Michael Seidlinger - The Laughter of Strangers

I think.

Something tugs at the thread of thought that becomes a single sentence that repeats over and over but I can’t hear it because the laughter ‘Black Mamba’ lets boil to the surface drowns it out so that it’s white noise.

You and I—

We’ve figured out what needs to be done.

However, I still hold back to dead scraps.

Hey X, what do you think?

But no, he’s dead.

That part of me is dead.

‘Black Mamba’ wants me to keep my mouth shut.

DON’T DO IT

No matter what they say and do to provoke me.

No matter what is said to diminish my contribution, my boxing legacy.

But then I get to thinking about how they’ll simply blame it on ‘me.’

‘Sugar’ was a blemish was a bad particular era for boxing.

I WATCH

I LINGER

I see it in their faces. It’s what I would do to survive.

Unanimous agreement—

“Anything that intends on surviving must fight to win!”

The future intends on rendering my era as a blemish and nothing more. But I’m afraid I can’t do that.

‘Black Mamba’ shakes his head, eyes bulging, dark tar-like blood dripping from his nose:

NO

But I’m smarter than that. I have, at the very least, learned one thing about myself. Willem is a coward, a self-conscious individual incapable of simply taking a risk; I can’t just “do something” without coming up with alternatives, a weigh-in of what can and will occur.

What might go wrong?

As in, hey ‘Black Mamba’ what can go wrong?

DON’T DO IT

That’s all he can say because it’s the fear talking.

It’s the fear that I’ve held onto; it’s the fear that continually pervades my decisions. I keep thinking about what I’ll lose and have prevented a number of pivotal career decisions from coming to fruition because I simply couldn’t have let things evolve on their own.

Like that one time I…

SNAP PUNCH

OR THE PUNCH THAT COULD HAVE BEEN

It’s a punch that Spencer is likely teaching ‘James’ to later implement in future fights (look out for that guys — it’s a killer).

He tried to teach me as he’s tried so many times but I really fought against his tutelage. He explained how it should be done but I doubted him.

Besides, it was all on paper. Nothing about the punch worked without developing it from the foundations of the uppercut.

So the snap punch, according to Spencer, is a powerful split-second switch-up that can be moved into from both straight and hook punches.

The beauty of the punch is how you don’t have to be in any particular situation; your footwork could be shaky. You could be winded and playing defensive in order to go the distance.

Maybe you’re playing the fight to its final moments and doing that usually means playing it real safe.

DON’T DO IT

Exactly, ‘Black Mamba.’

What I used to do all the time.

Well, anyway, back to the punch. It involves utilizing the same principle of throwing an overhand punch (shoulders tilted, arm arching out, sitting down on the punch fully, hips and all) but in using it, the “snap punch” evolves instantly (like a “snap”) from a preexisting punch.

You morph into it.

It’s complicated and requires a lot of practice.

I listened to the fear.

DON’T DO IT

And I wonder if that’s the reason why I have a good “chin.”

Maybe it’s not that I took punches but rather because I backpedaled and played defensive games to avoid punches.

Frankly it didn’t take much to send me to the canvas.

Right X?

I WATCH

I move my chair right up to the TV.

I press my face right up to the screen so that my forehead feels the warmth and the cartilage of my nose (broke it three times over the course of my career, just saying) bends just enough to hear that all-too-familiar crack. The sound of age. But I’m not here to deny it. I am here to:

LINGER

And watch as ‘Black Mamba’ fades from the stage.

Not that I don’t deny the fear. It’s just that I need to go through with it. I need to say it. I need to admit it.

To myself.

I need to make it so that they can’t devalue my era.

‘Me.’

I will be remembered.

“We can do better than this,” says ‘Storm.’

They are all in agreement about what to do to survive.

They need to fight. They need to fight me. Victory would be to send Willem into a second chance sort of scenario where I am scapegoat.

If I am unwilling to admit to my exploitation, they are more able to align with every single part of me that I’ve kidnapped, wounded, and ignored.

If I still hold back, I will give into the fear.

I will lose the biggest fight of all.

IT ALL DISAPPEARS…

UNLESS

I don’t want that to happen. So I let the laughter swarm in as I press my lips against the screen. I lick the screen in one long upwards motion.

The eager, would-be parts of me shut up, turn and look right at me.

DO I GET YOUR ATTENTION?

Silence.

GOOD

Four sets of eyes watching borders on the sensation that I’m finally reaching the first stages of understanding.

Forget about the whole spiritual side to this; I basically feel like I’m getting at something. I’m beginning to figure out how it all fits together.

Beginning , the key word. It seems I will have to let the other parts of me, all of them, work on figuring the middle and the end.

But check it out:

In the blink of an eye I send the KO punch that eliminates any possibility of their eradication of my era. In sports history, my records hold true. In sports history, I am ‘Sugar’ Willem Floures.

I tell-all like the ones that escaped me:

I KNOW THAT IT’S MY FAULT

I KNOW THAT I FELL INTO SOUR TIMES

WE ALL FIGHT OURSELVES FOR SO LONG WE FORGET WHICH BOUNDARIES NOT TO CROSS

I RUINED THINGS BUT I ALSO RESTORED THE URGENCY TO THE ENTIRE SPORT, TO THE REASON WHY I FOUGHT AT ALL

I FOUGHT TO UNDERSTAND

I FOUGHT TO BE FOUND

AND YOU KNOW WHAT?

I DID

WILLEM FLOURES IS NOTHING TO LAUGH ABOUT

Build up the laughter so loud that it drives me out of the basement. I leave the empty crowd of my thoughts back where they should remain hidden:

At ringside.

I ascend those old wooden steps and realize that it’s morning. Another night driven away like a lost opportunity. I listen to the house creak in line with the rise and fall of my breath. I tune into my surroundings, listening to the laughter disappear as I shut the basement door.

In the silence, I am not held back by the worry, the fear.

I am left with the one thought that I feel needs to be asked:

WHAT DOES A STRANGER SEE?

Look at me and what do you see?

If you asked me I’d say that I’m at the very least a person. I mentioned that before so I don’t need to get back into that. Besides, I’m not a stranger. It defeats the purpose of the query.

If I introduced myself to a stranger, someone that had no clue who I was, what would they think?

Would they see any redeeming qualities?

Or would I just be another sad sack of bruised, scarred, tattooed flesh?

I WONDER

I wonder how I weigh in, and I’m not talking about weight class and boxing. I wonder how I weigh in as a person.

I AM A PERSON

But that isn’t saying much if I can’t describe who that person is beyond the fact that “he” lives and breathes. Spencer must have seen something in me because he continues to train me into what he hopes will be the best fighter ever. A real G.O.A.T candidate.

Too bad then…

Too bad that I won’t be the one to do it.