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I hadn't been to the capital since I was a kid. It used to seem like a kind of New York, or the Los Angeles of the films. A big place with lots of opportunities, with lots of fun things to do. Now it doesn't look as magical as it used to, the unemployment and tiredness on people's faces is much more noticeable. But it seems that that magical feeling keeps bubbling up in my chest that makes even the girls in the capital seem prettier....
Or maybe I'm just seventeen, my girlfriend won't let me and I didn't get laid for a week before the trip. Either that or the magical atmosphere of the big city.
Last time I was in the capital with my parents, it was a normal family trip, well, in Simpsons terms, I didn't have any worries or anxieties. Now it's different, it's not like I'm wandering the streets and going to the hot spots. This time I'm here for a tournament.
It was also held in the school gym, but unlike last time, there were spectators in moderate numbers inside, and the cameras were not too advanced. We were even interviewed before the fights.
- Bart, how do you feel about your chances? - It's strange to be addressed so politely by an older man.
- Like everyone else. - Not knowing what to say, I said nothing.
- What do you think of your first opponent? Last year, in 48 appearances, he had 30 wins.
- So he's lost about 20 times? - Maths has never been my strongest subject... If you think about it, I don't really have a strong subject.
- Ha ha ha, okay, rounding up his defeats to hurt him? So you're one of those, huh? Of the intertimers? - Is that a different term for 'intertimers'?
- It was an accident. - I said sincerely, hoping to correct the wrong impression of myself.
- Ha ha ha, classic!
The first round between sixteen guys in my weight class lasted six minutes and forty-seven seconds. And it didn't end the way I'd hoped.
- The winner, Bart Simpson. - announced calmly into the microphone by the commissioner.
I threw the judge's hand away and went to the locker room feeling angry. In all fairness, I lost that fight. The first round I was too nervous and could not do anything, I let my opponent get six points behind. In the second round I reduced the gap by two. He led the third, and acted calmly, working on the timer. However, with fifteen seconds to win, he slipped on the decking, I covered him, and he couldn't get his shoulder blades off. Three seconds, I won.
- Bastard! Bitch! Bastard! - I kicked in the locker door from all the bullshit that had happened.
- Oh, I thought I'd come by and congratulate you. - Coach's voice came from behind me.
- I sucked! I couldn't do shit! How the hell did I get to the quarterfinals?! - I felt like a cow against a tiger on the boardwalk.
- Haa. Maybe you shouldn't have abstained. - The indifferent tone of Gable Engle's voice caused me to walk briskly over to him, to which the coach stuck out his chest and raised an eyebrow, clearly not going to pass me. - Chill out, Bart.
- Hooaaaah... - He opened a bottle of cold water and doused me. I suppose this act could be considered an act of humiliation, for which I could report Engle and he'd lose his licence in disgrace, but.... - Thank you, Coach.
That was just what I needed to finally come to my senses.
- Calm down, kid, and remember your first class.
That's right, just like Foley said. Things happen in life, and you can only react to them as you see fit. My opponent made a mistake or an accident, I took advantage of it. There is nothing wrong with that, in a fight on the boardwalk or in life, accidents sometimes decide and turn everything upside down, leaving us hoping that we have the will to overcome everything, to prove ourselves. In the hope that our will is never left to reason either.
.....
- Yeah, I eat well. - in the hotel, I'd sometimes get calls distracting me from playing certain games on my phone.
Usually it was my mum, asking the same questions over and over again. Aunts Petty and Selma called once, congratulating me on winning the last tournament. There was a call from the teacher, which was more silence than conversation, and Millhouse called, and in addition to the routine of asking questions, he asked my permission to start a harem of Lisa and Sherry, because he couldn't decide which one he liked better. I wished him luck. He took it to mean good luck with the girls, but I meant good luck with his life, which he could definitely use....
- Sorry, Mum, I've got a call on line two. - After I heard the goodbye, I hung up and took the second call. - What's up, sweetie?
- Bart, you're in a good mood. Did you win? - Terry asked me with a smile on her face.
- Yeah. - that put a smile on my face for the first time all day.
- Hyah! I told you! You didn't have to be so pessimistic! - From the genuine joy on the other side of the wire, and my mood lifted.
- Let's finish with boring topics. What are you wearing? Even if it's nothing special, make it up, I wouldn't know. And yes, preferably something sexy, like a bunny suit.
- Bart, you're so dirty. - You don't sound like Terry has a problem with it, on the contrary.
- Whatever you say, bunny girl.
- So you've made up your mind about the suit without needing my colourful descriptions of where it's too tight? - involuntarily, I swallowed, actually picturing Terry in a bright red, tight bunny suit with fishnet stockings. - By the way, what am I wearing, a rabbit or a bunny?
Then our conversation went off the rails of flirting, and we just chatted about nothing, and laughed. Without noticing, but about three hours passed, I had to eat and go for an evening run. On any other day, I'd have given up and gone on doing what I wanted to do, which today was chatting to Terry. But after my sloppy win.
- Sorry, love, can I call you back tomorrow? - I had no choice but to hang up.
.....
The second fight was the next day. I won again. I was ahead on points at the end of the third round. The fight wasn't any entertaining, my opponent and I were inexperienced, both of us having our first competition. But at least today I didn't give in to doubt and excitement, showing what I'm capable of doing
- Next up is Dolph Briscoe... Well, it was a good tournament. - Sipping my tea from the shop, I returned to the gym when the matches were over and the list of nets and match schedules for all categories weighed in.
I have no luck with the name Dolph. The bully from school who got me expelled, the wrestler with fourteen years of experience. All I can do is get my coach's notes and watch Dolph's matches at this tournament.
- I'm in charge of delivery, don't get any funny ideas! - I got the notes today from Isabella Gutierrez.
- Thanks, love, shall we go on a date after I get back? - totally unexpected, but my message went unanswered.
.....
As I stepped out onto the boardwalk. I could rely solely on my size, for I outweighed Dolph, who was in the minimum weight category.
In the first twenty seconds, twice breaking out of full control positions from Briscoe, I was beginning to doubt that size mattered at all.
It was only because I was able to catch a leg on one of his passes, catch a leg, and make an in every sense unaesthetic throw that I didn't lose on points. In fact, I finished the first round of the semi-final one point better than a similar round in one eighth. In a strange way it gave me motivation, and lifted my spirits.
The second round didn't change anything in terms of scores, but it gave me a new perspective. All the matches before, Dolph had finished in two rounds. He literally threw his teeth at his opponents from the first seconds, and by the third round his stamina....
- Hoo! - was failing.
Grabbing my head, Dolph didn't have time to properly anchor his weight on the decking. So I was able to lift him up, and almost like Foley had thrown me on day one, I threw Dolph off of me.
The number five on the scoreboard lit up. I had automatically won. Twenty-three seconds before the last round ended. For the last two and a half minutes, I'd been taking Dolph's place, grabbing him from every position, forcing him to move actively. I took a big risk, for the round started with me in control, from which I let my opponent escape quite easily.
- The first finalist, Bartholomew Simpson. - I was able to beat a bloke whose experience of fighting is more than mine by nearly ten years by brute force. I have no regrets.
My opponent for the final was the second main favourite to win - Bron Ricksteiner. He also finished his opponents in two rounds. And while he wasn't as technical as Briscoe, he was the top-ranked fighter in our category. Which meant he was more dimensional than me.
.....
I spent almost the entire day off from work in the gym, pumping iron. Occasionally taking a break from running and jumping rope. When I returned to my room twelve hours later, I found numerous missed calls.
From Mum, from Millhouse, from Terry, there were even calls from Dad, Sherry and Isabella, but what surprised me the most was a call from Lisa.
- Good luck, I'll be rooting for you. Becky Shorter. - Opening a message from an unfamiliar number gave me another reason to be surprised.
I didn't call back, for I just didn't have the energy. In the end, I turned on the TV, watched a random film for twenty minutes, and fell asleep to it.
.....
- Long time no talk, Bart - the next morning, before finals, I also could not avoid calls.
- Allison. - It's a good thing my voice didn't shake, because hearing her made my mouth dry.
- I heard you made it to the finals of the wrestling tournament. - Apparently she and Lisa are still friends. Well, friends are important, and Alison must be a good friend.
- Yeah, the finals are in an hour. - and now it's semifinalists versus the winners of the eliminations. Dolph has earned another win, and may well be selected to compete nationally with the winner. Especially if I'm the finalist.
- You know. That, good luck to you. - clearly struggling to find her strength, Allison struggled to find the words.
Screw you! What, I'm your boyfriend now?! I don't need a wish from a bitch! - I can't say those answers didn't come out of my mouth, but--
- Thank you. - I answered it that way because I know.
- Good. Yeah, okay. You win, ha! - unlike herself during our brief relationship, Alison was going round and round. - Bart. You know what? Anyway. I'm sorry about the stupid prank.
- It's okay. It happens. Don't worry about it, and thanks for the wishes. - As I thought, my knowledge was confirmed. Alison ended up feeling guilty, just as I've felt her guilt over time about a lot of my own shenanigans. And how can I demand understanding from others without giving it myself?
- Thanks, Bart. I'll see you later. - before I could answer, Allison hung up the phone. Apparently her guilty conscience had taken control and she needed to exhale.
I, on the other hand, spent the last few minutes before the final on another call:
- Hello? - A painfully familiar, almost familiar voice answered.
- Excuse me, I'm looking for someone, can you tell me if you have him? Last name Ralsa, first name Yabos?
- Greek? Is Ralsa Yabos here? I repeat, Yabos Ralsa? Don't drag it out, I'm shitting myself, where the hell have you been?
- Ha-ha-ha-ha! - and mine was joined by the laughter of the bar patrons.
- We don't know, Mo, but now we know why you stink! - followed by jokes from them. - It's not a bad idea to take a drag once in a while, at least to the loo!
- Listen, kid, one day I'll get to you, take my rusty cleaver and cut off all your phalanges, and then I'll soak them in salt and--
- Ha-ha-ha-ha! - Oh, that Moe! His reaction hasn't changed a bit in years, and why did I ever stop playing him?
- Bart, it's time. - Gable Engle's words made both laughs and smiles fade into oblivion. For I had a major fight of my life ahead of me....