The cocky man has left the building. And in his place, there’s a man not quite sure of anything. The man who once professed to ‘smash heads, and bounce’, is now defeated. Leg fucked, ice strapped to his calf, but doing fuck all, in a changing room, that although spacious is more like dead space, surrounded by three people that he truly loves and the rest who he wonders why they are even here. But, he likes them around when he wins. The highest highs can’t last forever, however, and in defeat, there’s just silence. And no one knows what to do.
The cocky man’s head falls back on the wall, he rocks back and forwards, and feels the hardness of the wall on the back of his skull. What do I do now, he muses internally. The work that went into tonight, he knows deep down, whatever he said in the build-up, wasn’t good enough. Not enough training, too many distractions and an underestimation of an opponent who is hungry for their flowers. He remembers that feeling. But knows it sailed away a long time for him. 400 million in the bank can do that to you. He can’t rely on name or a knockout every time. Ah, for fucks sake, he shouts. People look in his direction, but nothing comes from it.
His pregnant wife, there from the beginning, drags a chair across the room and sits down next to him. In the quiet way only women know when their person needs them, she slides her hand into his and squeezes. Injuries and broken bodies can repair, her man is the strongest in the world, but mentally she needs to give him all the strength she can muster. As he feels her hand, the tears begin to fall. The killer, Mr Charisma, the star, has gone, she sees the man she fell in love with all those years ago, the man beyond the bravado. What have I done, he whispers. She squeezes again, to shake him out of this headspace.
The boss enters the room. Greetings exchanged, meaningless words exchanged, promises exchanged. He leaves to talk to the next hot thing. The hanger-ons begin to leave. The agents, PR, randoms who follow the shining star go into the night as the light wanes. The coaches stick around, going through their own post-fight rituals, win or lose. He lifts his fucked leg off the chair and sits upright. Her eyes look for a connection with his. Go and shower, she says calmly, clean yourself up. He nods. She smiles at him. We go again, she squeezes. He looks into her. Does she mean it? For if she doesn’t, and it is more of the same sycophantic pawing he is now accustomed to, then he has no hope. However, all he sees is iron resolve. It’s the same face he sees when he remembers his first amateur loss, with fuck all to his name, the person who supported him, fed and nursed him. Still there, always. Forever.
Everything is fixable, he says. She smiles, her man is coming back to her. But death, she replies. They smile together. He stands. The coaches look to him, one walks over. No, I’ve got this, the wife pushes herself up from the chair. She stands, gathers herself, and puts her man’s arm around her shoulders, transferring some of his body weight onto her. They hop slowly towards the bathroom. You get a good wash now, and I’ll have your clothes all ready for you when you’re done. What are you thinking? Suit. Yes, good plan.
James Creber 