Corrigan, Ryan

English

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ESSAIVolume 7 Article 174-1-2010A Fighting ChanceRyan CorriganCollege of DuPageFollow this and additional works at: http://dc.cod.edu/essaiThis Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@C.O.D.. It has been accepted for inclusion inESSAI by an authorized administrator of DigitalCommons@C.O.D.. For more information, please contact koteles@cod.edu.Recommended CitationCorrigan, Ryan (2009) "A Fighting Chance," ESSAI: Vol. 7, Article 17.Available at: http://dc.cod.edu/essai/vol7/iss1/1743A Fighting Chanceby Ryan Corrigan(English 1101)he car pulled to the curb and the door swung open.  I clambered inside with my duffel bag, mysweatshirt hood pulled low over my face.  It was a cool September evening outside, the smellof the river on the air, and the sounds of downtown Davenport echoed through the streets.The smell of the cab driver’s cigarette hit me as I buckled my seat belt.  In a raspy tone he asked mefor my destination; I informed him I was going to the Amsterdam Club.  The drive was taken incomplete silence, the kind that makes your hair stand up on the back of your neck.  The driver slowedthe cab as we approached the entrance to the club and I climbed out.  The walk into the club wascold, but quick, and I was relieved when I entered and I felt the warm burst of air.The smell of cigarettes, sweat, and spilt beer floated around the entranceway like a lingeringmist clinging to the roadway on a cool spring evening.  I was squinting in the low light, lookingaround confused, wondering where I was supposed to go, like a deer staring into the headlights of anoncoming semi-truck, when a short, heavyset man directed me down the hallway that led to thechanging room for this evening’s fighters.  Men and women of all different builds lined the hallway,some talking in excitement, others standing silent, preparing themselves for their match.  Each one ofthem had a gleam in his eye, the kind of shine that symbolizes a love for something, much like thegleam in the eyes of two long separated lovers.  I turned to observe at a peculiar looking individual,covered in tattoos from head to toe, and accidentally bumped into a giant of a man.  He was the kindof person who makes the gentle green giant look like one of Snow White's seven dwarfs.  I politelyapologized and made my way around him to the locker room.I procured an empty locker and put my bag in there.  I was in the seventh and final fight thatnight, so I would be fighting around ten forty-five. The time was only nine.  I took my IPod out ofmy bag and slid the headphones into my ears.  The sounds of Slipknot and Marilyn Manson floodedinto my head, entirely cutting me off from the outside world.  I removed the roll of tape from mypocket and proceeded to wrap my hand; my fingers were trembling with excitement as well as fear asI thought about my upcoming match.  Even though I had the volume turned all the way up on myheadphones, I could still here the booming voice of the announcer.  I couldn’t quite make out what hesaid but a few of the fighters wandered toward the door that led to the ring so I assumed the first fightwas about to start.  I checked my cell phone; the time was nine fifteen.  I got comfortable on a seat,set my cell phone alarm for ten-fifteen, and closed my eyes.I must have fallen asleep because in what seemed like five minutes my cell phone alarm wasgoing off.  I silenced the alarm and put the phone in my locker.  I took my sweatshirt off and beganto stretch.  I walked myself through my breathing exercises and tried to visualize myself winning.  Istretched out my legs and my arms.  I put my IPod back on and practiced my punching form.  Myhead was flowing freely with thoughts of the events that were about to take place.  The ring girlwalked into the locker room to let me know that my fight was next.  Her name was Amanda; she wasin my philosophy class.  I pulled my tank top over my head, removed my warm-up pants and quicklyfolded my clothes and put them in my locker.  I made my way down the hallway barefoot, the coldconcrete numbing all sensation in the sole of my foot.  I walked up to the doorway that led to the ringand asked one of the fighters who had already finished his match to tighten my gloves for me.  As theparticipants from the current fight exited the ring, I could feel my heart start to pump in exhilaration,as if I was preparing to leap out of an airplane into the daunting darkness that is the night sky.  TheT1Corrigan: A Fighting ChanceProduced by The Berkeley Electronic Press, 200944kid I was fighting was six feet tall and weighed in at one hundred forty pounds; he was a lean wiryfellow.  He looked like the starved and beaten inmate in an Eastern Europe prison.  I howeverweighed in at one hundred and seventy-five pounds and was five foot eight.  I had heard from othersthat he didn't hit hard, but that he had a devastating reach and excelled in ground fighting.  If I was towin I would have to keep him on his feet and go punch for punch hoping for a knockout.  If this fightwent to the ground, he would undoubtedly win.  The announcer looked to each of us to affirm wewere ready for the fight.  We both nodded and prepared to enter the ring.  The announcer gave hislittle speech and introduced the two of us; the crowd roared in drunken cheers and applause, likegladiators in ancient Rome lusting only for blood, violence, and to be entertained.  We both steppedinto the ring and walked to our corners.  The referee called us to the center, he explained the rulesand we tapped gloves.  The next time the bell rang we would come out swinging.The first bell sounded and I stepped towards my opponent.  We circled each other for amoment and he initiated contact with a quick, low kick to my shin. I took it in stride allowing him togain a point advantage on me.  The next time he went for a kick I countered by stepping forward andstriking his face with a jab.  His head snapped back and there was an audible crunching noise.  Whenhe brought his head forward again, there was blood flowing from his nose.  My moment's distractionwas enough for my opponent to hit me with a right cross that sent me into the ropes.  The top ropecaught me in the gut knocking the wind out of me.  As I turned to face my opponent again, I wasgasping for air.  I could taste the bitter flavor of blood in my mouth and it made me nauseous, like Ihad just ridden a rollercoaster numerous times in a row.  The anger that had been brought forth frommy carelessness seemed to resonate into my arms, turning me more into an animal and less of a man.I stepped strongly towards my opponent and struck with a quick uppercut to his jaw.  The heightdifference between us took the power off my punch and he merely stumbled back.  I took that time toadvance forward.  When he collected himself I sent a left cross right into his jaw.  He turned and spita tooth out.  Wallowing in my own pride for those two hits was a mistake.  He caught my ribs withhis right leg, and then came down and up with an uppercut of his own.  This even exchangecontinued for the entirety of the round.  When the bell tolled, we walked back to our corners.  By thistime my right eye was swollen shut, my lip was split and my nose was bleeding.When the bell rang again my opponent and I shuffled to confront each other once again.  Upuntil this point I had been performing fairly well.  My opponent’s kicks felt like I was being struckacross the shins with baseball bats, but my punches devastated him each time I made contact.  Onone particular kick attempt my opponent made however, he turned the tide to his favor.  I crouched tocatch his kick, hoping to get him in a limb lock; however he managed to retract his leg and catch meon the ground.  He hooked his arm around my neck and took me to the ground.  I managed toscramble out of his hold and wrap my arms around his throat.  However, being the wiry little man hewas, he wormed out of my hold.  At this point he was on top of me, effectively pinning me to theground.  I brought my arms to try to cover my face but I was too late.  His punches felt like multiplefreight trains plowing into my face.  It was a matter of seconds before I lost consciousness.When I came to I was in the locker room being treated by the very attractive on staff EMT.She made sure I was OK to leave and let me sign a release.  I gathered my belongings from mylocker, grabbed a beer from the locker room’s mini-fridge and headed out into the cold air.  It tookme an hour to walk back to my dorm at St. Ambrose University and the walk had given me a chanceto think.  Even though I had lost tonight, I had enjoyed the experience and vowed to not give up.  Iwould participate in fifteen fights in total before leaving St. Ambrose.  At the end of the semester Ihad an impressive fight record of 11-4 and a not so impressive .8 GPA.  My late Thursday nightbouts of violence had made it nearly impossible to make my Friday classes and I had ditched everystudy group in favor of training in the gym.  I had also visited the Davenport Medical Clinic eighteentimes, twice for broken ribs.  When I left St. Ambrose I may not have had a degree, but I hadcertainly learned some valuable lessons.2ESSAI, Vol. 7 [2009], Art. 17http://dc.cod.edu/essai/vol7/iss1/17

A Fighting Chance

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