Broken Smiles

The miasma of sweat and blood was stifling. It felt as if was clotting his nostrils. Simon was having trouble as he simultaneously tried to breathe deeply to alleviate the dizzying anxiety that was bubbling up from his stomach and into his head, blurring his vision and wobbling his legs, whilst trying to prevent himself from inhaling the scent. This tightrope act was interrupted when Patrick slapped him familiarly on the shoulder, causing him to expel a bizarre cacophonic melody of gasping, coughing and rasping.

“You’ll get used to it”

“Hugh …. Blargh”

“Good. Now come on you got to wrap up”

They moved to the long bench against the western wall and planted themselves in a spot near ringside. As Patrick held his hand and ran the wrappings through his fingers, along his knuckles and around his wrist he made attempts to follow and internalize the pattern but found his thoughts wandering instead to contemplation. Specifically contemplating what he was doing here. He scanned the gym, his gaze glossing over the constellation of moving flesh. Bags shaking about, their tethers threatening to come undone and crush the individuals responsible for the aforementioned vibrations. Middle aged men holding pads and barking numbered combinations alongside young men and women striking back in response with increasing intensity only to repeat the combination again and then again. Hooded figures grouped around the wall wide mirror throwing out slow strikes at phantom opponents watching themselves intently in the mirror analyzing every nuance in their movement. Simon didn’t belong here. He felt small and intimidated.  He also realized much to his surprise and disgust that he felt arrogantly superior finding disappointing comfort in categorizing the people here as ‘meatheads’. Patrick isn’t a meathead he thought. He’s the reason you're here.

“Ya sure it hurts but trust me you won't mind the pain once you get into it”

“Oh ya I’m not worried about getting hurt was just wondering”

Simon was worried about getting hurt but for some reason even he couldn’t define or articulate he was very intent on having Patrick believe he was not. 

“You should come down to the club someday. I’ll show you around. It’s just down the road I’ll give you a spin”

“Maybe. I’m kinda busy these days”

He wasn’t.

“No your not”

“Um..”

“Listen I’m indifferent to whether or not you do come. I can’t even guarantee you that you’ll enjoy it if you do. All I can provide is the possibility of a possibility.”

“.......”

“Now if you want my advice I would tell you to take that chance”

“I thought you were indifferent”

“I am. Mostly. But you're my friend and I think this would do you good. Whether or not you want to do yourself good is up to you”

“...........Okay, fine. Lets go boxing”

Patrick finished with the wraps.

“Okay so we can go do some pad work first and then we can - “

“Hey Patrick”

A voice that sounded as if it were coming from a sentient pack of cigarettes cut through the melody of leather on leather impacts and accompanying grunts of excretion reaching Simon and Patrick’ bench from the opposite end of the gym.

The voice was attached to a man draped in eerily translucent skin akin in texture to dry peeling leather wrapped loosely around his body as if it no longer fit his frame. He was being towered over by a young man with a muscular build. Despite the insinuated dynamic presented by their physical discrepancies there was a distinct impression of authority being wielded by the eldest. The muscled man was somehow made to look like a puppy following its owner, his stature undermined by the old man's cantankerous energy. 

“Are you looking for a partner? Go on you get down there” 

“No I’m good Conner. Just showing a newbie the ropes”

Conner despite his evident frailty quickly closed the gap between himself and Patrick. 

“Danny’s looking to spar, give him a few rounds would ya”

“I’m actually (How’s it going Danny) busy Conner. I’m going to take Simon on the pads for a bit”

Conner looked over Simon with pale cloudy eyes that might once have been blue.

“Bollocks. Go on, get in the ring. Won’t take long”

“Conner I-”

“It’s fine” Simon interrupted, grateful for any reprieve he could get.

“He’s fine. Go on, one round”

Patrick sighed.

“Alright”

Danny and Patrick climbed into the ring herded along by Conner. From the hushed snippets Simon could gleam from the conversations springing up ringside Patrick and Danny were well respected entities in the club. Friendly non-pecuniary wages began to ripple throughout the modest crowd that had gathered as the two fighters in question warmed up. Simon got up from the bench and stationed himself as near as he could bring himself to the ring. The excitement was palpable. Simon couldn’t help but be excited himself.

The bell sounded. Patrick moved back into his corner and braced against the ropes leaning back as far as their elasticity would allow, like a fisherman reeling in a ‘big catch’. Danny took the bait and came in to dig him out of his shelter. A shelling reminiscent of artillery battles began. Neither man moved more than a few feet in the next minute and a half. Across that embattled short space Danny threw punches in barrages of four and six and eight and nine, heavy maniacal slamming punches, heavy as the boom of oaken doors, bombs to the body, bolts to the head. He punched until he could not breath anymore whereupon he would back up to regain it before moving back in to continue the assault. Patrick in turn responded to the openings such aggressive approaches inevitably involve with sharp, clinical strikes in quick succession, welting the spots they landed on. Sweat sprayed off in focused jets, gossamer strands of spittle escaped from lips forced open under the pressure of the punches being thrown and sporadic spasms of blood splashed against the canvas to join the ranks of the gallons of dried brethren. 

The sounds of leather against flesh sounded out like dynamite in the earth. That subdued yet devastating blast rang in Simons head. What he was seeing, experiencing, scared him. It scarred him to watch and it scared him to imagine himself in either warriors position. And yet …..Patrick gloves to his head, elbows to his ribs, stood and swayed as he rattled about like a strand of grass in a storm. Through the negligible gap in his otherwise impregnable defense Patrick’s eyes were visible. Simon noticed them and seeing the look therein realized what it was he was feeling. Danny moved back, using a double jab to cover the distance and a left body hook to build momentum for his next strike. Patrick tilted to the side, his body folding around the gloved fist of Danny as the strike hit home sinking under the ribcage and causing the intended ‘damage’ as his guard was reflexively loosened. He lunged for Patrick’s newly exposed chin with a right hook, his feet seemingly springing off of the canvas without ever actually leaving it in an explosive movement of restrained brutality. The whistle it made as it skimmed by Patrick’ face, out of reach by a half-inch as he snapped his head back instinctively, was almost as impressive as the sound of an impact its edge cut through the silence and yet accentuated it as well like the sound of a grasshopper on a quiet night. Patrick leaning back, his weight half out of the ring, pivoted off of his back foot to deliver the coup de grace, a heavy cross tipping Danny's jaw and rocketing his head to the side where it was caught by a lead uppercut sending the mouth guard flying . For an eternal moment Danny hung in the air his body seemingly frozen in the position it had been when he was struck, that of his unfortunate swing, his shoulder pressing up against his chin and arm extended in front of him ending in a phantom strike. Then time took its rightful place of authority over reality and Danny came crashing to the ground. Danny's glassy eyes sharpened and slack jaw snapped back into place as his foggy consciousness tried to regain control over his autonomy. He pawed around the canvas as he shakily rose to one knee with, what seemed to Simon, no intentions beyond the movement itself. That was until he followed his gaze to where the sodden gum shield lay resting in a pool of bodily fluids. He was still looking to fight. Danny grabbed it and popped it in his mouth haphazardly holding it in place with clenched teeth. The bell rang as Danny's knee vibrated under the effort of regaining its dependable rigidity whereupon he was helped up by the victor. They embraced. Their conversation was in daily from where Simon was but their expressions shone through the noise. They were smiling, victor and loser both. 

The excitement subsided, crowds dispersed and Patrick, slightly worse for wear, rejoined Simon. 

“Alright sorry about that we can go on pads now”

Simon wasn’t listening. He was making a beeline straight for Conner.

“I want to spar”

Simon felt as if he was going to throw up. The ill fitting gum shield was nestled uncomfortably in his mouth (Patrick had an unused one sparing him the shame of using the club gum shield) and the adrenaline which had encouraged his spontaneous courage was fading to be replaced by the more cloying nauseating adrenaline brought on by fear. The headgear, Conner wouldn’t let a newbie spar without one, that had been positively bolted to his head was too small for him and was squishing his features together squinting his eyes, pouting his lip and hurting his temple. He could hear his heartbeat. It was deafening.

He was only able to grasp the pre-fight procedure by mirroring his opponent , a relatively new member that had volunteered to fulfill Simon's brash request. He made his way to his corner and waited for Conner's signal. When it came he and his opponent tentatively made their way to the center of the ring. There they remained guards firmly up each making subtle movements with no intentions which would in turn cause the other to make some wildly uncoordinated attempt at footwork to avoid an imaginary punch. The opponent was the first to make a move. It was a light jab which landed without conviction and yet the impact shook Simon, unaccustomed to being struck as he was. He responded in turn with an equally ineffective strike. His opponent retaliated with a cross slightly more powerful than the one before. This led to an escalation of force spurred on by gained confidence and a desire to give as good as one got. The opponent made an attempt at a hook and Simon crouched down coming face to crotch. Despite its wonky execution it had been successful in its purpose. Simon had little time to congratulate himself when he was met by what had been intended to be a body hook but due to Simon's unfortunate position lasted him squarely in his face. If he had remained conscious he would have heard the sickening crunch of snapping cartilage. 

Simon sat back on the bench he had landed himself on earlier. His head felt too heavy for his shoulders and his ears were ringing but much to his surprise he didn’t care. He tapped his nose and winced in response causing him to crinkle his nose which in turn produced more wincing. Patrick approached crestfallen.

“Man I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you spar, you're too new. Heh. Suppose that's the last you’ll be coming here”

Simon once again scanned his surroundings. He watched the aspiring fighters work amongst themselves and alongside each other. He noticed the tapestry of bruises new and old, blue tinted flesh alongside the fresher marks, covering their bodies. Cracked ribs, broken noses, missing teeth: a myriad of infirmities characterized the patrons. They were bruised and beaten and yet it seemed to Simon they were happy.

“No. I’ll be back”