Mandatory Eight

"One!"

The punch that put him on his back. A heavy blow from an unworthy opponent to the head.

"Two!"

The camera flashed, and the ref counted, waving his arm and showing him how many fingers he had up. He had seconds to stand. He didn’t think about that. He closed his eyes and heard nothing. No bell.

“Three!”

Saw his Dad. His first memory: hiding in cupboards and his father’s smile. His Mom is laughing somewhere.

“Four!”

He remembered what he told them in the dressing room. What he told everyone. “Why is everyone so unhappy? What is the matter with all of you? Stand up! C’mon! We’re going to dance! Let’s dance!”

"Five!"

The sense was, we were watching a man go to the gallows. We all believed that, with his pride, he was going to take one of the world's worst beatings, ever. That he wouldn't give up, that he would die, and we were terrified, but after a moment, he looked at us and said, "Why is everyone so unhappy? What is the matter with all of you? We're going to dance." He smiled. "What am I going to do?" "You're going to dance!" we said. "I'm going to dance and dance!"

He built them up, to a degree, where everyone became half-happy. He remembered.

"Six!"

They walked into the stadium, an arena for gladiators. Trumpets played, and the crowd rose from their seats, unaware of who was walking in. He removed his robe, and he could see his opponent, nothing else.

Everyone was affected by the humidity, and no one noticed the flies crawling across their face, the sweat that fell from the tips of their chins. You could not see the blood beneath the floorboards, but it was there, and you could feel it as part of the atmosphere.

"Seven!"

The atmosphere before the bell rang was as intense as any I can recall. The bell rang, and he jabbed away. Very dangerous against something so large. It was like he was suggesting this monster was slow enough that you could hit it with this meager tap. He wasn't going to dance; he was going to try to knock this thing out in the first round, and he didn't knock it down or out; instead, it went crazy.

"Eight!"

The bell rang. He went back to the corner. The first round was over. The nightmare he had been waiting for had finally come to visit him. He was in the ring with something he could not dominate, that was stronger than him, was not afraid of him, could hit harder than he could, and was determined and unstoppable, but he had a look on his face.

I will never forget his face. It was the only time I saw fear in his eyes. It was as if he looked into himself and said, "Alright, this is that moment, this is what you been waiting for, this is that hour, and do you have the guts?" He nodded to himself and said, "You've got to get it together, boy, you really got to get it together. You are going to get it together. You will get it together." He nodded some more and looked as if he were looking into the eyes of his maker. He turned to his friends and family, raised his fist in the air, and, for the first time, realized that these were his people. They are the ones he was there for. The time had come. He was going to find a way to master this disease.

"Nine!"

They became so basic it was like kids fighting, and in the following rounds, he lay against the ropes and took a beating, but he kept talking. It was extraordinary. You had to be there to see it; it was so intimate. It swung at him and hit him, and he'd lean forward, very briefly, and say, "You disappoint me. You're not hitting hard enough. I have vomited, I have shaken on the ground, and you have caused irreversible damage to my stomach and mind, but I thought you'd do more than that." The disease went insane with rage and hit harder. Powerful, powerful punches to the body, mind, and soul for the next three rounds, but by the end of the 6th, it had worn itself out.

He was asleep for five years. Five years of fear and nightmares. Thinking of death every day. There was no more thinking. The bell rang. He came out of the corner, determined. When it was complex, he was simple. When it was strong, he was loose.

"Ten." The ref waved his hands in the air.

He knocked it down. We couldn't believe it. He did it. The fight was over.

He raised his fists and felt nothing until he looked over at his opponent. He knew there would be more. More ups and downs, lefts and rights, but something else happened. He saw who it was. A part of his history, someone he loved. Himself.

This titanic, formidable shadow was lying in the corner. He walked over and helped himself up, and whispered, "I love you," into his ear. "I will never forget you, I will never forget you," he repeated. "What you have given me, and what you have done for me. I love you. Never think I hate you, or that I am resentful. You made me the person I am today, and I am forever grateful."

They carried each other out of the ring, and stayed up all night, and spoke to one another, very simply and beautifully. They said, "Some people may be healthier than us, but there is a dignity in our poverty we must never lose. We must never forget what we've gone through, and to do that, well, look."

The rain came, and what was their brief past washed away, and what was separate was whole. They watched as one. Never in this life, they thought, could this life happen, but it does, just like the rain.