Semi-final Showdown

“He likes to throw jabs,” dad says. “Dodge and counter.”

My feet drag my body

off the wooden floor

back onto the mat.

I grip my gloves

and clamp down on my mouth guard,

the taste of plastic in my mouth.

I meet my enemy’s gaze.

His sapphire eyes

tower above me.

The bell tolls.

My foe bows

and I do the same.

We poise ourselves to fight.

Raising our fists,

he lurks towards me

and jabs,

just like dad said,

each one

landing.

One on my chest.

I stagger backwards

and wheeze.

He advances again.

Two on my stomach.

I gag,

hunching over.

Seconds… hours…

I duck a cross,

my vision hazes,

stumbling over to the other end of the ring.

Dodge and counter, dodge and counter.

I side step a jab and clinch him to close the distance,

impaling him with knees,

each time grunting,

heat rising,

skin turning red.

Sweat and salt swell my eyes.

“Keep going,” Dad shouts from the stands.

I release the clinch,

disengage,

and drive a front kick into his chest.

He reels.

I pounce.

My fist crashes into his chin,

bone grinding on bone,

spit gliding off his lips.

His knees buckle

as he thuds onto the mat.

I sigh

and stand up straight

to let the ref raise my hand,

and as I gaze into the audience,

my dad rises,

smirks,

and cheers.