Hagler would run backwards in his army boots
Because that’s how half of the fight would go, on the back foot. Such logic. Don’t lose power, keep your balance even on the temporary retreat. So on his training runs, alone in the cold darkness of the morning Marvin would run backwards for balance, for strength.
Pastry, coffee. Welcome to the morning. Two of the squatters from the rooms above the supermarket got into a fight on the street out front. Also right there was a police car just sat for no reason. First time those fuckers have been anywhere useful by coincidence. I pay for my pastry and get the story – that nothing really happened. A few swings and a miss, then it’s broken up. Seems like nowadays this town can’t even do drama very well. My legs carry me over to the coffee shop, brain saying no… Look at your eyes, Look at the dark circles, It’s a habit, Just don’t spend the goddamn money, You can’t afford it anyway.
It tastes good, even for a shitty cup of coffee. I get to the job and feign good cheer/interest/engagement all that shit. Then remind myself – Remember you’re going the other way, remember it is not that hard. Just smile, balance the power, eye contact, footwork. Stick and move. But it is still so hard, even after all these years of practice. Of jumping rope and lifting the weight. Ignorance being what it is, I hope to be left alone. To voluntarily disengage with people many of whom find me a threat though only knowing me for a matter of days. I could prevent this I suppose, but sometimes you work with what little power is handed to you.
It is after all a Wednesday, and not a good one at that. All this constant expectation as that toward a child swimming his first width of the pool. I turn on some classical and neglect everything else I should be doing. Still a stupid kid making bad decisions. But then suddenly there’s silence. I’m left alone as though all my prayers were answered. Knowing it won’t last I lace up my gloves, close my eyes, take a good few deep breaths – in the nose out the mouth, listen to the bray of my heart and Shadowbox. Keep the arms up and move, I tell myself. Circle, circle, circle.
Dan Bowan lives in South East London and writes prose/poetry and short stories. He has been writing for over 15 years been published in various independent magazines and art papers. See more at: www.channelzeroprose.blogspot.com