A Pugilist Artist

Ding, Ding. The first round of Aid'die Foreman’s first professional fight began with a flurry of rights and lefts to his body. Aid'die tightened the hundreds of muscles on his scrawny frame to absorb the blows. He lowered his elbows in defense, leaving him in a good position to strike an upward jab to his opponent’s head. Two quick left jabs up top, followed by an unexpected left hook to the body, forced Aid'die’s opponent to take a step back. Aid'die saw the retreat as a sign of weakness from the aged, but once two-division champion. The debut pugilist walked his opponent down to the corner of the ring where he released one shot to the mid-section, followed by a powerful right-bolo of a shot to the head, dazing his opponent, who took a knee and a standing eight count.

Aid'die was full of confidence and vigor that boiled over like a rushing volcano. The more experienced competitor saw the breach in defense as the perfect opportunity to teach the newcomer an important lesson. In fact, the pursuing lesson would have a profound bearing on the rest of Aid'die’s life.

In the second round, long, deep breaths exhumed from the former champ’s lungs. Aid'die thought the old man had lacked proper conditioning, so he pressed the action. The former champ continued with the act by appearing overly cautious and disoriented. When he did strike, his punches were flimsy, slow and weak, missing wildly with the inaccuracy of an amateur. Aid'die went in for the kill with straight right hand leads to the head. Committed to an offensive attack, Aid'die cocked back his right hand for the final blow. Exactly at that time, the former champ released a devastating blow of his own that floored young Aid'die. He never saw it coming.

From his back, Aid'die watched the bright lights above spiral and shift like the kaleidoscopes from his youth. He struck the canvas with his glove in frustration. The audience sprung from their seats. Cheers and chants urged young Aid'die up from the floor. The square circle expanded without ends. As he rolled over onto one knee, he reached for the ropes, lifting himself up above everyone else. He never heard the referee call out the first six numbers. “Seven…” The referee continued, “Eight”.

Aid'die stood erect, shaking off the past moment. The referee grabbed Aid'die by the wrists and extended his gloves towards him. Aid'die looked around the small stadium with a lost wonderment that was all new to him. The referee asked if he was ok to continue. Aid'die heard him, but did not respond. He could only think of the thirty seconds, of how he had been baited by the experienced fighter. He realized that the former champ’s sluggish, awkward jabs, and heavy breathing was a ploy to get Aid'die to lower his guard. He vowed never to be fooled again. Never.

Round by round, they grabbed and clinched, twisted and pushed each other through contention. Aid'die proved to be a fast learner. Reversing the tide, Aid'die feinted, clamped, and elbowed his opponent, while also confusing him with altering speeds and strength. In between the final rounds, the former champ’s trainer said to his experienced fighter, “This is a thinking man’s game. Go back in there and school that kid. Then beat him as if he stole something.”

The final round bell rang. Aid'die met his opponent in the center of the ring, dropped his guard slightly and took a deep breath. The former champ saw an opening. Aid'die expected this, and before the former champ could follow through, young Aid'die reached his target with maximum power. Throughout his amateur career, his coach advised him to aim for the body when his opponent was hurt, and that’s just what he did. Two powerful blows to the pit of the stomach caused the two-division champion to fold, leaving his head exposed for a final blow. Cheers roared from the small stadium that would have echoed the greatest Roman arenas. Aid'die showed no mercy. The referee stood over the victim, waving his arms profusely.

That was the beginning of Aid'die’s career, and now we are near the end. He was truly exciting during his youth, but he quickly came to understand a greater talent, the art of defense. Like a great American baseball pitcher, Aid'die shut his opponents down with calculated strikes, pot-shooting his way to victory after victory. He perfected the art of evasion, too. Soon, opponents found difficulty in laying a single glove on him, let alone being able to hit him with any significant blows. However, the problem with an absolute defense in an offensive sport is the boredom from the lack of excitement. Paying fans want to see pain, hurt, and aggression. Heavily criticized by sports enthusiasts and fans, Aid'die argued vehemently in favor of his new Art form. He claimed that his defensive abilities were far superior to anyone else’s, that his unblemished face was proof, and that the fans did not appreciate the sport of Boxing in it’s true form. “The object is to hit your opponent without being hit,” he confidently told an interviewer.

As a true artist, Aid'die was never pleased with his performances. After each bout, he rushed to review the videos, searching for imperfections. In the early days of his defensive aspirations, he was distraught if an opponent came close enough to touch him in any way. Soon after, he became even more enraged if an opponent’s sweat dropped near him. He wanted to be like the wind, able to contort and shift from a simple thought, to strike and retreat with little to no effort.

When not competing, Aid'die frequented the ballet, art museums, poetry readings, and the like. He marveled at the concept of Art, which he believed was an obsession for him to share with the world, for him to achieve like no-one before him, and like no-one after. He believed that his triumphs would somehow linger throughout time like the wind he wanted to become; like a gentle breeze on a hot day, existing solely for the admirer. He wondered, at times, if others would appreciate his talents after he was long gone. He saw himself as a modern day van Gogh or Dickinson; or, as a lonely actor on a floating stage traveling through time, searching for the right place to perform. Because of this, Aid'die Foreman renamed himself, Artist.

His long time trainer and coach, Dax Mooney, dissented against Artist’s defensive methods. He routinely chanted to anyone who would listen, “All this stuff about ‘being seen without being seen’ is ridiculous. The boy is a fighter, not Houdini.” In earnest, he told Artist, “Styles make fights. And your style is not making good fights. No one wants to see a one-sided fight. Fans want to see raw competition with brute exchanges and an occasional drop of blood.” Artist stared and listened to his coach, all the while thinking of the many artists before him who chose obscurity over greatness. “One day...” Artist said to himself. “One day, possibly after my end, they will come to appreciate all that I have done for this sport.”

Loneliness grew inside Artist as his fans and supporters dwindled down to none. And though he was undefeated, no contenders challenged him for his titles. Some believed he was too good, born well before his time; others had forgotten about him all together. During his waning years, he boxed anyone who would step in the ring with him, who were non-professionals looking to make a name for themselves; until, finally, there was no one left. Alive and well, he was a living relic. For his last hoorah, Artist self-promoted a fight against himself. “Shadowplay: An Artist’s Rendition,” was the headline. He could not imagine a greater draw than himself.

The doors opened at 8:00 p.m. sharp. Artist rushed to his dressing room and wrapped his hands with distinguishable care. He dressed in an elaborate black, velvet robe, gilded with lace and sparkling tassels that shimmied with every step. For his last performance, the artist applied face foundation, so that the flashing camera lights would not show the many defects that came with age. He walked down the long corridor, out into the arena, at which point he stepped and twirled through the aisles with the rhythm of a Samba dancer. He sprung onto the canvas with a single leap, bouncing and side-skipping around the ring several times before stopping to disrobe. As he bowed to the invisible crowd, he replayed introductions by past ring announcers in his head, “In this corner, Undefeated…. And in that corner, Undefeated….” The artist performed a salutatory bow for each.

The rules were announced, and the contest began. He boxed in and out, and side to side, with such speed and agility that only a single blur appeared on the camera. Shadowplay acting out his own play proved to be too effective. In between rounds, he sat at different corners giving himself inside pointers, unable to devise a sure way to victory.

As each round ended in a draw, Artist’s mind raced against itself faster than the speed of his rapid firing hands. He countered every punch before the punch could take place. Normal motions, that were once second nature to him, had become over-calculated movements of distrust. The staleness of pent up energy proved to be a heavy weight on his pursuit, as indecisiveness controlled his responses.

The exhibition became more about the artist than about the sport. He felt that each moment had to be improved upon, simply for the sake of improvement. As the spectacle entered into the latter rounds, and the speed and intensity increased, the artist became two, three, then four forms of his original self. Only the camera was able to witness the metamorphosis, as the one-time artist finally reached immortality. He, now a single blur, had become the wind, whisking about like the passing of a thousand whirling Dervish. Simple lateral movements had been superseded by elevation and depth through time and space. One artist’s quest for excellence joined that of a benevolent god blended in absolute harmony. Dust circulated uncontrollably throughout the hall, as the one-time artist experimented with his new form by whisking about without neither need or want. He had come to realize that to simply exist outside of oneself was to be his greatest achievement -- the achievement he had so blindly pursued.

The transformation had caused the front doors of the hall to rattle and dismount from its frame. A young boy was standing outside. Intrigued from all the commotion, he entered the hall, curious as to what was beyond the thick cloud of dust. Bright strobe lights wandered aimlessly about the ring, highlighting the emptiness of the event. A strange thud of a sound echoed through the building, the dust had cleared, and the whirling wind was almost at a standstill, moving just enough to exist.

The young boy was able to see the ring in all its glory. The one-time champion, turned Artist, turned force of nature, created two opposing images in full battle of skill and wit, both of whom motioned to the young boy to approach the foot of the ring. The battle ensued with each opponent displaying an epic contest in the art of Boxing. After the show was over, the wind withdrew, leaving a pair of gloves that had fallen to the floor. The young boy climbed inside the ring and placed his hands inside them, and began to mimic what he had just seen. He jabbed his imaginary opponent in the middle of the ring, then mauled him to the ropes, where he floored his foe with a devastating shot to the midsection. A child’s shadowplay on an empty stage bore the beginning of a some-day true artist.