Varsity Match (March 10 2005)

I step into the ring, step into my memories
(how has it taken me this long to write?
perhaps even this is too much), bending through
to manoeuvre the thick ropes that are meant
to hold me in, keep us square.
Diagonal across from me, she shakes her legs,
rocks her head from side-to-side, front-to-back.
I shrug my shoulders and watch her
as fingers press into my neck –
my coach – his hands, his voice, his mouth
inches from mine as he stresses
what I must do, punctuating advice
with air punches (yes, stresses,
the stress and nerves thudding through me
in time with a heartbeat so loud it shakes
me on my feet). I try to breathe,
focus on breathing, open my mouth for air
to find a mouthguard shoved in,
black plastic meant to save my teeth
but unable to save my lips from the
chafing and burning and swelling to come.
I stare at my coach, focus deep,
try to make the crowd disappear,
give myself one last shake and then it’s
go! it’s the bell! it’s the
clang that signals our warfare.
Hands up and gloves close, I feel the leather
against my moist cheek, pressed into the
hollow by my eyes, elbows tight
to cover ribs and feet arched to react.
Front foot forward, right foot on ball,
calf taut and swollen to sprint, then
spring I do, snapping forward to unleash
the waiting, a stretch of sinew and muscle
from my heart into my left, this extension
of me that rips itself from my fibre
to tear into her face.
She comes back, guarded, strong, swinging
punches with aggression, and I take it,
I move, block, parry
in-and-out, in-and-out (Be first!
I hear his voice, only his voice – Be first! I jab).
We are moving fast, to catch up to ourselves,
and pausing, circling,
eyeing each other with questions of measure –
do I measure up? will I be stronger?
The pain builds as the seconds pass,
a fire that spreads from calf to thigh, shoulder blades
alight, lats and abs twisting and swelling
with each snap, each tension and release.
I catch her and she staggers,
blood crusted just below her nose, blood that
calms me, cools me in my fire. She is hurt.
In my head I am quiet, I am lethal,
I will be faster and stronger and
I will win.
The bell sounds (saved) and I earn one minute.
Shaking legs lower me and I sit in my corner,
gulping air hungrily as they wash my mouthguard,
rinse my mouth, I spit and pant and
listen. Face-to-face, I feel my coach’s words
expelled on my skin, warm. And then
it is time: two more rounds.
We continue our dance, our violent game
picking punches and finding weaknesses
to exploit as we begin to shudder with the pain
of keeping our gloves up, our chins down.
It flashes through my mind, in those last seconds:
‘Pain makes cowards of us all,’ he said
(a champion, a boxer; he knew).
And with sick determination I swallow
the fire, drink the ache, rise again to come
at her, ablaze, stronger and
stronger still, pressing and moving
with the growling hunger of so many years.
Left jab, then a right, and a hook
twisting from the stomach, dropping to
send a short sharp punch just below her sternum,
holding up my arms to block the
massive right hook she throws at me again and again
with her whole body, shuddering with the effort
of absorption.
Then it is over, suddenly and quietly
(but it is only hushed in my head, in this hall
full of shouts and murmurs, buzz
and eyes). I am trembling,
adrenaline pumping in quivers that keep me
on my feet, exhausted. He takes off
my headguard, my mouthguard, my gloves.
Hair is smoothed back, sweat-soaked, tied up
with fingers that twitch.
And the moment comes. We stand in the centre,
referee holding our hands in his as if we are
children crossing the street, needing him there.
A pause, a silence, my heartbeat, then
my arm lifted
my hand raised
and the realization that I have won
hits me just as I hit her: hard,
rich with emotion,
a twisting in the stomach and a
feeling of release.



23 May 2005