2008 Woodie Awards
Our personal fight club
By: Matt Sumpter
Issue date: 2/15/08 Section: Opinion
My friend Brian and I stared at Alex, the third of our party, with our arms crossed.
I reasoned with him as only a privileged college kid in an under-privileged environment could. "Dude, we have to stay. How many times do you get to crash in a sketchy place like this?" The house hosting the party smelled like cigarettes and laundry. It was perfect.
For my friends and me, Christmas time is a time to appreciate family, give thanks and renew religious faith if you so choose. But Christmas time is also party-time. In light of that spirit, Alex shifted his eyes to the couch on which he sat. He pondered the concrete basement floor shoe-deep in beer and the legs of the laughing woman sitting next to him. "OK. Cool. Sweet. Definitely."
A couple hours later, the basement was dark except for a 15-by-15 foot chunk of an unfinished basement. The only light came from a naked 60-watt bulb. The glare was crude and journalistic, cataloguing the room's contents: dusty white cinder-block walls, a ring of people I didn't know - only one of whom was a girl - two people in the middle of the ring, one of them was Brian, two boxing gloves.
The rules were simple; each man gets one glove. You use that glove to punch. You fight until one guy decides that he's had enough. Ideally, the fighters are friends and proceed sportingly in the manner of Fight Club. The friendship between Brian and his foe was vague at best. The other guy's only title was "Graysick," which has to be the worst name in the history of fighters, and of names. Graysick flung off his white, flat-brimmed Yankee's hat and oversized Fubu polo shirt with a speed that suggested he'd done so many times before. Brian worked hard to stand, buoyed above drunken oblivion by nothing but youthful moxie and an Irish heritage.
The fight began. Brian, though no slouch, was clearly overmatched and oversobered. The fact that he had to use the left glove didn't help. After taking a series of punches, he said the unthinkable. "Can I hit you with my right hand?"
I reasoned with him as only a privileged college kid in an under-privileged environment could. "Dude, we have to stay. How many times do you get to crash in a sketchy place like this?" The house hosting the party smelled like cigarettes and laundry. It was perfect.
For my friends and me, Christmas time is a time to appreciate family, give thanks and renew religious faith if you so choose. But Christmas time is also party-time. In light of that spirit, Alex shifted his eyes to the couch on which he sat. He pondered the concrete basement floor shoe-deep in beer and the legs of the laughing woman sitting next to him. "OK. Cool. Sweet. Definitely."
A couple hours later, the basement was dark except for a 15-by-15 foot chunk of an unfinished basement. The only light came from a naked 60-watt bulb. The glare was crude and journalistic, cataloguing the room's contents: dusty white cinder-block walls, a ring of people I didn't know - only one of whom was a girl - two people in the middle of the ring, one of them was Brian, two boxing gloves.
The rules were simple; each man gets one glove. You use that glove to punch. You fight until one guy decides that he's had enough. Ideally, the fighters are friends and proceed sportingly in the manner of Fight Club. The friendship between Brian and his foe was vague at best. The other guy's only title was "Graysick," which has to be the worst name in the history of fighters, and of names. Graysick flung off his white, flat-brimmed Yankee's hat and oversized Fubu polo shirt with a speed that suggested he'd done so many times before. Brian worked hard to stand, buoyed above drunken oblivion by nothing but youthful moxie and an Irish heritage.
The fight began. Brian, though no slouch, was clearly overmatched and oversobered. The fact that he had to use the left glove didn't help. After taking a series of punches, he said the unthinkable. "Can I hit you with my right hand?"
Be the first to comment on this story