A Match of Glory

Bell chimes! My feet launch me up to the ring. Chicago Center, in Chicago, Illinois, is a great place for a boxing match. I look my opponent in the eyes; black spheres of fury circulate the pupil. Scanning him up and down, I notice he’s a bit chubby, no fatter than I, and yet his face is rougher. His height and weight are almost exact to mine. I swing at his beefy arms, trying to make his stance unbalanced. He falls to the ground and bounces right back up. Shocked, he catches me off guard and a whack in the face sends me flying out of the ring.

“Dong!” The bell rings yet again.

 “Dominguez, The Slam, wins!” I look painfully at the clock: 7:32. I was in for a minute. The smell of the food stands lingers my way. I then suddenly pass out.

I wake up to a handful of cash, none of which is mine, inside a locker room. Dominguez is waving one-hundred dollars across my face, which by the way was throbbing at the time.

“Are you okay little fella?” A bizarre accent escapes his mouth.

“Uhhh…”

“I know you lost the bet, but have a little pride. Passing out in a trash can of a food stand is no way to go.”

“What… what are you talking about?” I felt extremely nauseous.

“You don’t remember the bet we agreed to?”

“Uh… maybe?”

“I bet you, just last Tuesday, that I could beat you in a boxing match. We agreed that the first one to be thrown out of the ring would have to pay the winner one-hundred denaros.” Astounded by the fact that he used the word “denaros,” I felt the need to question him some more. I guess that’s just how Italians say dollars.

“A bet…?” My vision began to go.

“Yes! And even though I obviously won,” he handed me the five twenty dollar bills that he used to wake me up with, “you deserve the cash.” To see such kindness acted towards me was just so unusual. No one has ever shown such kindness, well any at the least, as this man portrayed here. “I don’t want the money,” he continued, “because you need it more than I do. Knowing I have done this act of kindness is good enough for me.” He turned away from me and was about to walk away when he paused at the doorway.

“Oh, and by the way, you might want to not make a bet with anymore professional boxers. Others might not be as forgiving as I.” With that being said, he walked out of the locker room, his pride steering behind him.

I looked down at the wad of cash. A note was attached:

Dear Fernando,

I know you probably don’t have any memory of me right now, but that’s only because you were drunk when we set up the bet. A few dozen beers will do a lot to a man, but having the courage to get up in that ring and fight for yourself, even when no one is there to cheer you on, will do your soul a lot better.

Experience life, see the world, but don’t get yourself into any more mischief.

Sincerely, your friend “The Slam”

And that had to have been the first time I heard the word “friend” addressed to me.

By: Taylor Coen