Michael Seidlinger - The Laughter of Strangers

They go right over my head.

ARE YOU LISTENING?

No I’m not but I hope you are.

Pay attention.

This one’s going to be a barnburner.

ROUND THREE

After a bit of crowd-pleasing via the ring announcer and one of the producers covering for my tardiness, I am in my corner and Black Mamba in his. Though he looks at me, I feel like he is looking through me. Looking past me. We walk to the center of the ring, touch gloves, and the bell sounds.

Immediately I notice something’s wrong.

I can’t place the problem, but it’s there. The entire fight is off; the momentum isn’t there.

At first I figure it’s because Black Mamba is a counterpuncher.

This is unexpected.

He waits for me to make a mistake and he counters with a combination, often trailing the light jabs and hooks with a shot that might just knock my head off. But they are few and far between.

For the duration of the round, I watch as Black Mamba maintains a defensive shell.

I am trying to figure him out and, for these first few rounds, I give him the benefit of the doubt: He’s probably doing the same.

Though I know what he’s thinking, just as he knows what’s swirling around in my head, between the physical and the mental there is a difference, an omission. I can surprise him with an instinctual strike or he might forego strategy and fight on pure adrenaline, feeling out the fight and nothing more.

That’s the thing about boxing—

Though it is a science…

Though it requires skill and intellect to master…

The body often falls into its own pace, its own groove.

Everything you build snaps into effect and during the best moments of the round, you are seeing a flurry of images; you are acting and reacting without any trigger of the mind.

It’s a lot like how time can pass so quickly when you are having a wonderful time; the round can pass by in a split second, leaving you reeling, catching images of various encounters. You can only hope you landed the most punches and the CompuBox has you on the up rather than down.

Plus, hopefully you aren’t bleeding.

No cuts, that kind of thing.

End of the round, I feel like nothing’s happened. Take it as another example of what I’m trying to explain.

During the best fights, I often feel like I am the one, the only Willem Floures. No shred of a doubt — I am who I’ve been and the reason I fight is because the fight keeps things simple and obvious.

Reason: You want to win.

Reason: You want to impress the world.

Reason: It makes you feel alive.

Reason: It’s the only thing you’re certain of — the fight involves not losing, winning to make everyone happy, and, last but not least, fighting is the truest testament to being alive.

If you aren’t fighting, you are dying.

ROUND FOUR

It passes in the blink of an eye.

I pretend to be frustrated, throwing lots of punches that don’t connect, so that I can set myself up for a surprise in the following round.

Mamba remains on the defensive, wasting away the round with very little activity. Between rounds, Spencer is still going on and on about something, shouting as loud as he can possibly stomach. I clear my throat, take in some water, breathe in and out three times; one of the crewmembers checks my face, looking for any cutting.

The last thing I want is to feel the vapors of the Vaseline on my face, the Vaseline they rub into every cut to keep from further tearing and damage.That’s reason enough to fight effectively:

Take no risks.

Know when to let go and know when to lead your opponent on.

And I’m not talking about first-date etiquette here.

ARE YOU LISTENING?

Spencer shouts. I heard that last part.

Fine, yeah. I nod. Whatever you say.

ROUND FIVE

I’ve encountered some of the younger ones trying to be a swarmer, thinking that the onslaught of punches and aggression will take me out, but remember what I said about my chin? I can take a punch. I can take a hundred punches and I’ll remain standing. Maybe not now, but back in the day I could.

Now I maintain the illusion that I can.

Hell, maybe I can; I don’t know.

Everything I’ve thought to be true has turned out to be false; everything I’ve thought to be false turns out to be true. There is no pattern and everything is a ploy trying to render me confused.

I’ve encountered one that wasted all his energy trying to knock me out with haymakers. He tried to bolo punch me into a situation where I’d fall into one of his power punches. Yeah right.

He lasted four fights before dropping the name.

Whoever he is now, he isn’t Willem Floures.

I can’t even recall his fight alias. What was it?

Black Mamba hides behind his fists. The thing about counterpunchers is they play conservatively but if you go southpaw and fight more like a swarmer, at least in small spurts, you will land a few punches. Even if he has a strong defense, he won’t be able to avoid every punch. First thirty seconds into the round, I begin to notice that every time I land a punch Mamba buckles.

There’s no way a single jab can hurt him.

I land a straight to the body and he buckles.

It’s these kinds of things that worry me. The majority of this round consists of idle jabbing followed by analysis of Mamba’s intentions.

I throw a succession of jabs, following it up with the clinch.

Spitting out my mouth guard, I whisper into his ear, “What the fuck are you doing? Fight!”

No response, not even a grimace or glare. Behind those lifeless eyes, I discover the fight to be a decoy, one that I can’t help but accept.

I have to win even though the worry is placed elsewhere.

The rest of the round, neither of us is active.

I hear Spencer’s hoarse voice in the background, disregarded commands from a once trusted source.

Even he couldn’t tell me what’s going on.

The fact that I know only makes this worse.

End of the round, back to the corner, the cutman rubs that Vaseline over my face, I spit into a bucket, take in deep breaths.

Spencer with commands, Spencer behaving as expected.

ARE YOU LISTENING?

No, I’m not.

I am two steps ahead, post-fight, looking back at what I had told you would be my comeback, a great fight. A real back-to-basics.

I never expected to face myself in the ring.

I know that’s a contradictory statement. I know, I know :

When have I not fought myself in the ring? The fight is an internal struggle. Yeah, all that philosophical stuff, but right over there, sitting on that stool, that thing staring back at me…

He’s not alive.

There’s no one there.

I can see right through Black Mamba. I see into the future.

I see into round nine when it happens.

I get my first knockout in quite a long time.

When the bell rings for round six, I can promise you one thing:

This fight will not go the distance.

ROUND SIX

He stands there, gloves up, idle and unwilling to trade punches.

Who are you to think that I will let you throw the fight! Hear those words echo out through my head. I see through Black Mamba and I see the perfect publicity stunt.

They have fallen for it.

The entirety of round six we stand there in the center of the ring, not a single punch thrown and yet the audience falls for it.

They devour every round like the main-event it should be, not realizing what has been derailed.

I drop my hands.

I look up at the crowd, scanning up to the nosebleed section.

On their faces are grins, smiles, shocked and amused expressions; on their faces are the indications of one of the greatest fights of all time.

I lower my gaze to the ring.

Mamba remains shelled up, predictable fighting stance.