Paul Willson Fantasy

The changing room was stained with blood, sweat and vomit. Some stains were fresher than others. It is obvious that it was rarely cleaned. The smell was overpowering if you weren’t used to it and very unpleasant if you were. I sat on a bench trying not to breath heavily even though I needed to. My fight finished over ten minutes ago and I was still out of breath. One of my ribs was broken and every breath hurt. Every now and again I coughed and the pain was excruciating. Although I was suffering, the pain was not what was going through my mind. I was debating whether to shower or just go home. I had been in a few bad changing rooms before but this one was disgusting. This was a long way from the glamour of a UFC or Bellator fight night on TV. No doctors here. You’d be lucky if they called you an ambulance. Was it worth it? I wasn’t so sure anymore. The fire for the passion for the fight had died inside me tonight. Where did it go, I wondered?

A roar of anger rose from the squalid auditorium and the doors of the changing room crashed opened with urgency. That was quick, the fight after mine only started less than a minute ago.

“Move! Off the bench!” someone shouts at me

A young fighter is carried in by his two trainers and he’s not moving. I had seen this before, too many times. The kid had the skill but not the will. This isn’t the amateurs. Stand up and fight or get punished badly and this kid had got punished badly.

I stood up gingerly so they could lie the kid down on the bench I was sitting on. Moving really hurt and I didn’t want to move but I did anyway. I didn’t look at the youngster.

I heard the winner of the fight being announced which was greeted with further roars of anger. The winner clearly wasn’t popular.

“Is he breathing?” One of the young fighter’s trainers asked.

“Yeah, he’s just out cold,” said the other, taking out the smelling salts.

“Thank fuck for that! He’s lucky,” the first said with relief. “I’ll get the car and take him to the hospital”

“I’m gonna’ kill that promoter! I told him he weren’t fighting that thug! I told him he wasn’t ready. He told me he found someone else then the bastard put them both in the same ring anyway,” The second trainer said with a fury that meant he was going to have words.

He wasn’t ready? If he wasn’t, then he shouldn’t have been in there, I thought emotionlessly. Why on earth did they agree to the fight then?

My thoughts returned to my youth. I needed to fight, if I hadn’t fought professionally, I would have ended up in jail or worse, I was out of control. Mixed Martial Arts gave me discipline and focus. When I first started out, I had talent. Too much talent to fight in a shit hole place like this. I could have aimed for a title, maybe not UFC but a good national one and make good money but I got the wrong advice, trusted the wrong people. I was used, I believed too many empty promises. But I had a passion and a fire which wouldn’t die. I needed to fight. I loved it. The feeling of being hit and that one punch or kick would tell you everything about your opponent. The drug of elation after a win. Nothing beats it. They say not even sex. It is close but nothing beats sex.

The winner of the fight walks in loudly and on seeing his handy work lying on the bench, he laughs callously. There was a big weight difference between the winner and the kid. The pair should never have fought each other. Maybe the trainer had a point, the winner maybe was a thug, he did look like one.

“They always give me the fresh meat.” The thug says smugly.

I look at him coldly. Guys like him weren’t in it for the glory or the money. They just enjoy inflicting pain. He is definitely nothing short of a thug, not a martial artist. Arsehole!

“Right cocky bastard he was when he got in the ring,” the thug says to me proudly. “He did a little dance and showed off. These kids think they are invincible, then they meet me,” the thug was beginning to brag. “The look on their face when their first strike does nothing. I love it! You see that cockiness go to fear then goodnight. Maybe I should fight you! I reckon you might last a bit longer,” and the thug throws a few air shots at me purposefully missing and laughing as he did so.

I wasn’t going to be intimidated by this thug. I knew I could beat him. Beat him easily. His guard was lousy. His punch was slow. No wonder that kid landed the first punch.

I move away from him; I had no desire to talk to someone like this. The thug is annoyed that his handy work wasn’t impressing anyone.

“Twat!” the thug calls me but thankfully he lets it go.

I go to the shower and I see someone had shit themselves in there, it happens. Too many body shots can damage your insides. It loosens your bowels and you can’t keep it in.

Decision made. I go to my locker and take out my bag and I check my stuff. All there, good. Maybe this place wasn’t as bad as it looked. Too many times I had my money and phone stolen. I remove my clothes from my locker and I slowly change into them.

I stop dressing and watch as the young fighter is carried out. He is starting to come to but he still looks heavily concussed.

“Bye, Bye” the thug says mockingly as he waves when the youngster leaves.

“Fuck you!” says one of the trainers angrily causing the thug to laugh proudly.

Once dressed I walk out of the changing room. Where was that promoter? It takes me a while to find him. They are always tough to find when it is time to pay up. When I find the promoter, I see one of the young fighter’s trainers being held back by a couple guys. They looked big and dangerous.

“You fucking bastard! He could’ve been killed!” the trainer shouts.

“I am so sorry” the promoter said unconvincingly as he waves to the men to release the trainer. “I was as surprised as you were when McNeill walked in to the ring. I don’t know what happened.”

“Bollocks you didn’t!”

“How is the kid? Not too badly hurt I hope” the promoter asked with little sympathy.

“He’ll be fine no thanks to you”

The trainer turned and walks away. He looks at me in the eye as he passes, anger still raging inside him. The trainer knew he wouldn’t have got anywhere, anyway.

The promoter sighs and pinches the part of the nose between the eyes as he did so as if dealing with such problems was an unpleasant inconvenience and a waste of his time. Then he sees me and smiles.

“Ah! There you are. Great fight! Well done!”

“I’ve come for my winnings,” I say wearily. I just want my money and to go home, it is getting late.

“Of course, here you are” the promoter says handing over an envelope.

I check the contents of the envelope. It is a little short, as expected and the money wasn’t nowhere near enough to compensate for the pain, I was in. That kid probably didn’t get paid at all.

The promoter leans back in his chair and says with enthusiasm and the expectation of the answer he wants,

“Listen, I have a new fighter on my books. He will give you a better fight than the one tonight. This kid is going to be a real talent. Of course, they will be more money in it for you?”

“No thanks, I’m done. Decided I’ve had enough. I don’t want to fight anymore.” I tell him. I’m tired and it adds to my lack of enthusiasm.

The smile leaves the promoters face. He wasn’t the kind of man who is used to being told no to and not one you really wanted to say no to either.

“If you want another opponent, I can find you one but it will be less money. I won’t offer this chance again, so you had better take it,” the promoter warns me, anger simmering underneath.

“Nah, I’m done. Not going to fight anyone again. I just don’t feel like it anymore. I’m retired”

The promoter pauses, thinking how to react. This was not how this conversation was supposed to go. I had made him good money over the years. I had helped him fund a wife and a mistress half his age. He decides to let it go. He knew this moment was going to come sooner rather than later. He’ll just have to ditch the mistress. She probably cost him too much anyway.

“Ok, if you want to retire then retire but make sure you stay retired, mind!” the promoter says with menace, pointing at me with a wagging finger. The promoter then stops and sighs heavily deciding it was pointless with the threats. “Alright, alright, your retired,” he says raising his hand passively with a friendlier tone replacing the menace. “If you ever want to watch let me know and I’ll let you in for free. No point in finishing on bad terms. Take care of yourself and give my best to your wife,” he says finally showing a small bit of gratitude, just a small bit. The promoter wasn’t a man who did do gratitude. I nod, turn and walk away, without plaudits and already forgotten, I retired.