A Perfect Exit Ruined

I had planned the perfect exit, the end of my career, the end of my pain, the end of giving others pain, and possibly the end to this life. It's something I've given a lot of thought and although I thought I had the perfect plan I have yet to be able to execute it.

I began fighting when I was six years old. The older neighbor kids saw me as easy prey, scrawny, freckled kid with glasses; they mercilessly taunted and abused me. I fought back as much as a six year old can. My old man joined them in their taunting calling me a pussy and a faggot and sometimes brought his hand down on me too. He told me to fight, fight dirty if I had to but most importantly stop letting other people get the upper hand. He didn't do anything helpful until I was nearly beat to death by two twelve year olds and even then I had to beg him, as I lay in my hospital bed, to teach me to fight or send me to classes or move us away from my constant tormentors.

And so it was that at age six I found myself in a boxing ring with a coach. The biggest meanest looking man I'd ever seen, Shorty was far from short. The man filled doorways, occupied hallways, and overshadowed everyone. He growled like an old ornery dog but could be as gentle as the lamb the dog guards from marauders.

The fights and beatings didn't stop right away but as I trained with Shorty I developed my strength, my speed, and the ability to see an opponent's weakness. At age eight I begged my dad to send me to martial arts training and finally convinced him. I spent every night honing my skills as a fighter, training with Shorty on Mondays and Thursdays and my Sifu on Tuesdays and Fridays.

I remember the first fight I won as though it were just a few minutes ago. My tormentors, who always traveled in packs, spotted me walking home from training one night and began their endless ritual of belittlement. This red haired kid everyone called Ginger was the first to hit me, slapping me hard across the face leaving a welt in the shape of his small thirteen year old hand on my cheek. I watched it happen. I saw his hand come up from his side, flatten out and his arm begin its extension to reach out and just as his hand made contact with my face my tiny fist flew out from my side to punch him in the ribs.

I mentioned before that I fought the beatings I'd received in years past but I want you to understand the difference. Before, I was blindly, madly scrambling to make contact anywhere I could or fighting just to get away, to run away. But on this day the brief years of training I'd received from Sifu and Shorty clicked. I consciously made every move and later, reflecting on the fight found that although it was me making the actions I'd been as detached from the whole scene as any observer of a boxing match is.

So, back to the fight, Ginger cried out, whether in pain or surprise I'll never know for sure but I know that when I was done with him it was all pain. His friends stood there, mouths agape, for just a few seconds and I could see the realization of what had happened in their eyes. One of the boys reached out to grab me, but being much larger, missed as I ducked out of his reach spinning to deliver a kick to his midsection. He went to the ground, gasping for breath and crying loudly like some little girl who has been hit by an older brother and wants to make sure mom and dad punish him. I can still see him; down on all fours clutching at his wounded side before I donkey kicked him in the face. I can see the red droplets of blood fly out of his nose as he spun to land laying on his back staring up at nothing. The other boys ran but Ginger had recovered and was intent on murder. He came at me in a blind rage, charging like an out of control bull. I easily sidestepped him and sent him sprawling. ME! AN eight year old boy! I did this to a thirteen year old bully! As he hit the ground I ran up behind his sprawled form and delivered a kick to his groin. I could feel the hard shape of my foot compressing what little was between this boy's legs on contact. I felt, or imagined so, Ginger's body come off the ground as my kick continued compressing those delicate pieces a boy never wants to have pain inflicted on, and then I heard the gasp of agony as the pain delivered its message to Gingers mind and let him know just how bad off he was.

I left those boys lying there screaming and crying and made my way home. Entering my house I ran into my dad in the hall.

"You get beat up again pussy? That looks a pretty good welt you've got blooming on your face. Why am I paying for fighting lessons if you're just gonna let those boys beat on you?"

I think that that is when the pain I inflicted on those two boys finally hit home for me. I burst into tears and my dad, mistaking this for more pathetic weakness from his son started berating me again.

"You dumb little faggot. Go cry like the little girl you are, I can't stand....."

This rant was interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing. My dad stormed off to answer it and I listened to his side of the conversation until finally he returned. This time the sneer of disgust was turned into a smile of pride.

"Why didn't you tell me you didn't get beat up? That was Ginger's mom, he's in the hospital and she wants me to pay the bill. Ha, dumb bitch. I know that kid has been beating you for years and I no more intend to pay for that bill than I intended for you to be some pussy faggot who got beat up all your life. Tell me how it happened, tell me what you did."

Maybe the reason I remember the incident so well is that my dad required the play by play and even wanted me to demonstrate the kicks and punches I'd use to beat the two boys. Maybe it's because that ended the years of abuse I'd suffered at their hands. Irregardless that was the beginning of my professional fighting career. I know, I know, not a professional then but that was the incident that led me to the career I so desperately want to end.

I continued my training with Shorty and Sifu all through school, competing in boxing and kick boxing events across the country, until I was nineteen years old. By this time I had grown into my man's body. I was still small but I was built of steel cords. My training had shaped my body until it was the most efficient machine attainable and that was when I saw the flyer.

It was Shorty in fact that showed me the flyer telling me how easy it would be for me to win. I took it to Sifu who shook his head at the prospect of me entering a competition like this and told me that my training with him was complete. I was sad to lose him as my guide and trainer but I wanted this fight. I tore the registration off the form and filled it our right in front of Sifu. I thanked him for the years he'd spent with me and I left him holding the top of the flyer in his hands.

My amateur career was over as quickly as it started. I was promoted to professional ring fighting after just three fights and soon I was fighting anyone and everyone who would take their chance against me until finally I won the title and then held onto it. I have now held the title for twenty three years and although I'm far from old I find myself wanting to give up the fight more and more often.

I was twenty three when I wed and by the time I was twenty four I had my first child. My young bride died giving birth to him and at times I resented him for her death but he became, outside of fighting, my focus in life, he became the reason to fight. He went everywhere with me and having been raised around the ring soon started parroting me in training and during fights and that is when the idea came to me, I began his training the very next day.

For the next twenty years I trained my child teaching him everything I knew. I helped him condition and hone his body until, like mine, it was a lethal weapon. He began fighting in events across the country and won them as easily as I had. At the age of eighteen he told me he wanted to fight in a tough man competition. I watched from the front row as he destroyed men that were much larger than him. And finally, after twenty three years of training him, watching him fight, and him watching me fight, my idea came to fruition.

I was the only one standing in the way of my son taking the title, the title I've held for so long now. My son would fight me and I hoped with all my heart that he would be me.

Normally fighters would have separate dressing rooms. As his father and trainer as well as his competition we only required one. We prepared for the fight together just as we had for every fight before. We discussed his opponent's weaknesses and strengths, we ran through the focus exercises, we taped each other's hands and feet and finally together, hand in hand, father and son, we walked out to the ring. I asked the announcer to allow me to speak and I turned to the crowd of thousands.

"Tonight my son fights me. He fights for the title but he fights for more than that. There comes a time in a man's life when he realizes he is stronger, smarter, and better than his father was before him. This time for my son is now. While I'll fight this fight like every other I've ever won before this I will be rooting him on, cheering him on to beat his old man, in the hopes that he takes the title from me so that I may retire."

I handed the mike back to the announcer who commenced his routine with easy efficiency and finally the fight started. My son and I met in the center of the ring and I held my arms out to hug him and we embraced.

"I love you, good luck." I said as we broke from each others arms.

As our embrace ended I delivered a punch to his ribs, the first of many that night. It nearly crushed me then to see the pain light in his eyes and the realization dawn that, for me, this was just another fight, and finally I saw rage settle into his eyes and was happy to see this. He stood to face me and took his stance. I stood, arms by my side, relaxed, looking calmly back at him as I had so many other fighters before me, until he came at me.

He feigned a punch, pulling it at the last second to send a kick to my thigh and it was then that I focused and settled into another title bout. I saw the kick coming before he ever pulled the punch and I grabbed his foot, turning and twisting ever so gently to send him flying, spinning, through the air to land at the opposite side of the ring.

He was up in an instant and even as I crossed the ring to kick him in the ribs I saw that I was too late as he dodged the blow to deliver a bunch to my hamstring as my leg sailed past the place where his body had been just moments before. I felt the seize of the Charlie horse try to take hold of my thigh and turned in time to duck the punch coming at my head.

Ducking I threw my shoulder into his chest throwing him to the mat but as he fell he pulled me up and over him throwing me into the air. Moving with the momentum I turned to land on my feet and turned, smiling to see my son resuming his assault. He feigned a punch with his right hand to my face delivering a blow to my chest with his left. I relished the pain and returned it with two quick jabs to the side of his face. Then dropping to the mat I swept his feet and brought my foot down to stomp his chest missing by little as he rolled out of the way.

He rolled, catching my foot and twisting to pull me to the mat and I was so proud to see how quickly he regained his feet to deliver a kick to my face. I regained my feet and locked arms with him, grappling for position. "You're doing well son but you can do better can't you?" I asked as I stepped to the side breaking my arms free to deliver three rapid punches to his kidneys as he went past me.

So early in the fight and I could already see the pain taking hold. His fights before this had been quick and easy and I could tell he was hurt, more than physically, that his old man was delivering pain to him in a way that he'd never experienced before. It was at that moment that I realized the perfect exit I'd desired and worked for and trained my son to deliver was ruined. This boy that I had groomed for this moment, to end my career, to end my pain, to end delivery of pain to others, and possibly to end this life, was just as weak as any other I'd fought.

I immediately doubled my efforts delivering blow after blow to this child of mine who I so loved. He tried to block them, he tried to return them, but in the end he too realized that he was no match for me. As I delivered the final blow, killing him where he stood, I lamented the perfect exit ruined, the loss of life, and the loss of my heart and soul.