#04 Tribute

When he was still a boy, he used cloth wrapped round his fists to hit flour bags. It strengthened muscles, he had heard people say. He wanted to grow with a muscular body, above all to attract the prettiest girls in the neighbourhood. These were the routines of his free, too free, time.

When he was older, he began to use his body in real fights. He was powered by the urge to crush his opponent, to show his fierce and implacable side, but no longer to fulfil the dream of going out with the prettiest girl in the neighbourhood. Just to hit. And to win.

At the same time, his body thickened and he had no time to nurture a fluid mind. Yes, he knew how to hit. He was known for hitting hard, implacably. He would win. Sometimes he lost. But, generally he won.

Over time, and without any time, he began to live confined within the ropes of the ring. Hitting. Being hit. Crying. Gritting his protected teeth. And occasionally smiling with rage. Yes, smiling.

In his last fight, he lost his life’s dreams. But he left the ring unharmed, on his own two feet, still smiling.