The Fight

‘I think you have broken his will power’, Charlie told me, lying!

‘I think he has broken my fucking nose’, I replied truthfully.

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It was the ‘National Final’ of the A.B.A. boxing championships. I had trained hard for this and come through the county and provincial championships, without loss or injury. Now, after two rounds, my dreams were being demolished in front of my eyes. Actually my eyes were being demolished in front of my dreams, along with my nose, top lip, two ribs on my left side and my family jewels from a low blow, which the referee – obviously a graduate of the White-stick College in Blindsville – had failed to spot.

Charlie was my corner man. He was also my uncle and guardian – since dad had died. He was also a complete nutter. We had had a falling out last year when he had taken umbrage at a warning by the referee that he was to stop referring to him as ‘a retarded fuck-pig with a face like melted Wellie’. Charlie was incensed enough to throw something at the ref. Charlie had a choice; in his left hand he held a half-full bucket of water, which would probably split the ref and get Charlie arrested. In his right he held the towel, which – if thrown - would end the fight, thus the phrase; ‘throwing in the towel’. Charlie was right-handed; he threw the towel! Ding ding, fight over!

My opponent actually thought it was his corner that had thrown in the towel and a look of complete gratitude and relief had come over his face. He was twice as gratified when he realized it was Charlie that had thrown it and given him the fight. He ran to my corner to say thanks; Charlie nutted him.

I could have fucking killed him and would have, if he hadn’t run off. I found him eventually, in the car park. He was balling his eyes out. I went up to him, I had planned out what I was going to say to him but I swear, when I seen him, he looked so pitiful that I just didn’t have the heart;

‘You’re a complete fucking tool’, I told him.

‘I know lad, you’re right, I’m sorry; I don’t know what come over me.’

‘Why the fuck didn’t you throw the bucket at him?’

‘I was never much good with me left!’

‘You wasn’t much better with your right, as I recall’

He looked up at me, kind of stunned. I smiled, he smiled.

‘I hit him though, right on the back of his head.’

‘Yea…with a towel; he’s probably brain damaged!’

Charlie started giggling and I joined the harmony; eventually we were both pissing ourselves.

‘You hungry?’ he asked

‘Starving; you’re buying…and you’re still a fucking Tool!’

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‘You gotta keep your hands up’ advised Charlie

‘I tried that; I think he broke two of my ribs’.

‘Well keep your elbows tucked in’.

‘Tried that too, he hit me in the bollocks’

‘He can’t do that!’

‘You think? Maybe someone should tell him’

‘If he does it again, I’ll fuckin’ sort him!’

‘Just don’t throw anything especially the towel.’

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Round three went by in a blur; mainly my opponents’ hands blurring as he re-arranged my mush. I couldn’t seem to get a clean shot off and every time I tried, I seemed to get two back. I couldn’t breathe through my nose now and I was gulping air like a fucking goldfish. My right eye was closing and I was starting to look like ‘Rocky Bilbao’, only he took fifteen rounds to look as bad as I did after three. I could see the ref weighing me up and I didn’t like the look on his face; he obviously didn’t like the look of my face either. I was on borrowed time and was relieved to hear the bell.

‘You’re doing great’, enthused Charlie

‘You’re the worst fucking liar I’ve ever met.’

‘No, straight up, he’s getting tired.’

‘Oh, well that’s alright then; he’ll probably keel over anytime soon from fucking exhaustion. There probably telling him in the corner right now; ‘stop hitting him so hard, so often, you’ll wear yourself out’’

‘Dunno what your on about, he’s hardly laid a glove on you in that round!’

‘Well do me a favour; keep a close watch, cos some fucker is beating the crap out of me and if it ain’t him, I need to know who the fuck it is.’

‘Listen, it’s hard to see when you’re actually in there….’

‘Yea, mainly cos me eyes are closing’

‘You want me to throw in the towel?’

‘What! When I’m losing? Naw, wait till I’m winning! Why break an old habit now?’

‘Look, you can’t box this guy! You gotta get in close and fight him; close him down, don’t stand off him, cos he’s too fast and he’s got a wicked jab.’

‘Brilliant! You have to wait till the last round to impart this priceless info. You didn’t happen to spot any of this in the first or even second round ‘Angelo’?’ Is this where you cut my glove …you are some fucking Penis!

‘Alright, well give up then! Be a loser! That’d make your dad proud wouldn’t it?

‘Don’t start that crap Charlie….’

‘Well do something about it, apart from sitting here winging like a big girl. I never got the chance to get this far…’

‘That could be due to the fact that you had a nasty habit of kicking ‘em in the balls and nutting the ref when you got mad and so, getting disqualified’

‘I still never got beat though!’

‘Jeez, all the corner men in the world and I gotta get Phil Fucking Mitchell, triffic!

‘I believe in you son, even if you don’t; get out there and win this fucking thing. You got Irish blood in you and the Irish never give up….’

‘You hate the Irish; you said they were a bunch of terrorists and err…what was that expression you regularly use? Oh yea, ‘Useless Cowardly Bastards’, wasn’t it?’

‘God, I was joking; it was a bleedin joke!’

‘Hilarious, have you considered ‘stand up? Start in Belfast; it could give the expression ‘dying on stage’ a whole new meaning!

‘Look, it’s all down to who wants it most; I mean you could be going home tonight as National Champion and that’s just a step away from the Olympics. And…don’t forget about the birds; you’ll be able to take your pick tonight, won’t you?

‘Birds? Charlie, I can hardly breathe, my nuts feel like they’ve been through a blender and from the neck up I must look like a car crash; the ‘Elephant man’ would have a better chance of getting his Nat King!’

‘Alright, well get in close and Nut him then….’

‘I’ll fucking nut you in a minute, ya lunatic!’

The ref came over and asks Charlie ‘Is your lad alright cos he’s taken a lot of punishment? …couple more head shots and I’m going to have to consider stopping it.
He doesn’t look to good; his face is a mess!’

Charlie leans towards him and for one awful minute, I thought he was going to nut him but he says; ‘Your dial ain’t no Rolex either…difference is that this time next week, he’ll be good looking again and you’ll still be an ugly bastard. Now, don’t stop this fight until I say so or I’ll stop your clock – but permanent like. Now fuck off and let us win our title.’
I could tell that the ref really wanted to reply but he took one look at Charlie’s mad fucking eyes and thought better of it.

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I went out in the last round and I swear, I didn’t give a toss. Charlie was right about one thing; it was all down to how much I wanted this and I suddenly realized that I wanted it more than anything else in the world. His little speech to the ref had kind of buoyed me up. Charlie might be a nutter but he was my nutter. He was there for me and I grudgingly realized always had been. I loved the lunatic; simple as that!

We touched gloves and as we separated the bollocks stuck his hand up in the air, a kind of victory salute; like it was all over bar the shouting. I completely fucking lost it. I rushed him, feigned a left and then swung a right hook into his smiley fucking gob.
It was like slow motion; I felt the jar of the connection all the way up my arm and right down to my boots. His gum shield ended up in row ‘Z’ and he went down like ‘Linda Lovelace’; sparko, out like a light.
A towel flew into the ring and I thought; ‘Oh no! Not again…please tell me he ain’t done it again; I’ll fucking kill him this time!’
It wasn’t Charlie; it was the other guy’s trainer. The ref was bent over him, trying to wake him up. I fell on my knees; I had done it. All the long nights in the gym, all the miles on the road, all the pain had all been SO worth it for this one minute of life; this feeling that I couldn’t even begin to describe.
Next thing I know, Charlie is beside me, on HIS knees, hugging me, crying; ‘You done it, you actually done it ya little wanker; National Champion! I wish me bruvver was here; your dad. He would be so proud, so fucking proud.’

‘He is, he is here, just changed his name is all; now he’s called Charlie’, I said, hugging him back.

‘…but your still a fucking Tool!’