Michael Seidlinger - The Laughter of Strangers

The host looks at me, “Win the rematch and you recoup not only what you lost but also double what you put into this. It’s your career, your identity, your life that’s on the line. It is in our best interest to pave the way for a comeback.”

BEST INTEREST

This is not good.

Spencer is offended by the host’s tone. He is silent, brooding, listening, acting the part, acting as if he agrees.

AND WE’RE BACK

AUDIENCE LAUGHTER

FAKE

ON COMMAND

“We are back with none other than ‘Sugar’ Willem Floures, one of the greatest fighters of all time.”

Spencer mutters under his breath, “He is the greatest fighter of all time…”

More talk about the loss, that loss, and how ‘Executioner’ was faster, more agile, capable of outpunching and outmaneuvering me around the ring.

“Might this be why you chose to stay on the ropes?”

Spencer answers, “It’s called rope-a-dope, a valid technique. It is how we stole three rounds on the cards from ‘Executioner.’”

“That very well may be the case but between the use of lateral movement to duck the mids, Executioner landed,” the host reads from one of his notecards, ninety-one percent of punches to the face. This is not healthy for a fighter your age, Sugar. We worry about the lasting damage one fight can do to your reflexes, your ability to defend yourself.”

I open my mouth to speak but Spencer beats me to it:

“We have released the medical reports to the press. He received only minor injuries, nothing a single night’s stay in the hospital couldn’t treat.”

The host looks at me.

Says, “He looks pretty rough.”

I reply, “It was a rough fight.”

AND THAT’S SOMETHING

And that’s something the host wants to hear.

And that’s something Spencer will lecture me about afterwards.

Addressing me, the host asks, “Did you see the punch coming?”

Spencer with the save, “Most knockouts are flash, blind, quick and to the temple, under the chin, somewhere where the body is rendered useless. If I were to hit you in the temple lightly right now, you would get dizzy, feel slightly nauseous; hell, that might be enough to knock you out.”

“Mr. Mullen, are you threatening me?”

Every media venue and their propensity for controversy…

But Spencer said it for a reason. He must have.

He’s way too good to get caught up in the nonessentials of a slanderous interview.

“Threats are of everyday life. In the context of the rematch, the threat here is not what Sugar lost — not at all — the threat is in what ‘Executioner’ stands to lose.”

The host cocks his head to the side, “Interesting take.” Again he turns his attention to me. Predictable. Most venues seek to speak to me directly rather than through Spencer’s testimonies.

“What’s your take on this, Sugar?”

Like trying to gain approval from someone’s mother, the host holds up both hands, indication of fair play, “That is if I may speak to the man himself?”

Spencer and I realize that we are at that point of the interview.

I need to say something.

They need to hear my voice, need to make sure that I’m responsive. Most of all, they just want to know something about what I’m not.

Fielding for new gossip, new rumor.

“You are talking to him right now,” Spencer comments.

AUDIENCE LAUGHTER

Seems to get the audience’s attention.

I don’t find it very funny myself but that’s not up to me.

I take the punches.

I take the onslaught.

Everything else I try my best to let it wash over me, unaffected.

Host readies the pounce—

He gets at least one question, one question before the opportunity spoils. What’s it going to be?

What do you think?

WAIT FOR IT…

“Do you think it’s time to retire?”

I wait for it too.

It doesn’t register at first. Spencer gives me this look like I’m ruining it, really smearing the interview, fucking it up for myself by being slow with my reply…but he’s right and it doesn’t hit me at first.

Slow crawl.

One of those straights that pushes through your gloves, causing your gloves to shoot back towards you and away, parting the sea as the powerful strike lands right on the nose.

Those kinds of punches you can only see in slow motion.

When it lands, there’s little more than a tickle. It starts at the point of impact, the bridge of the nose. Feel it like an insect’s legs on bare skin as it crawls up your arm or back. Feel it as it expands, impact warm and the dots, they swarm your vision until you don’t see much of anything.

If you’re lucky you are still standing, still fighting back.

FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT

But lately I haven’t been up on luck.

Like right now, when I answer honestly, an answer right from the gut, I don’t mean it to come out the way it does.

I say:

“I think so.”

What I really mean is—

I THINK SO BUT I DON’T THINK I’M READY

I have a whole lot left to prove.

I still don’t fully understand myself.

I have to keep fighting to find myself.

Got to try to remember why I fought in the first place.

Why I was always so hard on myself.

Quick to scrutinize and analyze and obsess.

TOO LATE

The headline most recognized when associated with my name.

Poor choices are plain and simple in the past tense.

I can see them and understand why I made such a bad decision; however, it never shows. It never reads you are going to regret it , until it’s too late.

TOO LATE

Read : I didn’t mean to do and/or say whatever I did, whatever I said.

Spencer on the recovery.

Wish he could take a punch or two for me. Even with a good chin, even with the gloved up hands, the cushioning and conditioning, those damn things still hurt. Like right now, I feel like someone’s punched me.

Dazed and confused look on my face…

And I hear what I fear most.

AUDIENCE LAUGHTER

This is why Spencer usually does all the talking.

I won’t be able to take that one back.

This is the laughter I fear most.

AUDIENCE LAUGHTER

They are laughing at me, and we all know it — the people in attendance, the people watching at home. X and his camp.

Everyone was listening as I said it. You don’t come back from something like this. It’s out there, in the open, material like getting stunned by a haymaker punch; I have to be extra careful, guarding every action, every idea, every step, until I shake free of the humiliation.

Humiliation hurts more than any swift strike to the stomach.

You can absorb those with a clench of the abdominal muscles, letting muscle protect ribcage and organs from the impact, but something like this, words said that cannot be unsaid, are beyond protection.

They exist, hanging there.

Hear it?

AUDIENCE LAUGHTER

I am stunned.

I fear it. I am afraid, but I cannot let it show or else it will be far worse than I would ever be willing to face.

The audience is my opponent.

The audience looks nothing like me.

Do I have room to say anything else?

I probably shouldn’t.

Clam up, sweating, looking down at the mug full of water.

Wait until it ends. Ignore the host’s voice.

Spencer, say what you need to say.

I won’t be saying another word.

CARE TO EXPLAIN…

Three words from the host’s mouth that slip through my defenses.

It gets me to thinking:

If they want my defeat this early in the prefight festivities, the long routine of venue to venue, meet and greet and gloating, I have one thing to say:

Why am I the main guest of this show?