This story is by Doug Spak and was part of our 2017 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the Spring Writing Contest stories here.
Cedric Brownley sat, transfixed by the image looking back at him from the standing mirror in the locker room of Palisades Arena. He realized he’d never stopped and took the time to study himself, to look more closely at what 132 fights in 22 years did to a man’s face. From the arena floor above, he could hear a faint chanting:
“Cedric, Cedric, Cedric.”
The clock behind his right shoulder said 11:23. He was certain the fight was scheduled to begin at 10. Must be running late. Soon he’d walk into the ring fo ther 133rd time. What wounds would this fight leave on his ragged face, his tattered spirit? He was tired. Exhausted. The face looking back was older, much older than its 39 years, 74 wins, 49 losses, 9 draws. His photographic memory haunted, recalling every punch absorbed, every trauma inflicted, every blow rained down with a savagery only a boxer understood, accepted. Wins and losses become academic, immaterial. A punch is a punch, regardless of the outcome. The only difference was the size of the paycheck; a decision rendered, a knockout achieved meant a few extra drinks that night and maybe, if lucky, a few hours of sleep without the nightmares.
Cedric’s head throbbed as he looked more intently at himself. It was unusual to have a headache before a fight. Shake it off. He allowed himself a smile, realizing his most prominent scars were earned in victory. Over his right eye, a two-inch scar recalled his decision over Spider McShay in 1999. Over the left, another earned in a ninth-round knockout victory over Jose “El Diablo” Juarez. Two scars. Two memorable victories. Cedric looked at himself pleased, nodded approval, smiled as he heard the chant:
“Cedric, Cedric, Cedric.”
At the same time, Cedric wondered, as he faced himself in the mirror, if he’d ever been handsome. Somehow, his photographic memory betrayed any attempt to recall the younger Cedric Brownley. All he could remember is this face, battered, tired, old beyond its years. Did he look like this at 17, when he first strapped on gloves and was knocked through the ropes onto the judges table by Lester Jackson, ten years his senior, 30 pounds heavier, an ex-con carrying fists fueled by rage and resentment. A smarter man would have found an excuse to walk away that night, to find a job packing groceries, washing dishes, dealing crack. By no means was Cedric stupid. He just couldn’t walk away. On some level, he’d been fighting this fight, looking for redemption, for clarity all of his life. Cedric Sr. taught junior the importance of fighting to survive, the need to use one’s fists or baseball bat or Glock to settle scores, to right the indignities leveled upon a black man with few opportunities. Senior’s lessons on survival and retribution were usually held at night, when he pushed open the apartment door, drunk, filled with self-loathing. He was an excellent teacher, his son, the reluctant but worthy student. Cedric’s mother was gone, having walked out on the terror years earlier, exhausted and in search of order, some level of sanity. Cedric envied his mother, loved her for her courage while hating her for abandoning him to Cedric, Sr.’s brand of urban psychosis. Cedric realized he hadn’t thought about his father in a long time, years maybe. Perhaps, he thought, this distant memory explains the sadness, the heaviness of the reflection in the mirror.
“Cedric, Cedric, Cedric.”
But there was, Cedric realized, something interesting about the face he saw in the mirror, something he hadn’t seen prior to the previous 132 fights. It was the absence of fear. Fear was a primordial companion in the minutes leading up to each fight. His was a private fear, not shared with those around him for he knew that fighters were not supposed to be afraid. But all he knew was fear. It wasn’t fear of losing. And oddly, it wasn’t fear of dying. It was the fear that he might not die. That somehow, he would survive, but not be able to function, to eat, walk, fuck. He needed to fight to purge himself of Cedric Sr. Win or lose. Somehow, he found solace in both pain endured and punishment inflicted. His greatest fear was to be rendered helpless, paralyzed, mind intact but fists impotent, the fog of tortured memories the only means to defend himself against the legacy left by his troubled, abusive father.
Cedric noticed something else as he continued to stare into the mirror. Quiet. An almost eerie solitude, uncommon in the moments leading up to a fight. Where was everyone? No manager, trainer or cut man. All of the lights in the locker room were turned off, except one lone bulb strung overhead, emitting an almost intense, blinding light. 132 fights in 22 years and he couldn’t recall a moment such as this. Strange indeed. They must be giving him space, he thought, a few moments to reflect before making the solitary walk to the ring. He looked down at his hands. Notape. No gloves. Odd. Perhaps the fight was cancelled? Someone would have told him by now. But why would they still be chanting.
“Cedric, Cedric, Cedric.”
Cedric’s gaze left his hands and returned to the mirror. At first, he didn’t recognize himself; his face seemed to be changing. It must be this old mirror, he thought, cracked, stained, deceptive. The mind can do crazy things in the minutes leading up to a fight. But his face, suddenly, didn’t seem as tortured, exhausted. It was softer, the scars less prominent. His face seemed to be morphing into something younger, more vibrant. Lighter. In fact, he felt stronger, perhaps more confidant than he’d ever felt before a fight. This was going to be his fight, he could sense it. Tonight he would win for the 75th time. He knew he couldn’t lose, felt a power surge through his body, his muscles energized, his eyes, no longer sunken and dark but focused, bright, with a fire he hadn’t seen in recent memory. The aches, a part of his life for what seemed like forever, now, ebbed, the familiar tightness in his joints gone. Over the right shoulder of his reflection, the clock still read 11:23. Must be broken. He needed to get out to the ring. His eyes bore in on the reflection of the fighter looking back at him. Strong. Powerful. Hungry. This was his day. His fight. Cedric nodded to the boxer. The boxer returned the gesture. It was time to answer to his fans.
“Cedric, Cedric, Cedric.”
Cedric Brownley, Jr. was dead before his head slammed into the canvas. Moments earlier, he won for the 75th time in 133 fights. Savaged for 11 rounds, both eyes nearly swollen shut, nose broken, he managed to lift himself off the bench for the 12th and final round, knowing he was too far behind to win a decision. His opponent was fifteen years younger, thirty pounds lighter. Faster. Stronger. In the prime of his career, they would say. But Cedric knew. He knew it was far from over as he ignored his corner’s pleas to throw in the towel. There would be no quitting tonight, for Cedric knew the kid in the opposite corner was bored, already making plans for the evening. The kid’s arrogance blinded him to the final right cross Cedric would ever throw, one punch pulled from the depths, inflamed with the memory of his father. Cedric knew the fight was over when he heard the sound of a shattering cheek bone, the right cross landing sweet, distorting the kid’s face, wiping it clean of arrogance. Before moving to a neutral corner, Cedric stood over his fallen opponent. Lester Jackson, Jr. lay on the canvass, eyes shut, pretty face otherwise unscathed. He was definitely his father’s son, Cedric thought, but perhaps without the rage and resentment?
Cedric Brownley, Jr. would never know the answer. The cerebral edema had been growing quietly in the recesses of his brain, 133 fights in the making. Eleven rounds of punishment at the fists of Lester Jackson, Jr. unleashed the hemorrhage that would kill Cedric. Instantly. The time was 11:23. It came as the referee held Cedric’s hand aloft in victory. For the 75th time in 133 fights. Held aloft for the final time in the only place Cedric felt at home, felt safe. Held aloft to the chants of:
“Cedric, Cedric, Cedric.”
It was the last, sweet sound Cedric Brownley, Jr. would ever hear. The sound of victory. The sound of redemption.
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