the intensity of the match and the spirited reactions from both sides.
"Keep your focus, Mikaela!" Brooke shouted as Mikaela rose from the stool for the ninth round, playfully sticking out her tongue.
She smoothly delivered four easygoing jabs in quick succession, artfully feigned the fifth, and seamlessly followed up with an uppercut, lifting Damaris's head through her guard. Continuing her strategic assault, she executed a deceptive jab to the head, adeptly redirecting it downward to the body and defying every law of physics, she swiftly raised her hands again, catching Damaris off guard with a clean uppercut that appeared to carry more power than permitted.
I stood up, caught in the gripping excitement.
"On the Button! Damaris goes down," exclaimed the commentator.
Upon reviewing the instant replay, I realized that the punch hadn't connected as squarely as I initially thought. Damaris would beat the count.
"Alright, calm down, Mikaela," I advised, a world apart from the unfolding action.
Damaris got up quickly, she was now employing a high guard, she dropped her right hand ever so slightly after taking several uppercuts to the forearm, baiting Mikaela into committing to her powerful left hook. As Mikaela obliged, Damaris executed a perfectly timed duck and pivot, evading the hook and positioning herself at an angle from which she launched a devastating counter-attack.
She started with a sharp left to the body, forcing Mikaela to drop her guard slightly, followed by a rapid succession of jabs to the head, creating a staccato rhythm that kept Mikaela on the defensive. Sensing her moment, Damaris feinted another jab but instead delivered a thunderous overhand right that sailed over Mikaela's lowered left arm.
I squeezed my eyes shut, grimacing. The punch selection was strategic and precise, the overhand right capitalizing on the small window of vulnerability. The impact was amplified by Mikaela's forward momentum, the force of the blow echoing through the arena as if it were a physical manifestation of the crowd's collective will.
As Mikaela hit the canvas, the crowd's reaction was instantaneous. A roar of disbelief and elation swept through the stands, a cacophony of cheers, applause, and stunned gasps. Fans leapt to their feet, their voices merging into a thunderous ovation.
Four... Five... Six..." The count continued, the tension palpable. Mikaela remained motionless, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow. The crowd watched in stunned silence, their cheers replaced by a hushed anticipation.
"Seven... Eight... Nine..." The referee's voice was steady, his tone devoid of any emotion. He knew what he was doing, following the rules of the sport, even though the outcome was clear.
Just as the referee was about to reach ten, Mikaela stirred. She rolled onto her side, her hand reaching out towards the canvas. The crowd gasped, their relief palpable. But then, the referee waved off the count, his decision clear.
The medical staff rushed to Mikaela's aid. They checked her vitals, ensuring she was stable and conscious. Her eyes fluttered open, meeting the concerned gaze of the medical team. She tried to sit up, but they gently pushed her back down, instructing her to stay still while they assessed her condition.
The announcer's voice cut through the silence, his words carrying a note of disbelief. "And there it is! An upset knockout victory for Damaris! Mikaela, the undefeated champion, has been knocked down for the first time! The champion has been knocked out ladies and gentlemen!"
"The crowd erupted, their cheers drowning out the announcer's words."
I curled up on the floor, my eyes still shut, I couldn't believe what had just happened. "Come on, Mikaela!" I yelled, slamming my fist against the floor.
Meanwhile, Damaris was being hailed as the new champion. The crowd was chanting her name, their cheers echoing through the arena. She stood in the center of the ring, her hands raised in victory, soaking in the adulation of the fans. Her corner was beside her, celebrating their win.
When the medical team gave the all-clear signal, Mikaela slowly got to her feet, her movements slow and deliberate. She looked around, taking in the scene. The crowd was still cheering, their excitement unabated despite the outcome. She turned to face Damaris, her expression a mix of respect and disappointment.
"Congratulations, Damaris," she said, her voice steady despite the loss. "You fought well."
Damaris nodded, acknowledging the compliment. "Thank you, Champ. It was a great fight."
With that, Mikaela turned and made her way towards the exit supported by Kelly, her head held high despite the defeat.
The crowd watched her leave, their cheers dying down as they realized she was no longer in the ring. But their attention quickly returned to Damaris, the new champion, who was being hoisted onto the shoulders of her couch.
I rose from the floor, my skin now completely dry as a bone. The door let out a creak as it opened. No words were exchanged, just a nod that came with a tightening knot in my stomach. Closing the laptop, I stowed it in the locker, snatched my gloves, and made my way out of the locker room.
I didn't linger long in the gym; it was shortly after I put on my gloves that the event coordinator informed me I would be the second to walk out. I considered it a last-minute move from Michael, consoling myself with the understanding that he, too, might be grappling with nerves.
It was now time, the harsh overhead lights cast shadows on my face, highlighting the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I wiped my moist palms against the fabric of my shorts, trying to shake off the telltale signs of anxiety.
As I made my way down the dimly lit corridor, the padding of my boxing shoes against the cold concrete floor seemed to echo the hesitant rhythm of my footsteps. Every step felt heavier as if the gravity of the upcoming fight was pulling me down. Brooke offered a nod of encouragement as our eyes briefly met, but despite the support, the knot in my stomach tightened.
The roar of the crowd intensified as I approached the entrance, reaching a fever pitch. The curtain rustled as I pushed it aside, stepping into the blinding glare of the arena lights. The heat bore down on me, intensifying the perspiration on my skin. The energy of the crowd seemed to buffet against me as I walked toward the ring apron.
I acknowledged Andrea with a nod when I saw her at ringside, taking a moment to lightly tap my gloves against her forehead. Her complexion mirrored the paleness of the moon, and the visible fear in her eyes was apparent even from a distance. Tilting my head inquisitively, as if questioning what was amiss, I shook my head and offered a reassuring chuckle.
Climbing through the ropes, the canvas felt cool and slightly tacky underfoot. My eyes locked onto the opposite corner where Michael awaited. The air crackled with tension, and the weight of the impending struggle settled on my shoulders, as I jogged round the ring.
As the referee called us to the center of the ring, my nerves manifested in the subtle tremor of my hands and the fluttering in my chest. Beads of sweat trickled down my temples, and I tasted the saltiness on my lips. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself before the bell rang, signaling the beginning of a fight I knew I would likely lose.
I bit down on my gum shield. It was time for war.