FS blog dated July 30, 2010
“1, 2, 3, pak, pak, bang!” Echoes of rapid punches resonated across the foggy backyard as roosters, alarmed and startled, simultaneously crowed within the rice-farming neighborhood of Sitio Bunubon.It was Saturday, five-thirty in the morning - still dark as the sun had not peeked on top of the great mountain range, The Sierra Madre, just yet. Ambo was about to finish his usual daily practice hitting this old punching bag his father made from tattered sack, filled with fine sand and rice husk, tied mid-air in a branch of a tree called Sagat at the back of their tiny, shabby house. He had been doing this for almost two months since watching his boxing idol, nicknamed Pak Boy, at a barber’s TV knocked its opponent out in only three rounds of a world championship clash. So far, he enjoyed the early-morning workouts while images of the champion’s spectacular performance roamed around his head. He mimicked, again and again, the fighter’s double right jab followed by a stunning left hook, dubbed as the Manila Ice, which dropped the bigger challenger into a bone-chilling knockout victory. He worked duplicating the combination for days and felt near to perfection. Only that his own present foe was a stationary punch bag that won’t fight back.
Ambo learned that his father, unlike him, was a strong freestyle fighter and this inspired him to follow his footsteps although he preferred the Sweet Science, or the epitome of technical boxing -to hit but not get hit, more than any other combat sports. His enthusiasm for prizefighting kept him coming back to that small barber shop in their barangay, whose owner was also a huge boxing fanatic, to watch televised fights and read sports magazines. He learned many things during his frequent visits to the shop as it fed his urging appetite for boxing information. Until one day, a customer informed that an amateur boxing show every Saturday was opened three weeks ago as part of the town fiesta celebration. He also learned that it accepted thirteen to fifteen year-old participants in the so-called midget division He grew incredibly excited and wanted to see it badly. He planned to watch the featured bouts and, if given a chance, join the fight cards but there was a problem: he was not particularly athletic. In fact, he appeared smaller than his 13-year old frame. His arms were long but skinny and his legs were not sturdy and seemed a little rubbery. His mother told him that he was fragile and sickly when he was a baby -perhaps the reason why he stood visibly smaller compared to his classmates after they have been circumcised. A common belief among townsfolk was that an adolescent becomes taller after circumcision but Ambo was deeply wondering why he grew very little a year after his Baptism of Fire.
“Store’s open”, his mother said upon clearing her voice, “Go and buy Putok; I know you are hungry”, she added giving ten and five-peso coins, a worn-out towel and a refilled bottled water for her son who was already bathe in sweat.There were only two of them staying in their house. Her firstborn worked as a farm helper for a rich onion trader in the nearby town of Bongabong.
Ambo reached out his hand to receive the money and slipped each coin in each of his pocket. He immediately gulped water then towel-dried his sweaty face. He noticed his Mother was obviously unwell. He knew she was ill but she seemed good concealing her coughs with some imperceptible whimper. “Inang, you look worse, we better visit a doctor”, he suggested.
“Don’t worry about me”, she replied. “I’ve been to the health center and I’m fine. Listen, I am worrying because of what you’ve been doing since last month. Promise me you’ll never go into that cruel sport”, she pleaded as she perceived boxing, legal it may be, in equal brutality with what happened to her husband two years ago when her old man suffered terribly after losing in an underground grappling fight somewhere in Manila. Her spouse thought that fighting, even illegally, was their chance to survive poverty. Some said he was comatose before he succumbed to death in a hospital bed three days after. His family was uninformed until he was brought home inside a replicated wooden coffin. The family was awfully devastated. It made the woman extremely depressed. Ambo, more than once, saw his mother looking far out the window in grief. She frequently thought of her deceased husband as well as the future of her family. She then worked as a dishwasher in an eatery for a dismal wage so she allowed her older son, rather hesitantly, to work and help augment their income which barely covered their monthly expenses.
“Would you like me to buy 3-in-1, Inang?” Ambo asked remembering that the coffee mix tasted better than Salabat -a concocted ginger that his mother readied for them believing it may help sooth her throat. He really wanted the sweet, creamy and roasted coffee flavor. It seemed to relax his body. He was salivating in anticipation. “Mmm, taste like heaven”, he thought. But he knew his question implied to cut the cost for Putok -a kind of bread slightly larger and more packed than the soft, tasty Pandesal - in order to purchase just a sachet of that five- peso-worth beverage.
His mother, to his disappointment, just closed her eyes and shook her head, “You’re beginning to be a little abusive”, she alleged. She knew too well that her bunso, much like before, would eventually demand for the entire mixed brew. “Off you go and return home fast”, she added caressing her chest after a series of now bothering coughs.
Ambo set off to the store still with the memory of the picture-perfect double jab and that infamous hook by the Pak Boy, a southpaw or left-handed like him, considered to be the best lefty in boxing history and current pound-for-pound kingpin. “ A Pound-for-pound king is mythically the best if all fighters are of the same weight class,” he recalled while walking along the road doing shadow boxing, hitting the air many times with that same combination uttering, “1, 2, 3, pak, pak, bang!” again and again.
“Uhuy, buto-buto attack!” a familiar sarcastic voice yelled from behind followed by series of rolling laughter from others at the rear. “You’re back with boxing daydreaming ha, Ambo buto-buto”, the boy howled.
Ambo, though hard for him, had been used to it. He knew this guy invented the buto-buto or skeleton remark. And he needed not to see to recognize. It was Bardo: the biggest bully he ever knew existed together with its cohorts he secretly called “The Alipungas” – coined when he can’t recall the word Alipores or followers, thus, the term remained in his head even after learning the later. It was his big and frightening, overage classmate who used to flick his ears or to habitually slap the back of his head whenever it came near him. Badly, it approached him nearly every single school day he remembered. It was also the one he saw stuck a bubble gum under the teacher’s table that eventually gummed on to the old woman’s skirt making furious screams to the whole class; the one labeled their principal, Squidward – a cartoon character with big, balding head and a rather longer than usual, dangling nose; the one who used to peek under the skirts of their schoolmates and occasionally touch their faces and pronounce sweetly, “Wow, beautiful girl,” without them knowing there was booger in its palms.This awful guy was his ultimate persecutor –a solid mass of bewildering force he never ever attempted reckoning with. So, nervously, he ignored the bullying and walked straight as if nobody was behind him. “It’s completely mental, all I must do is to ignore him”, he thought trying to avoid being further confronted but the physical came instantly.
“Splaack!” Bardo’s hand walloped his head as he waggled out of balance, in pain, and nearly fell to the dirt street. He feared what might soon to follow. He was right.
“You face me when I am talking to you, stupid boy!” Bardo commanded. “Your money; take it out of your pocket and give it to me, now”, ordered the big bully upon raising the collar of his shirt up with its left hand as if to lift him off the ground.
Ambo just stood there in his toes, trembling. His mind raced as to what he must do. He was scared not to give in but equally troubled that his ailing Mother would be upset. The coins in his pockets were not his.He couldn’t respond appropriately out of confusion, fear or both.
“Hand me your money!” Bardo screamed hooking a short right punch towards his diaphragm.
Ambo wobbled and dropped to his knees. He pressed his palm onto his midsection trying to relieve the pain. He felt the blow almost cut his breath as it signaled throbbing from his stomach to his brain which made his knees melt like jellies. He was almost hanging by his stretched collar still being gripped by Bardo’s strong hand. One perfect punch to that exact spot in the middle of the torso would instantly impair the entire body, more so, the mind and self determination – the infamous Solar Plexus. Surprisingly, even top-caliber, world-class fighters would suddenly get defeated after receiving such a wicked blow. Sadly, he was not even a fighter. He was just a boy being thumped helpless by a larger, stronger guy. At the edge of his mind, he wanted to fight back but sensed little to no chance at all. Sprinting away might have been the next best way out but his legs already betrayed him entirely.
“So you won’t!” Bardo exclaimed preparing another blow but now heading to his face grimacing in pain.
“S-top please, h-here’s my m-money”, Ambo stuttered as he managed collecting his mettle back. Trembling, he slowly moved his left hand from his diaphragm inserting it to his left pocket. He surely felt the coin but pretended unable to touch anything. Consequently, he inserted his other hand onto his right pocket after pulling out his empty left. His right hand withdrew a coin, praying it was not the bigger one. He was lucky. He needed to play that trick, at least, to save even just a coin. The bigger boy never asked to search the other pocket.
“Damn five pesos. You still needed to get hurt just to give in, moron!” Bardo said about to slap Ambo again to the head.
“Enough, Bardo”, another boy from the rear bellowed, “Let’s go. Leave your stupid darling there, I’m late!” he added with authority pausing the bully with his threatening hand in the air, sweating.
“Ok, sorry, we’re going now”, Bardo said releasing his hold on Ambo’s collar.
Ambo stood up but still in pain. He asked himself who had just ruled over his tormentor. Never in his imagination had he thought of anyone who could even attempt that. He concluded that it must be an ultimately tough guy; tougher than what his mind could ever imagine. So he tried his nerve and glanced at the face of that boy. He had never seen him before. The gang, riding bicycles, threw some scornful laughs upon leaving him. Surprisingly, he observed that the leader was not as tall or even as big as Bardo but appeared lean and solid, “Just a few centimeters taller than me but looked tough, really, really tough”, he said. He was contented, nevertheless, that he was spared of that supposedly last hit because of him. He hobbled to the store, purchased the bread with the remaining ten pesos and went home nervous. He was thinking hardly of what he must reason out if in case his mother would ask about the money and what took him longer to get home than usual.
“Have your breakfast… I’m really not feeling good”, his mother struggled to say in between short, rapid breathing. She was lying on their wooden bench, chilling and covered with blanket.
“You have very high fever, Inang”, he cried after touching her cheeks. He had to do something but his mind suddenly went blank. This was the first incident that there was no one except him to think and decide.
Sensing his worries, his mother shakily withdrew something out of her purse, “If you can buy this, it may help. Sorry, son, that’s all I got”.
It was the doctor’s prescription folded crosswise and inserted was a fifty-peso bill. All along it was inside her purse. She just went to the doctor but never followed the treatment.
Ambo rushed to the nearest drugstore in town and handed the piece of paper marked with handwritten barely readable for him. But the lady pharmacist nodded and requested a young girl, almost of his age, to retrieve some foiled medicine from a box and give it to him. He was a little relieved after knowing that the medicine was readily available. All of a sudden, he was captured in awe looking at that young girl and thought her eyes sparkled like faint stars twinkling calmly in a cold, cloudy night. Her serene smile revealed a tiny dimple on her left cheek that seemed to pull him out of his obscurity. Her long, shiny-black hair stirred in the sudden wind. He thought she was beautiful, gorgeously beautiful.
“Forty-four fifty each, times ten… ah…that’s four hundred and forty-five,” the girl said, beaming in a soft, lovely voice.
“What!” Ambo exclaimed as if coming out from her spell. “Four hundred…huh?” he asked in disbelief.“Ah…Err…W-would you mind selling me just a piece?”
The girl asked the pharmacist and explained to Ambo, “Mom said it’s ok but the prescription says you take it twice a day - morning and evening”.
Ambo went home with the girl’s lovely face still lingering in his mind but he could not believe how expensive the medicine was. He gave a piece of bread, a mug of salabat and the encapsulated medicine to his mother. Gladly, the drug calmed the woman after about an hour before she went into a sound sleep. But he knew this was temporary. He must think of a way to be able to buy the whole prescription. He couldn’t take seeing his mother suffer like how he saw her earlier. His mind struggled between the idea of what he must do and the perceived hopelessness of this adversity. Suddenly, it hit him. He placed a wet towel over her mother’s forehead, kissed her and hurried back to town.
“Your name…” asked a muscular man in eye glasses, wearing white polo with butterfly, inside the municipal office.
“Ambrocio Cristobal, Jr. po”
“Age…”
“Thirteen.”
“Good. Have you boxed before?”
“Ah… no sir, but I’ve trained for this.”
“You look exhausted. Are you sure you want to join today? “
Ambo stood up, concentrated and replicated his favorite combination with the Manila Ice, “1, 2, 3, pak, pak, bang “, in rapid succession to shake off his fatigue, “Yes, certainly, sir”.
“Well done, boy. You seem to know what you are doing so here’s your contract and bio data. Sign your name right here”, the man explained. “The rule is like the amateur. You and your opponent, within the same age range and weight, will be given two minutes for each of the three rounds. You’ll be wearing headgear, mouthpiece and, of course, gloves. All you have to do is connect the most number of punches - hard or soft doesn’t matter. The one who made the most connections wins.”
Of course Ambo knew the rule, but the professional rule. He was unaware, though, about headgears and the duration of the fight. He thought it was twelve rounds, three minutes each, at which might pose a big problem as long as his untested stamina was concerned. But learning this rule made him immensely comfortable thinking how easy this fight would last. “Only six minutes all in all or even less. Whoa, I can make that. Headgears must absorb punches, alright. And my opponent surely is a match”, he thought brimming with confidence.
“Winner will receive five hundred pesos and the loser, a hundred”, the same man who was to act as referee explained. “Punch below the belt line is illegal as you well know. No elbows, knees, head-butts and no hitting the back of the head. You do that, you’re automatically disqualified. The fight will start a little less than thirty minutes from now, so be prepared. And I nearly forgot: If you get knocked down even once, for safety reason, the fight’s over and you lose”, he added as he walked out of the office leaving the boy alone.
Ambo never heard that regulation. “How if I intentionally trip my foe and the referee did not see it”, he asked himself considering the possibility but he was serious. He needed to stay and remain standing until the last bell for his ailing mother no matter what would transpire. The images of her on the bench were alarming. He never saw her mother that way before and it also reminded him of his lifeless father being brought home. It was painful as he felt his heart clenched. And he was a little bothered upon recalling his mother’s pleads for him never to fight. Also his trainings were just about punching a bag. He never even tried sparring. Questions about how if he would, again, hit by the Solar Plexus started to dawn on him. The moment he lost the fight also meant sufferings not only for him but more for his mother.“Is there other way to have money for medicine?” He considered for a while but he finally decided that this was it so he stood up and shadow boxed to warm him up. “Just this time, Inang, just this time”, he promised himself.
“Are you ready? It’s time. Follow me”, the referee said peeking inside the slightly opened door.
Ambo nodded as he followed the referee to the dressing room. He was given a headgear, a pair of gloves and a mouthpiece he suspected was already used before so he made sure to wash it with water before popping it in his mouth. He was ready although he felt a little uncomfortable with the gears and mouthpiece which seemed to be of a different fit.
“Don’t you have any shoes, boy?” asked the man.
“None, sir, I don’t have any”, answered Ambo a little gibberish due to the thing in his mouth.
“Poor kid, you aren’t allowed with those slippers in the ring”, the man chuckled. “But you can do it barefooted, you know. Ah, I’ll just tell the announcer to call you Barefoot…hmm… Barefoot Banger, is that ok?” the man asked.
Ambo thought it was cool. It was better than what he was dreaming to be named: The Destroyer, The Finisher, The Smasher, El Terrible, El Matador or even La Dinamita. The last three were obviously of Mexican origin where boxing had been widely practiced like no other country on Earth. That was until the Philippines, considered as the new haven of the sports of sweet science, captured the Boxing World Cup over Mexico, five wins to one, two years prior.But to be the “Barefoot Banger” seemed the best he heard so far, “Sure, sir, I like it”, he mumbled banging his gloves.
“And so let’s go. Good luck”, the man told Ambo tapping his shoulder like he was a grown man.
Ambo felt proud. He liked it. To be identified like a real man was something he never thought would make him feel really good. He took a deep breath and entered the main covered court hearing all the applause of a full packed venue. His legs almost froze seeing the huge crowd as he trudged out of the room to the middle of the sports complex. There, standing proudly was a true boxing ring he only saw on TV before. He heard the crowd became electric as he stepped inside and proceeded to his corner. He was feeling the high. “This is for real”, he said humbly but a little tensed. Then in the midst of the thrill, he noticed a familiar group of people laughing and shouting at him.
“Boo! Boo! Boo…Buto-buto”, shrieked by a group of boys led by Bardo.
“The Alipungas are here”, he said feeling humiliated as he tried paying no attention to them. He felt bumpy reminding of the incident earlier. The pain in his midsection still throbbed. How could he join this event if his tormentor was there watching and discouraging him? Again he thought of backing out but the image of his mother earlier was too much for him to ignore. He observed that their leader wasn’t there to watch him fight as it might probably, like Bardo, mock and laugh at him had it been present. He felt a little relieved.
“Your milk bottle’s waiting for you, crazy boy, so get your tsinepen and go home”, Bardo derided about his slippers by combining tsinelas and step-in as laughter instantaneously commenced from the group and from the people surrounding them.
Then suddenly there was a loud cheer. The huge crown that appeared to be rooting for Ambo seems to turn against him when the opponent entered the arena and came up the ring. There was a deafening roar within the complex. So loud that he felt like his heart would jump out of his chest. Each member of the crowd appeared to be really shouting out their lungs in great anticipation. They loved his adversary that sounded like it was the favored fighter to win and he, clearly, was the underdog. But when his rival finally slipped through the ropes and stood in its corner, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He was transfixed as chill trickled down his spine. The face inside the headgear opposite him was somebody he recognized and eventually feared. It was the tough leader of the gang he encountered earlier with Bardo and the Alipungas. He felt an extreme discomfort like butterflies inside his stomach. His heart felt like banging his chest out. Beads of sweat formed in his forehead and his knees trembled like he was about to fall to the canvas without even being punched. Again, his mind reconsidered backing out but it was too late. The opponent extended its right arm towards the other direction and moved its glove across its neck like an executioner. Ambo knew his rival identified him, thus, the showboat was a sign of that.
“Ladies and gentlemen”, the presenter with its booming voice announced from the middle of the ring as the crowd fell silent. “We are about to witness an exciting amateur boxing match. Allow me to introduce to you the challenger who is the fighter standing to my left. This is his personal debut and he doesn’t wear shoes”, the man scoffed, smiling. “A round of applause to, Ambo “Barefoot Banger” Cristobal!” the man finished emphasizing the nickname and his last name while almost half the crowd laughed while the others booed him.
Ambo paid little attention to the introduction as his mind was preoccupied with panic devising a strategy on how to survive. He recalled that sometime in the boxing golden era, a champion named Willie Pep won a round by sole defense and without throwing a punch. This helped him recover a little of his confidence. “Defense is what I need to do”, he thought recalling all the possible defensive boxing he identified: the counterpunch which is the best way to control a brawler by hitting back immediately after an opponent resets his punch; the lateral movement to make the opponent miss; the flicker jabs to prevent the opponent at bay; and of course, the Pak Boy style where there’s no better defense than offense itself. He doubt, though, if he was capable executing all these particularly the last one. To the contrary, he also knew that sole defense can never produce a winner, thus, he remembered featherweight great Gabriel “Flash” Elorde’s speedy straights and the Filipino welterweight legend, Ceferino Garcia, the inventor of the Bolo Punch -a punch in circular motion like slashing knife performed with one arm to distract an opponent, causing him to either take his eyes off the attacker’s other arm or actually focus on the fighter’s circling arm. There was also the Rapido or the rapid, left-right upper-cuts to the body specialized by the best Asian flyweight of all time, Francisco “Pancho Villa” Guilledo. All these facts and his theories were all filling his head. The problem was how he would pare for the actual execution. Worse, he was in complete doubt of his ability.
The presenter continued. “Now for the fighter standing to my right: he is undefeated winning his three previous bouts which all came in by way of knockout in the very first round. The last ended at only 47 seconds; making it the fastest ever knock-out victory in this tournament. Ladies and gentlemen, a huge round of applause to the champion, the dangerous triple V… Valentino “Voltron” Valerio!”
The champion raised his hands like a real prizefighter and repeated the executioner act in the middle of the ring, licking his upper lip like a mad dog with his enraged eyes fixed towards Ambo.
Crowd roared as the name was announced. Bardo’s gang even brought some plastic soft drink bottles, banged them together to create noise while chanting for their bet, “Voltron! Voltron! Voltron!”
The referee signaled both fighters to come to the middle of the ring for the final instructions. But Ambo, feeling he was about to enter a lion’s den, could hardly move his feet. His eyes avoided contact with his opponent’s while the referee repeated the rules. They were asked to get back to their corners as the round was about to commence. And…
“Ding! Ding!” The bell signaled the start of the match.
The champion, without a hint, sprinted towards Ambo like a raging bull and instantly banged him with combinations, left and right hooks, to the side of his head. He was attempting an early knock out. Ambo sensed the danger, immediately covered up protecting his head with his gloves while at the same time shielding his body with his long arms. He was dazed.He couldn’t move his feet away as he was stormed with punches while being pushed back to the ropes. He was receiving too many power blows that might have knocked him down if not with the headgear. He felt like he was no matched to his burly opponent but believed he must at least survive the round. Each time he attempted to counterpunch, the champ found an opening for connection. Then, “Bang”, Voltron hooked another left that hit forcibly into the challenger’s gloves followed with a hard right to the side of the body. Ambo felt the punch. He cringed trying to hide the pain. It hurt the side of his body more than the Solar Plexus. His narrow frame was almost weakened in an instant but the instinct to survive, fortunately, stiffened his stance and moved him laterally to his left. He managed getting out of trouble from the ropes to the center of the ring.
The fans cheered as their champion displayed superiority over its opponent. “He’s damaged goods, finish him off, Voltron”, a fan shouted from the crowd. Aggressively, Voltron stalked and resumed his rapid hooks focusing to the body. Ambo found it easier moving laterally from side to side than covering like a turtle inside its shell. His arms still absorbed most of the punches but using his footwork, most of the power hits from the champion missed. He tried the Peek-A-Boo or peeking over the gloves covering the chin down to the body with the arms while waiting for opportunity for attacks, receiving punches with reduced impact. It worked yet he had not tried answering offensively. He was simply trying to endure the round. He wondered how long he had been in the losing end. It was just over a minute but he felt it seemed like hours. As the fight progressed, the champion unsparingly threw one assault after another trying everything to create an opening. Once, he even lured the challenger to hit him by lowering his guards but Ambo was still thunderstruck and hardly opened up when the bell signaled the end of the round as the crowd burst into a cheer.
“I’ll stop the fight if you won’t punch next round”, the referee warned in disappointment as Ambo gasped in his stool. Unlike Voltron, he had nothing for a corner other than a tournament staff who handed him water in a plastic pouch. Exhausted, he gulped and consumed almost half of the liquid before he remembered that a boxer should limit in or refrain from taking water while fighting as it may weaken the abdomen and shorten the stamina. He stood up and emptied the pouch by splashing the cold water over his head. He felt refreshed but still breathing hard when the bell signaled the start of the second round.
It was almost the same as the first round when Voltron darted out towards the other corner and launched his furious attacks. Another horde of left and right hooks both to the head and body were thrown in reckless abandon knowing that the rival couldn’t counter. Ambo, confused of what to defend - the head or the body – immediately covered up. He saw an opening but was so employed defending, unable to throw anything. He then felt his weight as if he was carrying load around his belly. It was the water he drank that was slowly taking its toll on him. He understood why it should have been better to simply gargle than drink it. At the corner of his eye he saw the referee coming in and about to put a halt to the fight. He remembered the warning during the break so he quickly jabbed a left hand straight from his chin to the head of his opponent remembering that a straight punch must land faster than a hook. “Bang!” It connected timely to the exposed cheek of the champion who was coming in. Voltron was stunned and immediately backed off, surprised. Ambo felt it. He knew he rocked his rival and thought he might able to knock the champion with that punch if given another chance. The referee refrained himself from stopping the fight while the crowd unexpectedly fell silent.
“Straight is the answer for hooks. I should have figured that out earlier”, Ambo affirmed. He was now ready to rumble but still cautious to lunge. He moved one step forward as if testing the water but he was surprised that the champion backpedaled. He stepped to the left; the champion moved a couple steps to the right. He faked some aggressive assaults and each time, Voltron was backing off or avoiding him. Ambo felt he was gradually gaining control as the champion was starting to lose it. He figured that Voltron was really hurt.He dashed forward for his own attack when, suddenly, the referee stood between them blocking his offense.
“Why?” Ambo asked, puzzled.
“To the corner now,” the man commanded, “It’s the end of the round, boy”.
Ambo did not hear the bell. He was inattentive as his focus was on his opponent. The previous round appeared much faster for him. Most of the people in the crowd were quiet. Perhaps, they were surprised seeing the champion backing off. They couldn’t believe that their bet was retreating only because of a single punch - a lucky punch. It was something that they never realized could possibly happen but it was happening. Within the crowd were people who now seemed to cheer Ambo. He felt better until he turned his eyes to the crowd and saw somebody he was not expecting to see. He tapped his reddened face with his gloves wondering if this was real. It was the beautiful, young girl at the drugstore looking at him and watching him fight. He saw the eyes that earlier seemed to be blinking like stars but now became visibly dimmed with trouble staring at him. She seemed worried. Ambo felt butterflies in his stomach once again. But it was different. It was no longer out of fear but of something he couldn’t explain. His heart beat fast, like raindrops in a galvanized roof, gazing at an attractive, angelic face.
“Seconds out”, the referee shouted as if Ambo had a set of corner men. The bell resonated signaling the final, two-minute round.
Ambo stood up with his chest out like a fighting cock preparing to counter-strike. He was more confident especially after he found out that the girl from the drugstore was watching. All he must do was to summon all his courage and bring the fight to the table. He waited for the champion to lunge first. But the opponent just stood there grinning, gesturing his glove and challenging him to come forward. Professional boxers sometimes do that for two reasons: first, to show they are ready and in control to whatever the opponent brings; two, if tired and simply pretending the first mentioned reason – a kind of psychological warfare.
“Only psywar”, Ambo thought as he charged setting up his dominant fist for a full-forced left hook. He was sure that if the punch could connect, he would surely win. Then, “Shooff!” the power punch hit nothing but the air when the defender ducked and moved to his left side hooking up a short popper to his open body. He missed but surprised that the body shot he received did not hurt him. He perceived his opponent decided to box technically perhaps after knowing that brute force had its own limitations and very, very tiring. He knew that if the champion do hit and run, it would probably win by points.
Voltron backpedalled to the center of the ring and stood there in wide stance, smirking. “Come here and bring it on”, he challenged Ambo for a telephone booth brawl – a case where two fighters go toe to toe inside an imaginary tight booth.
Ambo accepted the challenge. This was his only chance to win. He knew he was losing in all the judges’ scorecards. They were facing each other, standing with their feet firmly on the canvass. He initiated by throwing a powerful left hook, a right jab and a left straight at which the first two connected respectively to the defender’s biceps and chest. The champion, able to avoid the last shot, found an opening and countered a strong right to the belly. Ambo was staggered and fell two steps backward. But he lunged forward and immediately answered with Pancho Villa’s Rapido penetrating the foe’s tight defense.
“That’s nothing, go on. It doesn’t hurt me at all”, the champion said employing another psywar while defending like heavyweight great, Muhammad Ali in his own peek-a boo before suffering his first career loss to Smokin’ Joe Frazier. He also countered a right hook that connected to the side of the challenger’s head.
Ambo was hit but amazed that he, again, was able to take it. At once, he confused the opponent by the bolo punch that found the right eye. Voltron was shaken; eyes swelled, but heaved a left upper-cut that hit the challenger’s chin. Ambo responded and connected a double left jab to the champion’s face that appeared unaffected. Both fighters stood their grounds trading power shots. The rabid crowd cheered wildly when suddenly Voltron lunged, head first, to challenger’s covered chin. Ambo’s head flipped backward as he was immediately grabbed to the body, embracing for a clench.He was tottered, his whole head ached, and he couldn’t make a move being clasped. The referee separated them but gave no warning call. He overlooked the illegal move.
The crowd booed the champion. They saw it and hated the cheater. Gradually they were turning their favor towards the underdog and started cheering him, “Barefoot! Barefoot!” Ambo was wobbling as if he lost those imaginary springs in his feet. He was really hurt and his vision was blurred. He wanted to complain but the referee just signaled them to continue.
Voltron appeared so determined, even resorting to dirty tactics, to win in spectacular fashion. This was the only time he was unable to stop his opposition in the first round. But he saw that his foe was clearly weakened by his head butt. And he knew this was the best chance to finish him for good. “Goodbye, buto-buto”, he screamed leaping towards the challenger to finish him off with his orthodox stance or dominant right hand swinging towards the challenger’s left jaw.
“No”, Ambo whispered, shocked that he was too late to cover for defense. He stood frozen waiting for the coming doom. His mind randomly pictured everything he had: his mother, chilling on the wooden bench; his brother, working hard for them; the girl from the drugstore watching him, seeing how futile he was; the old ragged house they lived in as a home; his father’s memory with the old, threadbare punching bag he inherited. But he saw the punching bag stirred. It was alive, laughing at him. It swayed back and forth with its own fist about to hit his face. Instantly, Ambo felt his hands moved like they have their own mind doing what they were used to do…
“1, 2, 3, pak, pak, bang!”The combination with the version of Manila Ice reverberated within the gymnasium. The double jab connected first stopping the challenger’s attack before battering the face twice and finishing off with a hook to the jaw that almost twisted its neck.Voltron’s legs gave in as he fell like a log, face-first, to the waiting canvass. The referee needed not to give mandatory ten counts for the fallen fighter to get up. It was the hardest combination Ambo ever threw. He was victorious.
At home, Ambo gently touched his mother’s forehead.She was still fast asleep at the long wooden chair and her breathing was normal. Her fever already subsided. She looked fine. Ambo inserted his hand onto his pockets and retrieved a plastic bag with a foiled medicine and two sachets of mixed beverage. He went to get a mug with hot water and emptied the contents into it. He was excited, salivating with the aroma and the taste like heaven. He slowly savored and sipped his favorite 3-in-1 coffee in celebration of his triumph. He felt that he became a new person -a better person. He sat comfortably at the side of his mother who looked very peaceful. He thought returning to the drugstore to buy one piece of medicine at a time, twice a day, for the next four days. All these with visions of that lovely girl, with eyes like stars now twinkling brilliantly in a clear night sky, roamed passionately around his head.
