I’m bouncing back and forth, trying to loosen my tightening quads and neck. My stomach is doing somersaults and tying itself into a billion knots. I take three deep breaths. Settle down, Zac. You’ve gotten so close before; you can do it again and win! Don’t let Josh stand in between you and—

“Ready?” asks a familiar, friendly voice that interrupts my train of thought. I open my eyes to see my beautiful girlfriend, Carly.

“I think so,” I reply in a nervous, shaky voice.

“I know you are! You’ve been training your butt off since you last fought Josh, and it was all because of that stupid raffle, and—“

“Don’t forget that the scorekeeper couldn’t even do his job,” I add, “besides, everyone saw that he won. No matter how many times you guys tell me that I won, I don’t have the trophy to prove it.”

There are a good thirty seconds of awkward silence between us.
“You have a point, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to just give him the win. Go out there and give it everything you got. You’ll be fine,” Carly encourages. Compliantly I walk my way to my ring, where my division was called just moments before.

As I place my ever so white feet onto the warm mat, I hear my name being yelled.

“FIRST UP, JOSHUA AND ZECHARIAH!”

I walk to the center of the ring, where Josh is already standing. He’s moving around like I was minutes before. The head referee steps in between us. I raise my head up high; high enough to make eye contact with him at least. He’s wearing something in between a smirk and a grimace on his tanned face. Both of us are swinging our arms, bouncing back and forth, trying to be ready at the sound of a gun. I glance over my left shoulder as one of the corner judges tucks a red strip of felt behind my belt.

Adrenaline is flowing through my veins. Blood is rushing through the rest of my body. I can tell the sparring match of the century is about to initiate. The ref, trying to be heard over the noisy bystanders, calls “bow to me…” This might be your last shot at it, so make it the best shot ever! “Bow to each other…” You have length on him; USE IT! “Fighters touch gloves…” Then and there, I close my eyes.

A smaller version of Josh is standing in front of me. I look at the belts around our waists; just seconds ago they were black, now they’re yellow and orange. I open my eyes. A new surge of energy shivered down my spine; must have been the aftermath of the double-shot espresso I drank earlier. I was ready. No one was going to stop me from getting first place. The only thing different now was that I was there not only to fight but to win. “FIGHT!”

Like A loaded gun, my right arm bullets into a back knuckle aimed at the side of his helmet. “BREAK!” We reset our starting positions across from each other. “Judges, call for point!” I try not to look, but the suspense is killing me. I got the point! That’s it! Now just four more to go! “FIGHT!” This time around won’t be so easy. Josh blitzes in on me with a hurricane of punches. “BREAK! Judges call!” He’s tied it one-one, but we’ve got some time.

Now the score is somehow three to three. Come on, Zac. All you need is two more points and you’ve got it! Once again, Josh charges in, but he has telegraphed it so I see him coming at me from a mile away. I hop slightly backwards, while simultaneously, I pull my knee up as high as I can, time it, and once he is in my kicking range, I thrust my right leg out as hard and as fast as I possibly can. I dare not look away for a nanosecond. I nail him right in the stomach, causing him to stagger and stumbles backwards. Is he hurt? The head ref takes notice and calls time out.

As a sign of courtesy, I turn around and take a knee. Should I feel bad right now? I mean after all the times he knocked me down and didn’t care to even say— “You’re doing great,” Carly shouts from around the corner, “don’t let him get to you!” I felt a heavy hand on my bony shoulder. I am startled to see that it was the head ref giving me the ‘good to go’ signal. I return to my fighting stance ready to go.

Once again, the referee yells “FIGHT!” In the blink of an eye, it was over. I listen carefully, as I try to control my asthma, for the final score. Sweat is running down the side of my face, from nerves or pure hard work, I don’t know. It is taking forever for the scorekeeper to say four simple words. I feel like I am going to have an anxiety attack just because I can’t stand the tension. Finally, the head ref walks between me and Josh and declares “RED…FOUR…WHITE…FIVE.”

That’s it. I’m done. I lost. What am I supposed to do now? I might as well have just forfeited at the beginning.
“Hey,” it is Carly. “You did great out there! How do you feel? You look down.”

“You think? I screwed up! I could have had it if I hadn’t been moving so slow.”

“Want to know something? Your match only last fifty-four seconds.”

“How’d you know that?”

“I was standing behind the timekeeper, but that’s beside the point. What has Coach been telling you for the past few months?”

“’Don’t leave room for the ‘what if.’” I reply with a dash of sarcasm.

“Exactly, Mr. Sarcastic. So don’t beat yourself down for that. You know what you have to do. So we’ll watch the video later and work off of that.”

“Yippee,” I reply again with so much irony. Carly glares at me with her hazel eyes, giggles, and walks away. I turn and stroll around the rest of the tournament, dodging people left and right. After an endless ten minutes of trying to scout out my bag, I begin to strip myself of my gloves, footgear, helmet, and mouthpiece.

Now what do I do; go hide in a box until the next tournament? Maybe Carly’s right. I can’t let that one mistake be the reason I give up. But why do I even try then? I don’t know. “Watch out Joshua Proctor, next time you’re not winning on any technicalities!” Haha, guess I just got to take life one punch at a time and throw a couple more back at it. This time next year, I’ll be stronger, faster, and smarter than my biggest enemy. And his name just happens to be Zechariah Mendes.