Fighting to Say Farewell

I remember the first time I walked out to the ring. There were more people in the back and locker rooms than in the audience. Most of the staff, from the refs to the popcorn guys, were volunteers. Hell, some were felons. The too-brightly lit high school gym was where I finally wore a pair of beat-up boxing gloves and made my first knockout. And I was almost a year away before I could vote, but I could still drive my dad's beat-up Buick.

This certainly wasn't Vegas or LA. It wasn't in a city that any of today's fighters knew about. No, it was some small town outside of Boston. At the time, maybe a couple hundred people lived there? Not that it matters. They took the time to see some older teenagers and twentysomethings throw a few punches and, hopefully, see a knockout.

I remember walking out of the big box store curtains. I wore the same blue shorts I'd used for P.E. earlier in the week and a dingy gray hoodie with my mom's college logo. The dark-colored headgear and garish-colored gloves made me look like the most amateur boxer in the locker room. But I also didn't care. I was psyched to be heading out to my first fight.

My boots squeaked a little on the court. You could still smell the bleach they used to clean it last night. My face scrunched up, and my stomach churned. I hate that smell. My mom, dad, and two younger brothers were on several flights up the bleachers.

"Yay! Ricky! Do you see me!?" I heard my mom yell as I got the apron of the ring. I glanced over at her. She and my dad couldn't have had more different expressions if they tried. He sat there, stone-faced, like he was concentrating on one of his favorite police shows. He always had this angry expression whenever he wanted to pay full attention to something. So much so that it left a distinct wrinkle in the middle of his eyebrows. My brothers were trying their hardest to match my mom's energy. And as for me, well, I couldn't fight off the embarrassed grin on my face.

The other boxer was in the ring. From a distance, he looked like a giant. But, when I stepped through the ropes, I realized that I recognized him; he was a clerk at the local deli. His expression showed me that he recognized me as a late-night pizza boy. Small world, huh? When I won that fight, he didn't look at me the same way whenever I ordered a turkey club.

I remember the first time I was paid to fight. I wasn't on pay-per-view yet, but I knew that was the goal. I wasn't wearing the same clothes I wore to school this time. No, with my meager pizza delivery paycheck, I managed to get some actual trunks. I wanted to get some red and white ones like what Lennox had. But my trainer talked me out of it. "You don't wanna copy another fighter, do ya?" he asked.

The first time I stepped foot in front of a camera, that was when something clicked with me. I loved being in the ring, but when my fights were in front of the world… it was something else. It got my adrenaline going like a speeding sports car. And in the post-fight interviews, I really started to show some personality.

It was enough to get a pretty blonde girl to notice me. She sat in the upper rows but was a long-time fan of the fights. Her name was Kara, and she became my first and only wife after a few months of dating.

Hell, the night I won the big one was the most incredible night of my life. It was New York City, Madison Square Garden. By this time, I had a nickname: "Regal" Ricky Harrison. And I hammed it up for my entrances like any good showman. I made sure to get the nicest silk capes and the shiniest crowns possible. After all, if someone is going to call themselves "Regal," better embrace it! The crowd roared when I came out as "the One True King of the Ring" and cheered loudly when I raised that championship belt over my head. It was a thirteen-round slugfest, and I was going to celebrate the way a champion should. I swear, we set a record for noise that night.

After that fight, I sat in that locker room, and my wife Kara, dressed as a queen, was next to me. She embraced the whole royalty schtick with me. I remember how beautiful she looked that night...

I couldn't believe it. I was married to the love of my life, making tons of cash, and was the face of the light heavyweight division.

But all of that is in the past. Every time I fight now, I only think of those moments.

Tonight, I'm fighting what could be my retirement fight. I say 'what could be' since this is the third time I've said I'm going to hang up the gloves.

And it almost feels like I'm back to where I started, in a small arena outside of Boston.

Gone are the days of my mom screaming for me or my now ex-wife blowing me kisses from the front row. My kids are now old enough to attend the fights without her. Kara could care less if I won, lost, or dropped dead in the ring. I wasn't known as "Regal" Ricky Harrison anymore. No, it was a barrage of insulting names like "Rancid" Ricky Harrison, which a reporter described my last few fights as "stunk up with the arena with his rancid performance." "Repulsing" Ricky Harrison was another after a young up-and-comer nearly annihilated my face. And it made me look, well, repulsing. The biggest one to stick was the worst: Ricky "Has-Been" Harrison. Sure, the others were bad enough and would get under my skin.

But "Has-Been" is too easy to chant and shout. I sadly hear the audience try to piss me off with a chorus of "HAS BEEN… HAS BEEN" over and over again.

My son and daughter have been in attendance for these last few fights. And for that, I'm grateful. They stood by me in the divorce, probably the most brutal fight I've ever had to do.

I stepped out of the curtains and into a barely-full arena. It usually seats 5,000. But from where I'm standing, it looks like 50. I've got a small group of people leading me to the ring; a cutman, a trainer, and the usual boxing entourage. And before the ring announcer can even introduce me… the rallying cry of "HAS BEEN… HAS BEEN" has already started. Even as I've fallen down the cards… that chant never escaped me.

There's at least five or six other fights after mine. But those get to be on pay-per-view; I don't remember the last time I got to fight on HBO or even in the highlights on ESPN. My opponent, Nelson Rhodes, is another up-and-comer looking to knock out a former champ. His shaved head and thin goatee made him look like a Roy Jones Jr. clone.

He enters the ring. And after the bell rang…everything just…went… dark.

When I came to my senses, I was in the locker room. Another loss to add to the record. What was I, 25 and 15? Or was it 24 and 13?

My daughter, Marion, rushes into the locker to make sure I'm awake.

"Dad! Dad!?" she shouts even before the door behind her closes. "Are you okay!?"

In my stupor, a big, silly-looking smile grows on my face. "Oh hey, sweetie. I'm glad you made it."

"What did you say?" she says with a concerned look on her face.

"I said, I'm glad you made it," I reply and then realize why she has this look. Damnit, I'm slurring my words like a drunk buffoon.

"Dad…" she replies, trying to force a smile on her face. Her voice sounds like she's about to cry. "You got KILLED in the second round! Can this please be the last one? Michael and I are worried."

I stare at her. Even as the swelling in my eyes, I can see how scared she looks. She's had this look many times. Her brother has even yelled at me a few times. With all that in mind, I think to myself, why do I keep doing this?

But I don't say that to Marion.

"I don't know," I reply, keeping the same stupid smile on my face.

She shakes her head and tries her hardest not to tear up in front of her father.

Truthfully speaking, I don't know when I'm going to stop.