Tiredness

I step into the ring and spy my opponent through red glassy eyes.  My vision blurred but I can still make out his pre-match moves . . . lightening fast compared to my own sluggishness.  I feel inadequate and ill equipped.  I fear the spectators will be disappointed.  

 

Somewhere I hear a bell ring and ‘Tiredness’ strikes me with his first blow.  Testing me, testing my strength, seeing what I am made of.  I shake my head and try to focus as I lunge at him.  He’s too fast and side steps my moves easily.  My fist connects with nothing but air.  I'm disheartened but nobody promised this would be a fair fight.

 

There's a tell tale glint in his eye.   ‘Tiredness’ knows he has this in the bag.  

 

Distracted, I don’t see it coming.  A punch to the stomach that knocks the air from my lungs and has me falling to my knees.  My hand on the mat steadies me as I fight to regain my breath.  

 

Rising shakily to my feet I swing wildly as ‘Tiredness’ closes in but I’m just too slow.  His fists pummel my stomach and then a strong upward jab connects fiercely with my jaw.

 

Blackness closes in as I begin to fall and my body emits a loud thud as it hits the mat.  I hear the count of ten . . . 1, 2, 3, 4 . . . . . 8, 9, 10.  Slipping further into darkness I envision the ref holding his hand up in the air and declaring ‘Tiredness’ the victor.

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