They Call It Heart

Chapter 15, The Get Back Up

Talan

The loud, ricocheting cheers in the arena sound muffled and far away. Droplets of sweat drip from my hair, stinging my eyes and salting my lips and taste buds as they trickle down my face and splash against the canvas when I slide my leg between the ropes and climb from the ring. I'm drenched from head to toe and dead tired, with aching ribs and weak, numb, wobbly legs.

I slap the hands of unfamiliar spectators, telling me, "Good fight," as I make my way to the long, cold corridor and back to the locker rooms.

My boxing coach, Sonny, meets me inside. "That was a heck of a fight you put on out there, Talan. I'm proud of you."

Nodding, I wipe the sweat from my face with a towel. After Sonny leaves, I unlace my shoes, peel off my soggy trunks and the tank top, step into the shower stall, and turn on the cool water. Hurt lifts from the pit of my weak stomach. I close my eyes and let a tear or two escape into the crisp, pressurized water that gently batters my fatigued body.

I lost!

It was my most important fight to date, and I lost, blowing my first chance of fighting at nationals. I rarely lose, and it hurts—emotionally more than any physical pain I experience in the ring.

Since I was eight years old, fighting exhibition bouts, I've dreamed of winning a national Golden Gloves title. I couldn't wait to turn sixteen just to take part at this level. I considered taking nationals crucial to my future, and I never thought of anything as important ... except Amalia.

The Golden Gloves boxing tournament is for participants aged sixteen to thirty-five, so it's far more challenging to take the championship than Silver Gloves, the tournament for boxers fifteen and under because while Silver Gloves considers age, weight is all that matters in Golden Gloves. It's momentous because the Silver Gloves tournament ends at the state championship level, and Golden Gloves can take you all the way to the Olympics. An Olympic medal is the only way to prove to yourself that you're one of the best in the world—pound for pound. I planned to beat the best in the country and then in the world, and I'll stay amateur until I do. I always felt I wouldn't be good enough to achieve ultimate success as a professional fighter if I wasn't good enough to win nationals.

As it turns out, I'm not good enough to take regionals.

I never exhausted every skill before like how I did this fight and still I lost; it makes me sick to my stomach—so sick that it brought me tears. The last time I cried about anything was when my mom left my dad and took my sisters when I was eleven years old. I had no reason to cry since.

I come from the shower room, and my home coach, Old Marvin, is waiting in the locker room for me. He had hopped on a plane when I made it to the semi-finals, expecting I'd fight in the championship bout. He flew to Mesquite, Nevada, just to watch me lose. What a waste of his time and money. Marv knows me well enough to know how badly losses affect me. So, I'm sure he's here to give me a picker-upper speech I'm not ready to hear.

He pats my shoulder and says, "Good job."

I gulp my hurt and try to smile. "Not good enough." Blowing out a mouth full of defeated air, I drop to the bench to put on my shoes.

"That fight could have gone either way. It was that close, Talan. You've got nothing to be upset about. That guy is ten years your senior. That's a whole hell of a lot of experience over you. He got the decision because he had a little more power behind his punches than you. That's the only reason he got the decision."

Feeling dismal, all I do is nod.

"This is your first trip to a regional tournament. You earned a championship bout, and that's something to be proud of. You can't expect to take it your first time out."