Last Round
by Steve Lucchesi
He didn’t hear the bell ending the round and stood in the corner waiting, almost hoping, to feel the next blow. The referee pushed him in the direction of his own corner where, trying to suck air into his aching hungry lungs, he managed to slump onto the stool.
His body had moved instinctively, ducking and bobbing and moving away from his opponent’s onslaught for most of the fight while his mind had been fixated on flashes of memories from the past weeks; the lacey lingerie he had found that she had never worn for him; the faint traces of unfamiliar scents, cigarettes and musk, on her after flimsily explained nights away from home; the mention of her name in a snatch of hushed conversation he had overheard in the locker room. His mind had overheated for eleven rounds trying to splice all the frames together in different ways, looking for a prettier picture than the obvious one.
This past round he had continued the thoughtless moving, but with a minute left, his mind had seized up - locked on the only picture that made sense - and he had been caught in a corner where he took a beating. It was the kind of beating he was used to giving, not taking.
“You look like a ballerina, you’re dancing so much.” His trainer yelled at him.
His cornerman squirted water into his mouth. He swirled it around, then looked down and spit it out. His head stayed lowered.
"Look up at me when I’m talking to you. Pay attention. Get your head into it.” The trainer shouted.
“Yeah,Yeah.” He said slowly. His lungs were now fuller, but his eyes still focused on the canvas in front of his feet.
“You got to start hitting and stop running.”
“I know. I know.”
“Well then do something. Looks like you’re going down for him, like the fix is in. You’re behind on all three cards.”
“I know.” He snapped, irritated now.
“Use your right hook. He’s dropping his left, holding it lower. You only got one more round to do this.” Then after a pause, “Go after him like he’s the guy doing your wife.”
“Screw you.” He spit the words as he jerked his head up.
The bell rang and he sprang into the ring, still the champ and with three minutes to keep it that way.
“There you go, kid.” The trainer whispered to himself.
Steve Lucchesi was born and raised in San Francisco and has lived and worked as an information technology manager in California's Silicon Valley for over 30 years. Now that his two daughters are grown and on their own, he is hoping to spend more time enjoying writing. This story is the first he has submitted for publication. Contact Steve.
