The Title

Well, this is it. What it all comes down to. The Moment.

I’m in my corner, coated in sweat. Livid bruises are rising all over my body, where my chest, arms, legs, and face have absorbed one punch, one kick after another. My hands tremble with pain, like two white hot points of agony at the ends of my arms. My manager has an iced coin pressed to a small gash above my left eye, trying to get it to stop bleeding before the referee notices it.

“You’re doing fine, Bobby,” he says, his hot breath wafting into my face. “Just fine. This is it. This is the last round. You just keep on your feet, and they can’t take this away from you. This is your time; this is what you’ve been working toward your whole life.”

The words wash over me, like a calming mantra. It’s been a long fight, the capper to a long, illustrious career. Now I’ve reached the title bout, and it’s mine for the taking.

Beyond the bars of the fighting cage, camera lights shine, mostly—but not entirely—obscuring the shouting, screaming faces of the spectators. They’re worked into a frenzy, the proverbial fever pitch. Most of them are diehard fans, who’ve followed me for years, as I rose through the ranks, defeating all challengers, honing my skills and building a solid record. Now they want to see the Moment, the one that’ll let them tell their kids and grandkids that they were there when I took the title.

I have to say, I was never sure I would get this far. I mean, just a few years ago, I was one of those guys hanging around the gym, struggling to get time with a good trainer. I took every scrap of advice that came my way, learned everything I could about proper nutrition and exercise. I did my time as the punching bag, letting the more promising candidates practice their moves on me, taking my bruises and asking kindly for more. Every time I took a hard hit, every time I got knocked to the canvas, I just picked myself up, wiser for the experience, ready to take as much as it took.

Until I got my chance.

It’s like it was yesterday. The number one guy in the lineup was out. Slipped in his shower, hit his head, got a concussion. I was the only one who would fill in against a contender without a full training series. At the time, it seemed as though Fate itself had smiled on me. And who knows? Maybe it had.

I was nervous enough that I would have thrown up if I’d been able to eat anything. I walked into the ring for the first time, sweating before the first punch had been thrown. My opponent had something like a 13:1 ratio. At least a half dozen knockouts. A monster in the ring. He looked like he was three times my size. Like he could eat me and spit out the bones. For the first three rounds, he knocked me around like I was a sack of oats. But by the third time I staggered to my corner, thanking God for that bell, I was pretty sure I’d spotted his tell. He seemed to turn his head just a bit too far before a feint. Turns out I was right: ten seconds into round four, I stepped into his blind spot and laid him flat with a strong right. No one saw it coming, least of all him.

After that, things moved fast.

Now, many, many fights later, I’m the number one contender, up for my chance. I’m fighting the fight of my life for the highest prize. Money, fame, immortality. It’s mine for the taking. If I can just hold it together for three more minutes.

My opponent is no pushover, believe you me. He knows what’s on the line as well as I do, and he’s not just going to give it up. For fourteen rounds we’ve pounded each other, until we both have to feel like so much hamburger. We’ve hit each other so many times, I don’t think anyone could keep count. And that’s when we weren’t clinching and grappling. This is mixed martial arts, after all; we don’t just circle each other trading punches.

I know sometime around the seventh he gave me that cut. I’ve had to keep inside range of his high kicks since then, sliding off to his left and closing fast. If the bleeding gets worse, they might call the match. So we’ve been grappling a bit more the last few rounds. That’s okay by me. I have a bit more mass than him, though we’re both easily inside range for our weight class. The last grapple definitely went my way; he’s favoring his right shoulder in a way that tells me he’s pulled something painful. You can’t say I haven’t given as good as I’ve gotten.

The bell rings again. The roaring of the crowd goes up another notch. I swear, you could rupture an eardrum from the noise. Just for a second, I imagine how loud it might get when the final blow lands, and the winner is clear.

Then I surge out of my corner, pushing off the bars. Fists raised before me, I just launch myself at my opponent, holding nothing back. That’s okay, because he does the same. Fists and feet fly. Arms snake out to grab and grapple. I lose all track of time, just trying to keep pummeling away, no regard for strategy, all pretense of restraint gone, focused solely on putting on a show for the crowd.

It works. In spades. Everybody is on their feet, arms gesticulating, yelling themselves hoarse. It’s everything I could have hoped it would be.

The bell sounds again, faint and tinny against the storm of shouting and screaming. Ten seconds left.

That’s my cue.

With a deep breath, I drop my hands, just a little. Just enough. I pretend to stumble, every so slightly. My opponent opens the distance, setting himself in optimal range for himself. I meet his gaze and brace myself. He spins around, a graceful, powerful movement, lifting his right leg as he does so, his timing and aim perfect. I see his foot coming around, and lean with the direction, just enough to soften the hit.

The blow lands, his heel connecting with my cheek, and I roll with the force of the impact, letting it take my off my feet, lifting me head over heels, to slam into the mat.

I go still. Eyes closed. Face slack.

And I stay that way. As the ref hits the mat beside me, his fist pounding the canvas, his voice bellowing out the count. At ten, it’s all over.

This is the Moment. This is for the Title.

The crowd erupts, and the roof could have blown off for all I know. But I keep my eyes closed, playing my part.

As my crew rushes in, a doctor at the lead, all concerned, I imagine how my opponent looks. How he feels. Hoisting the belt, the trophy, that he’s successfully defended. The joy of his triumph. His elation undimmed by the burden of guilty knowledge.

The stories will be all over the place in a matter of hours. How the favored contender, who all the experts said had the edge, who everyone thought would be the new champion, went down in the final round. A knockout upset. Sure, there will be some people who don’t buy it. Who claim that I took a dive, that if you watch the replay you can see it clear as day. But there are always people who say that, and no one really believes it.

Even if it’s true.

So, this is my Moment. I’ve thrown the fight of my life. Blown my chance. I’ll never get a second chance. Of course, with what they paid me, I’ll never need it. I’ll never have to fight again. I can take my money and live a life of luxurious debauchery, someplace where no one will bother me. Pretty soon, the reporters will stop looking for answers and interviews, people will stop wondering if I’ll ever come out of retirement.

But they’ll never forget me.

I’ve won my fame, my fortune. My immortality. I’ll always be known as the guy who almost took the championship, went the distance, and came so close, only to lose it all.

So, yeah, I’ve worked my whole life for this moment, and I’ve got my title.

The Loser.