The Price of Greatness
The Price of Greatness
1
He could taste the coppery tang in his mouth, blood.
His heart heaved as he waded through fatigue. Hunching over, he slipped the left hand as it skimmed his head. He bobbed. Left and right. Feinted, drawing out a counter. He deflected the right hand with his shoulder held high. He stepped off, creating a dominant angle, a straight line to an exposed chin. The window was tiny, but he’d practiced, knowing it was there before he’d taken a step. His right hand was already on the way.
It was a solid connection, nearer to the ear than the chin, but that was credit to his opponent’s quickness. Despite the speed, it was too late. He felt the resistance leave his opponent’s body, that constant battle against gravity relinquished. Legs curled, head lolled and body spilled across the canvas.
He walked off as the referee stood over his fallen opponent.
No count.
Shut off.
It was over.
He held his hands aloft, basking in the relief and euphoria, his training, hard work and sacrifices paid off. The smattering of claps echoed throughout the empty hall. It didn’t matter. He felt like he had won the championship belt.
He basked in the victory as if under the sun.
By degrees, it faded, and in it’s place appeared bruises, swelling and throbbing pain.
For that moment though, he had touched something beyond himself. As short as it had been, the feeling persisted in the corners of his mind evasive, but there.
It was a feeling that needed to experience again.
2
He chased it with such vigor that few stood in his way. One after the other they fell. He faced challenges, but his combination of will and skill, fueled by hours of dedicated practice, pulled him through. Over time he became the amateur champ, then regional, and soon after, national champ. He left his job to focus on boxing. He’d still teach the classes from time to time, but it was more for publicity, helping out his old trainer, making him cash to pay him back for when he couldn’t afford to train. Then he hit the big time.
The best of the best, a fight against the current world champion on pay per view. The world was watching. He was nervous, but it helped. It made him alert, sharp. When he stepped in the ring, he felt like he was at home, familiar with it, ready. This was his time.
For the first few rounds, it was. He took it to the champion, no feeling out process. Over time however, the levels between champion and challenger made themselves apparent. For every shot he landed, he missed three more. Powerful, snapping punches at first, but as the rounds wore on, he pushed them out, stiff and labored, as if he were fighting in slow motion.
The champ turned it on. He staggered the challenger with a well timed right hand over a lazy jab. It shook him to his boots, the first backwards step he’d taken in the fight.
The champ faked low, and the challenger covered for a shot that was never thrown, instead eating a right hand to the jaw.
Bingo.
Flash.
Discombobulated.
Under water.
Black.
3
There were paintings on the walls.
He looked along the hallway, as far as he could see, it extended into darkness.
He took a step, and the plush, red carpet cushioned his shoe. He looked down. He was in his shorts, 10 ounce gloves still on his hands.
What was this?
He looked up and down the hallway, nothing but framed paintings.
He stood in front of one, it was blurry, as if caught in motion. He saw the color of black skin atop shorts, a smudge of red in front of a vague but apparent figure.
He walked to the next picture, blurry, but he could make it out.
A boxer, slipping left, hand cocked for a counter uppercut.
His alert eyes scanned further down the row. More paintings, some vague, others clearer, then he saw it, a ways down from where he stood.
A picture, more like a photo than a painting.
He approached it, as he stood before the image, he was filled with a sense of familiarity.
Juanito ‘Dynamite’ Desalves.
As a kid, Dynamite Desalves’ picture hid the cracks on his bare bedroom wall. When he played boxing in the street with the other kids, they would reenact his battles: the times he won with slickness, and then later in his career, the wars he won with grit.
Then Dynamite lost a split decision.
The other kids stopped playing as him.
It was an upset, but explainable. Everyone loses eventually. But then in his comeback fight, he was slower, more hittable. His distinctive movement was still there, but it was a step slower, as if someone else was in Dynamite’s body, an old man at the controls playing catch up.
That’s when the KO’s began. At first it was strange seeing him lying on his back, writhing out of pure muscle memory, eyes blank. But then it happened again, and the sight became familiar. The last knockout was so brutal that he didn’t move at all. Part of him woke up in the hospital, but the rest stayed asleep. His face hung on one side, eyes out of sync. His mind…
“I’ve been waiting for you Carlos.”
He snapped out of his memories, head jerking left and right, looking for the speaker.
Nobody there.
“Who’s that?” Carlos said. “Where you at?”
“Welcome…” came a voice from directly behind him. He spun round, a figure before him.
An old man, stature faded, but eyes burning bright beneath his thick eyebrows.
Carlos stumbled in his mind. “Where’m I at?”
The man held his arms out to his sides like branches on a dead tree.
“The Hall of Greatness.”
4
The old man explained the shadow realm with an unnatural patience.
“A land between unconsciousness and sleep, where time stands still. Those separated from their consciousness are brought here, though few make it this far.”
“I got knocked out?”
“Yes. Brutally so.”
The cold panic of defeat rose through his body like an ice bath. “I gotta get back! I gotta beat the count!”
“Be calm!” The old man said with a force at odds with his frail appearance. “While you are here, time does not pass.”
Carlos’ breathing slowed, his anxiety dissipated by degrees. “So why’m I here?”
“Because you have the potential for greatness.” He pointed at the picture of Dynamite Desalves with his spindly hand.
Carlos looked up at the man. For a moment he was a kid again, looking up at his bedroom wall. “Dyno was a legend.”
“He was willing to pay.”
Carlos stared at the old man as if he were an opponent. “Dyno was the man. He didn’t pay off nobody. What you tryin’ to say?”
The old man’s eyes glimmered in the soft light.
“You too can be great.” His unblinking eyes returned Carlos’ intense gaze, “For a price.”
5
“I can be like Dynamite?”
“Being wrenched from consciousness at the hands of another exacts a great toll on the mind. I can offer you a return to the world above. Equilibrium untouched, body re-energized, and your soul overflowing with the desire to win.”
“I can go back and fight?”
“You can go back and win. But each time, you must pay.”
“How much?”
“A piece of yourself must be left here.”
“What you mean, like a piece of my arm?”
“No.” His bony finger extended and touched his temple. “Your mind.”
Carlos looked across at the paintings down the hall. Some were blurred and unrecognizable. He pointed at one. “What’d he pay?”
“Nothing. He went back unchanged.”
“So why’s his picture up?”
“He had potential, but rejected the offer.”
“You mean he coulda’ been a legend like Dyno?”
“He chose another path.”
Carlos turned back to Dynamite’s picture. It was the clearest picture of all that he could see. It was as if they were staring at each other through a doorway.
“What about Dynamite?” Carlos asked
“He requested victory every time.”
He thought about Dynamite in his middle age. Slow, slurred, tragic. He turned back to the old man.
“What’s my limit?”
“You won’t know until you cross it.”
“Can I go back?”
A pale-gummed grin spread across the old man’s face. “No. That’s the cost of greatness.”
He turned back to Dynamite’s picture. “What was Dynamite’s limit?”
“Irrelevant. Everyone’s limit is different.”
“I wanna know.”
The old man exhaled a long whistle through his nose. “It was fourteen.”
“He came here fourteen times?”
“No.”
“I knew it. Dyno was the best, he didn’t need no d-”
“He did it over one hundred times.”
Carlos stood in silence for a long time. Thoughts of Dynamite running through his mind, the wars he went through, the end of his life.
The old man swayed in a non existent breeze, bringing Carlos back to the deal at hand. He nodded. “Just one time and I’ll be alright... right?”
“Yes. But it will create your frame. After that it is your choice.”
He thought for a moment, Dynamite looking on in silence.
“Everyone comes here?”
“Only those that have the potential for greatness.”
Carlos nodded, decision made.
“I’ll do it.”
6
Boxing pundits wrote about his win,
Miraculous comeback from a hellacious knockdown.
Granite chin.
Indefatigable grit.
A new prospect in the weight class.
From prospect to contender, Carlos grew in skills, ability, and accrued damage. To the unknowing, after each knockdown he seemed to come back stronger than before. More people began paying attention to his fights, and it was when he reached his first championship bout that he became a hero in his own country.
His fight was against the American champion. Technically brilliant, tough and powerful. However his empire was crumbling. He’d been stunned in his last fight, but his experience took him to the championship rounds. He’d drowned his opponent in the deep waters of fatigue.
Carlos trained harder than he’d ever done before, beyond his threshold for tolerance. He sparred with the best guys he could find, young, poor, hungry lions. They had gym wars in the lead up to the fight, and he purposefully got himself into difficult positions, learning to breathe, detach himself from his emotions. In that cold state of observation he could look at the fight from outside of the ring, decide his actions, return, and execute.
Along the way he visited the Hall of Greatness several times.
“What will be your decision?” The old man asked every time.
Carlos would look at his picture with a boxer’s analytical eye. At first the picture was hazy, a malformed blur. Over time however, the resemblance started to appear. It was imperceptible at first, but each time shifting closer to his likeness. He could see himself, but not in as much detail as Dynamite. He had time, and the belt was so close.
“Send me back,” he’d say, “I gotta win.”
Then he’d open his eyes, and be back in the fight, biting down on his mouthpiece, throwing heavy, well timed punches, imprinting his movements deep into muscle memory.
He wanted to make a statement. It was a championship fight in America with lots of money behind it. He had to win by knockout, out of the hands of the judges.
7
As he walked to the ring, he heard nothing. Not the roar of the crowd nor the thumping beats of the walk in music. He walked alone, silently, down a mental tunnel of his own creation. His eyes remained on the thin strip of white canvas that lay before him in the distance. It was on this day that he’d test his mettle. His sacrifices were to be examined under the bright lights, before the watchful eyes of millions.
As he reached the prep corner, the official checked his gum shield and cup. He stood there, looking into a distance farther than anyone else could see.
He blinked.
His eyes took a moment to distinguish the face in the crowd. An old face, wizened, watching him.
The man from the Hall of Greatness.
Their eyes locked, meaning resonated between them. The elderly man said nothing, instead giving a slow, single nod.
His chance for greatness a few steps away.
Carlos returned the gesture.
He stepped into the ring, a roar erupting from the crowd. He felt the buzz of support from his fans, energizing his body, straightening his spine.
The lights went dim.
Rap music filled the arena, heavy beats with mumbled lyrics. The sounds washed over him as if they were nothing. He was ready.
His eyes followed his opponent as he approached the ring, going through the prep point, climbing the steps, and entering the ring to a thunderous reception.
The air was pregnant with anticipation, and blood lust.
Carlos acknowledged the moment.
He was going to impose his will on this man.
The face off was tense, but respectful. As they returned to their corners, Carlos took one glance up to the lights above.
Dynamite was watching him from someplace.
The bell rang, and both men stepped to the center of the ring.
8
The fight was not a war, it was a sacrifice. Both men, refused to give an inch, and fought as if to continue their existence.
The story line of the fight was one of abilities mirrored through the filter of age. Youth versus experience, power versus precision, and speed versus timing. The battle raged, swaying to and fro, through adaptations to adaptations and moments of athletic brilliance. That was until the deep and treacherous waters of the double digit rounds. By this point the rot of fatigue had set in both men, and their form was abandoned. The sweet science gave way to grit and muscle memory carved from hours of graft. Both men stood and traded, unwilling, unable to back down.
Carlos felt a punch land cleanly, but it was lacking the snap that had staggered him earlier in the fight. Walking through the shot, he landed a counter, and felt the familiar disconnect from gravity, as his opponent buckled. It was just for a fraction of a second, but he knew then that the champion faltered.
For the first time in the fight, his opponent, the champion, took a backwards step and a deep breath.
Surging with confidence, Carlos occupied the space that had given up by the champion. He seemed to grow in size, while his opponent shrank. The momentum of conflict was now turning in his favor. The audience could sense the end game.
He connected with a solid shot, and another, snapping the champions head back, up to the lights. The volume built, he was landing flush, yet his opponent would not go down. He let his hands go, combinations he’d drilled in the gym. They flew in a rhythmic blur, from different angles, blending into one another. His mind went through the routines in his muscle memory, doubling up shots, hitting downstairs and up, straight and curved shots. Opening gaps in the guard, and landing on exposed, vulnerable flesh.
The champion’s head snapped to and fro as he was lit up. The resistance to attack left his body.
The referee stepped between the two fighters and wrapped his arms around the displaced champion. He leaned into the referee’s sweat soaked white shirt, smearing his blood on the collar and accepting the embrace of defeat. The crowd’s cheers hummed in Carlos’ head, rattling his bones and filling him with the overwhelming joy of victory. He stepped back from his defeated opponent and fell to his knees in the center of the ring, raising his tired arms to the sky. He had done it, he was the champion.
9
He was taken to the hospital for a check up. Though the adrenaline of conflict was beginning to fade, the emotional high took the edge off the usual pain post-fight.
During his brief hospital stay, he spoke with his manager, coaches, team and family. All were ecstatic, and planned a huge celebration for him once he returned home.
As he was leaving the hospital, he ran into one of the corner men from his opponent’s team.
They hugged. Respect was mutual, but for a moment, Carlos felt a pang of guilt, having taken away a man’s title. He couldn’t imagine going through the same thing, being bested in front of so many, shown to be less deserving than the man who defeated you with his superior will. The hardest part would be having to accept a lower status in the eyes of the millions watching.
Carlos was filled with a desire to see his opponent.
His handlers let him into the former champion’s room and they had a few minutes to reminisce.
The former champ lay in bed, unhurt, except for his pride.
“You’re a warrior. If you wanna rematch I’d be honored. Nothing but respect.”
His opponent shook his head. “That was my last dance. Time for me to hang em’ up.”
“No way champ, you’ve got a lot of heart.” Carlos kissed the ex champ on the forehead and walked to the door.
“I’m not going to the hallway again.”
Carlos spun around, fixing his puffy eyes on his former opponent.
“What did you say?”
“Sometimes I dream I’m in a hall.”
Carlos held his breath. “Paintings?”
The ex champ’s eyes shone beneath the purple swelling. “You’ve been there?”
“The old man.” Carlos replied.
His fallen foe locked eyes with Carlos, but it was different from when they were in the ring. There was a kinship, an understanding. “Your picture?” He asked.
“On the wall.”
The ex champ nodded. “I went there in our fight.” His eyes were cast down, looking over his body as it lay hidden beneath the bed sheet. “You don’t notice how clear your picture is until it’s too late.” He looked out of the window into the night, but his mind was looking elsewhere. “I’ll coach, but my fight days are over. I’ve got my boys to think about.” He looked at Carlos, concern in his puffy eyes. “What about you?”
A breath whistled through Carlos’ swollen nose. “I’ve got time.”
His former opponent nodded. “Be careful. You can’t go back.”
Carlos nodded as they parted ways. Two champions at different ends of their careers.
10
Winning the belt made Carlos famous. Defending it against a murderer’s row made him a household name.
Transcending the sport, doors opened for him which would never have done so without boxing. The good: wealth, fame, opportunities, were balanced by the bad: hangers on, lack of privacy, and temptations. Drugs and women became readily available, but he stayed true to the course. Having seen what happened to others on this path, he weighed up every encounter, opportunity and offer. Some were good, most had a hidden catch. He stayed away from the nightclubs, nightlife and night people. He married at thirty, and started a family. He had the chance to bring the world’s attention to his home town, and with that attention came support, and with that support he ended the poor childhoods that were typical of his people.
The favorite of all his people, his son, grew up quickly. He watched and emulated his father, copying his moves and mannerisms, a miniature Carlos, but one formed in safety, not out of abject poverty.
Carlos fought on, seeing off challenger after challenger. After a while, the constant training began to take its toll – injuries, slowed reactions, and waning power. Once he hit his latter thirties, he felt a change. He could see punches coming, and made opportunities to counter, but his reactions were a fraction of a second too slow. He could hide it well with guesswork and timing, but the spontaneous chances that occurred in the chaos of a fight drifting from reach.
In his next fight he was staggered. He visited the Hall of Greatness, saw the old man approaching, but decided before they could even speak. His painting was getting close to complete, but he felt in himself that he still had it, in this fight at least. He came back and won a hard fought decision, but that gave his other opponents hope. He’d missed a step, the champ was beatable.
He hadn’t heard of his next opponent until the media reported on his destruction of the last man to fight Carlos. This new contender had destroyed the former challenger in the second round. The press talked about how Carlos had struggled to a decision against him, yet the challenger had ended his night in the second round. He was fast and powerful, but more than that, he was cerebral. Like a cobra, he had risen up form the ground and was ready to strike with speed and venom.
Watching the tapes, Carlos could see he had his work cut out. His manager tried to come up with a game plan, but the ability just wasn’t there. The decision then was to drag him into an extended clinch, make him work harder than he was used to, and then overwhelm him in the mid to later rounds.
The plan was there, all that was left was to execute it.
11
The bell signaled the end of the first round.
Carlos staggered back to his corner, his team holding him up.
They looked in his eyes. The towel was swirling in his face to cool him down, but it was little consolation. He’d been stung by a heavy right hand. His face hurt and felt numb at the same time, as if it wasn’t his own, borrowed from someone else for the night.
His corner man screamed in his ear, “watch out for the overhand, circle out. Frame, frame.”
But it was beyond that. He was fighting a man that was over a decade younger than him, faster, stronger, had the legs for twelve rounds, and was willing to fight in any area.
This was a war that he couldn’t win.
Unless...
The hallway lit up in his mind. No, he wouldn’t go there. He’d been too many times. The old man would be waiting, expecting him.
He’d find a way, there was always a way, beyond the Hall of Greatness. He had something that the young man didn’t, experience, the type that was earned through grit and misfortune. He’d use it, exploit his youthful eagerness, and overcome.
The next round began, his mind forged by his iron will. Carlos stepped to the center of the ring and sat down on his punches. He connected, one, one two. His right hand snapping the challenger’s head back. He uncorked his knockout punch, smooth as butter, practiced for years.
He landed it clean, the challenger hadn’t even seen it.
One thing was missing from the punch though, that familiar disconnection from gravity.
At the end of Carlos’ arm, the challenger remained, heavy, and solid in his foundations. His eyes were clear, focused, determined.
Realization flowed through Carlos like a cold chill. His body was not what it once was. His fight ending weapon hadn’t worked, and the man he was facing was not going to leave early. He was here till the end, and was intent on taking the championship by force.
Carlos felt himself shrink in size. His opponent seemed larger, faster, knew angles he hadn’t experienced, and had more than two arms. As they traded shots, he felt himself sinking, drowning in his opponent’s performance. A punch slipped through, under his elbow and hit his ribs. He lowered his arms a second too late to block the shot, but he had been tricked by a clever decoy. It had been the challenger’s intention to use the champion’s delayed reactions against him.
His face was wide open and there was nothing he could do to defend it in time.
He closed his eyes waiting for the impact.
A solid hook connected with his jaw. Carlos felt the first millisecond of it. His jaw wrenched, the delicate nerve within blew under the impact.
Blackness.
He fell, long and far, into the Hall of Greatness.
12
Carlos stood looking at his picture. He was younger in the photo, eyes bright and intense, the look of a champion.
He stared at the picture for a long time, thinking of his battles and victories along the way.
The familiarity he’d developed with the hall was there, but something was different this time. Time stood still in the Hall of Greatness. He could have taken forever. As a younger man, he only needed to glance at the picture, the lack of clarity let him jump back into battle with renewed determination. In his later years, his picture had become clearer, his examination taking longer each time.
This time he stood and stared at it for a long time. His eyes flowing over the crystal clear lines and well defined features.
“Welcome back champion.” He heard the familiar voice say.
He turned to the old man.
“Saw you in the crowd.”
The man smiled and nodded, looking up at the picture. “A good likeness.” He said, his beady eyes returning to Carlos. “What is your decision?”
Carlos looked at the picture of Dynamite next to his. It wasn’t quite as perfectly captured, but it was close enough. He was tired. His body ached. Recovery took longer, and his reactions had dulled from the blows that he had taken to his head.
He took a breath and thought of his family, his career, his fans.
His legacy.
He could return and fight, but he knew that his opponent would send him back here again, many times over. Maybe he could stay and think, come up with a plan. There had to be a crack in the wall he was facing.
He thought long and hard, routes to victory: deception, cunning, experience.
It wouldn’t be easy. He could do it, but he knew that he would be back here many times over, and just in one night. Was one fight alone worth the price?
His mind, his health, his future. He had established his name in the world of boxing, helped poor children in his country, and inspired people the world over to take up boxing. This new opponent had taken up boxing because of Carlos, young and hungry, fighting his aged hero. He closed his eyes and listened to his body. It creaked and groaned like an old house. It was solid, but the flex, the scent of youth had gone. He couldn’t defeat his opponent without a brutal, life changing struggle.
His time had come.
What would be after this? The media would slate him, say he was exposed, a paper champion, overrated, last week’s news. But what did that matter? They’d never stepped into the ring, never put it all on the line like Carlos, or Dynamite...
He thought back to Dynamite, the champ eternal. He’d lost, and shamefully, Carlos had lost interest in him. But now, looking at his picture with similar experience, it filled him with admiration for the man, Not just for the way he had won, but also for the way he had handed defeat, like a champion.
Carlos smiled.
“Returning to the fight?” The old man asked.
“No.” Said Carlos.
“What about your legacy?”
“That’s up to the fans.”
“You can be remembered forever, a legend in the sport.”
“If I’m gonna be remembered, I wanna’ be known as a good man.”
“Are you sure? You’ll lose.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m gonna say no.
“Last chance.” He said, beady eyes blazing.
Carlos took a deep breath.
“Look old man, send me back as is…”
he held up his fist and beamed a devilish grin,
“…or I’ll knock your old ass out!”
The old man drew back in fear.
They stood in the hallway of greats, their health sacrificed for their legacy.
The old man nodded. “So be it.”
Carlos looked up at Dynamite’s picture and rubbed the smooth frame. “Thanks champ.”
He could hear a voice, it was stifled, far away, but approaching. It sounded like short, rhythmic sounds, almost like...
Someone counting.
13
“Eight... nine... ten!”
The referee waved his gloved hands above his head, it was over.
The bell rang, the crowd roaring at the explosive finish.
In the commentary box, the announcers shouted into their microphones.
“We have a new champion!”