The stench of liniment and leather swirled through the air as Ethan adjusted his wrists under the tape. Fighter chatter and rhythmic slaps against heavy bags provided the background hum, but all other sounds blended into noise as far as Ethan was concerned. Tonight was the night; he was going into that ring-not just sparring this time-but actually for the first fight.
The amateur tournament was a big thing in the neighborhood. Fighters from all walks of life came to prove themselves, each eager for victory and recognition. For some, it was a stepping stone to professional careers. For others, it was a shot at redemption. For Ethan, it was an opportunity to get out of the shadow of mediocrity that had been following him throughout his life.
You look like you've seen a ghost," Frank said, clapping Ethan on the shoulder.
Ethan winced. "I'm just. nervous."
"Good. That means you care," Frank said, his gruff voice unexpectedly soothing. "But remember, nerves don't win fights. Focus does. What did I tell you about the basics?"
"Stay light on my feet. Keep my guard up. Look for openings," Ethan parroted back without thought.
"And?"
"Don't let fear control me.
Frank nodded. "Exactly. Fear is not your enemy, kid. It's your fuel. Use it.
The makeshift arena was set up in an old community center. Folding chairs formed a circle around the ring, and a crowd of spectators buzzed with excitement. Ethan sat in a corner, bouncing his knees to keep his blood flowing. His opponent, a muscular guy named Andre, was across the ring shadowboxing. Andre looked confident, his movements sharp and deliberate. Ethan couldn't help but feel outmatched.
"You got this," Frank said, kneeling beside him. "Andre is strong, but he's predictable. Watch his left. He always drops it when he hits the right hook. Watch that."
The referee started waving for the fighters to get into the ring. Ethan climbed through the ropes. His heart thumping like a drum. His ears felt the swellung of the noise and intensity of the crowd from light overhead the ring.
The bell rang.
Andre emerged aggressive, firing a series of punches that had Ethan forced on the defensive. Every hit felt like a sledgehammer; however, Ethan recalled what Frank had said. Ethan kept his guard high and tried to deflect as much of it as he could. He focused on being light on his feet.
"Relax!" Frank's voice came through amidst the cacophony.
Ethan saw it—a momentary lapse in Andre's guard as he swung wide. He stepped in without hesitation, landing a quick jab to Andre's ribs. It was no knockout punch, but it rattled him enough to create space.
For the rest of the round, Ethan danced around Andre, landing quick counters and evading heavy hits. The crowd began to notice the underdog holding his own, their cheers growing louder.
By the second round, Andre was growing frustrated. He swung harder, but his movements were no longer as precise. Ethan saw his chance. As Andre let his left hand droop again on another wide hook, Ethan delivered a clean uppercut to the jaw, sending Andre stumbling back and prompting the crowd into pandemonium.
"Finish it!" Frank yelled.
Ethan hesitated for a split second—just long enough for Andre to recover and charge forward. A brutal right hook connected with Ethan's side, knocking the wind out of him. Pain shot through his ribs, and he dropped to one knee.
"Get up!" Frank roared.
The referee started the count. The noise of the crowd subsided to a distant echo as Ethan strained for breath. Pictures flashed before him: his dead-end job, his empty apartment, feeling invisible.
Not anymore.
At the count of eight, Ethan stood up. He looked at Andre, who was now visibly tired. This time, Ethan didn't wait. He advanced, faked a left jab, and threw an enormous right cross that hit the temple of Andre squarely.
Andre staggered and fell to the mat.
The referee started counting, but this time it was obvious Andre wasn't getting up. The bell rang, which signified Ethan's win.
The crowd roared as Frank burst into the ring, holding Ethan by the shoulders.
"You did it, kid!" he yelled out, his face breaking open into a rare grin.
Ethan hardly believed what was happening. The adrenaline pulsating through him masked the pain in his ribs and for the first time in years, he felt alive.
As he climbed out of the ring, strangers patted his back and congratulated him. It was overwhelming, but exhilarating. In that moment, Ethan wasn't a stock boy or a nobody. He was a fighter.
Later that night, back at the gym, Frank handed Ethan an ice pack and a bottle of water.
"Not bad for a rookie," Frank said. "But don't let it go to your head. One win doesn't make you a champion."
Ethan nodded, though he couldn't stop smiling.
"Next week, you're sparring with some of the regional fighters. They'll be tougher than Andre. You ready for that?" Frank asked.
"Yeah," Ethan said, determination gleaming in his eyes.
"Good. Because the real fight starts now."
Ethan went home as his mind wandered through each happening of that night. After winning the tournament, small in its achievement, there came proof that he indeed was able to stand out.
What he didn't know, however, was that the victory had caught the eye of a man sitting in the back of the crowd, a man in a tailored suit. He wasn't there to enjoy the fights. He was scouting for talent.
And Ethan Cole just made the list.