Over the years, I took as many hits to my head and body as I gave. They hurt, they punished, and they battered my body.
I wanted more.
I called it a pleasure to the pain. Until that pain in my skull became too much.
At first, the hits to my head did nothing but sting. As the years went on, I came out of my daze before my opponent had the chance to swing again.
I remember every single match, every single concussion as if they were yesterday. The first through third concussions gave me killer headaches, vomiting, ringing in my ears, and sleepiness.
I carried on with no problem at all.
The fourth and fifth? Those brought on a slew of pain. I’m talking buckle at the waist, drop to the ground, excessive fatigue, and lack of coordination. They slowed me down, but I carried on.
That last one? It about killed me — the first out of the ring knockout of my career.
All the above symptoms struck at once.
I didn’t carry on but fuck all if I didn’t want too.
I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. I knew that then, I know it now.
The taste of that victory, it’s the best feeling in the world, knowing you pushed yourself to the end. Knowing there wasn’t an ounce of self-doubt, you weren’t going to win.
Self-doubt is something a fighter with the determination to become a champion doesn’t have. It’s stripped away through many years of sparring, getting knocked down, asking questions, working yourself until you feel it slip away, and replaced with confidence.
But you don’t do it alone. It comes from your trainer, your coach, your team, and if you are lucky like me, your wife.
It’s been two years since I felt that adrenaline rush through me. Two years since I lost who I am. Two years since a part of me died. Two years that’s left me slowly crumbling under the weight of something that has kept me feeling alive — two years since I was honest with my wife.
I lost my confidence the day I retired, and I tried getting it back. I drowned myself in Eden. I focused on her desire to open a store. I focused on building a gym Hector would be proud to see if he could. I tried everything I could to bleed the need to box from my soul. It’s the nutrition I need to feed it.
The other half belongs to my wife, the woman who twice now has threatened to divorce me. The woman who thinks I’m in denial when I sure the hell am not.
“Damn it, Eden. Damn me for confiding in the one person who made shit happen for me. Damn you for not understanding.”
Natalie booked matches all over the world to get my name where I wanted it to be. By the time I made it to the professional level at the age of twenty. I had one-hundred and sixteen amateur fights under my name.
I didn’t think confessing to Natalie was wrong. I didn’t think twice when she brought it to my attention that Jacob and his team were on the hunt for a big match.
I wanted to fight him on impulse because the noose around my neck had grown tight enough to cut off the ability to give me back the confidence I worked my goddamn ass off to have. I didn’t think about anything or anyone except myself when Jacob held the title I believed still belonged to me. The next thing I knew, our brains were bolting into action.
Consequences damned.
I was born to be a boxer; I’m good at it. It’s my dream come true. It’s brought Eden and me out of the slums and into a life very few people get to live. The money we have, our homes, our cars, they are a bonus. To both of us, boxing was never about the money.
It was about me fulfilling a dream.
God, I want to give it up. I honestly do. In doing so, I’ll be miserable. So here I am, having to stew over the one thing I never wanted to be. I’m nothing but a shitty husband who broke the love of his life’s heart.
Then I go and magnify the damage I brought on last night by following my wife. To top it off, I lost control.
I can’t hate myself more than I do right now.
It’s insidious hate. Self-loathing and sinister.
Clarity strums through my body as I slam my fist into the punching bag. A steady reminder to take a look at how far I’ve become.
To put my life and my marriage into perspective.
Do I need to fight to survive? The answer is no. I don’t need it. Not as much as I do my wife, but I want what was stripped and stolen from me, or I’m afraid I’ll go insane. The worst part, I’m worried I’ll blame Eden for not giving me a chance.
Because I do, I blame her right now, and I’m furious over it.
At her, at me, at the whole damn world.
It’s an unfair choice to have to make. One, I shouldn’t be questioning. Hell, I should have never considered opening this can of worms in the first place. My wife means more to me than boxing. How screwed up it is that one of the things I love has stuck itself nice and tight between the other.
It ripped us apart.
Not in a million years did I think Eden would walk out on me. Not once, but twice. Let alone me becoming angry standing there in our bedroom like I had the right, words slipping off my tongue I didn’t mean and making a bad situation a million times worse by going to her. Hell, I don’t even remember half the things I said during our fight. Sure do remember what she said — every word scraped across my spine like barb-wire.
Divorce and trust.
I wanted to beat myself stupid.
When I got my shit together after she left the cottage, I drove to the store, rushed inside half expecting to see her sitting in a corner in the dark. Rocking herself back and forth out of fear from the storm. She wasn’t there. I panicked. Drove back to the cottage and waited. By the time three AM rolled around, and she hadn’t returned, that’s when panic started pounding in my blood. I nearly called the cops, worrying something might have happened to her.
I raced back home, paced the floors. I called our credit card companies to see if there was a transaction. I called Eden every five minutes. Nothing. Not a word.
It feels like days since I’ve seen her, and it’s only been hours. The distance between me and wherever the hell she is has me on a bed of pins and needles. I can barely find the will to breathe without knowing where she is. Without seeing her face. Without making this right.
Suddenly, nervousness sets nice and cozy in my system. It isn’t a feeling I’m comfortable dealing with at all. It’s as foreign as fear, as strangling as not knowing where Eden is.
I’m the intimidator, the man in the ring with a soldier mindset that demonstrates a readiness to take part in a brutal beating if needed. I’d take three shots to my jaw to get in the one that knocked my opponent on his ass, and now, since I held things back from Eden, my nerves about where she is, along with remorse. Along with anger that she took off punch me square in the gut.
Every uninvited sensation is hostile inside of me, giving all they have to beat the others to the finish line.
I am not in denial either. Fuck that noise.
“What the hell do you think you're doing, Mason. Don’t you have students coming in soon? How’s it going to look if they see you with bloody knuckles?”
I catch a glimpse of Natalie approaching in the mirror. Hands planted on her hips as she comes to a stop. I don’t know who the hell she thinks she is by telling me what to do.
Then again, as the wheels start turning in my brain, maybe, for reasons unbeknown to me, I’ve given this woman more power over me than I realize. Enough trust in her that she’d sneak behind my back and leak to get what she wants.