Post by Dominic Cordon on Oct 10, 2018 22:28:07 GMT -6
BEWARE - FOR I AM FEARLESS
March 30th
Wednesday
The buzz had been shifting through every sports bar up and down the original states and deep into the interior of the great U S of A. Sports books from NYC itself to Las Vegas were awash with the hype. Wednesday, Wednesday, Wednesday, fifteen belts would be fought for. As a bit of a promotional stunt by the relatively new American Boxing Federation, this would be the largest regional championship to ever grace the nation. Fighters from thirty-one states had blasted through minor bouts, smaller region titles, even established small area pro tournaments, to qualify in this 'semi-final'. Each fighter held a title, two titles, even more as the oldest fighter was at least in his mid thirties.
The Beast of the East Regional Championship, live from Madison Square Garden. From flyweight to heavyweight, the card was stacked to be one of the longest and most expensive in the sports' history. Weigh-ins had been last week, and good God at the line-up. An underdog story in cruiserweight with a guy who had come up from welterweight. In welterweight, a cold war between a Good Ol' Boy and Eastern Bloc immigrant.
In middleweight though, there was a lot of drama. The weigh-in had been an explosion of emotions and a bit of lore revealed about a Big Apple up and comer. Tonight was the night and that footage was playing on that big center monitor system. A statue being screamed at, essentially. But in that glorious 4k definition, the crowd saw it. That absolute hate in the statue's eye. Where it was directed though, it was hard to say. The statue didn't look anywhere in particular.
A lot of the matches that night had gone all the way, so the night was starting to reach tests of patience and endurance. This match was one that no one thought would last to round 7, at the most.
The lights faded, the ring the single point of light amongst the audience. An older man with the teeth to sell them the world was in the center, mic in hand.
"Ladies aaaaaaaaaand gentlemen! Next up we have our middleweight matchup, and it's a matchup that's been going on for over a decade! What started as a schoolyard rumble will erupt in blood, sweat, and experience here TONIGHT!"
The audience began to go liven up, some only now where on the card they were now. People were slowly dribbling in and no one was leaving. The floods and spots came on, in reds and oranges like fire. The screens came on again, and there was this hooded figure shot from behind. Images in motion as 4 men in new black silk garb started down the halls of Madison Square. The guitar was dirty and heavy, and some would recognize it from their seats. Black Sails, a lesser recognized yet still popular Leviathan track. The boxers' arms were uncovered and they just didn't look natural. They were harsh geometry, built finely yet simply. They flexed as gloves knocked together to the the rhythm of the kick drum.
There he was. Ready, listening only to the bass and the lyrics. That sense to sail forward and destroy. To take no prisoners. He took his corner. All in orange and black, sweat already pour over him. It cooled him.
Rap overtook the stadium and Dominic almost darted across to the other door. His coach, old but heavily weighted, was the only thing keeping him staked to the yard. Bobby 'The Pilgrim' Timmons. The fuck who decided he didn't want to try and fight the best, so he picked up belts across the East. That fuck. That coward. His sister was still a cunt too, all that shit talk from the weigh in burned his stomach.
The stats were given, the announcements made. The stood, no more than 3 feet from each other. The drumming under their feet. The screaming, the lights. It all turned to TV static once Dominic got a good look at Bobby again. He got old. He got drunk, daily. He'd put on weight for this. They tapped gloves.
Ding, ding.
Wednesday
The buzz had been shifting through every sports bar up and down the original states and deep into the interior of the great U S of A. Sports books from NYC itself to Las Vegas were awash with the hype. Wednesday, Wednesday, Wednesday, fifteen belts would be fought for. As a bit of a promotional stunt by the relatively new American Boxing Federation, this would be the largest regional championship to ever grace the nation. Fighters from thirty-one states had blasted through minor bouts, smaller region titles, even established small area pro tournaments, to qualify in this 'semi-final'. Each fighter held a title, two titles, even more as the oldest fighter was at least in his mid thirties.
The Beast of the East Regional Championship, live from Madison Square Garden. From flyweight to heavyweight, the card was stacked to be one of the longest and most expensive in the sports' history. Weigh-ins had been last week, and good God at the line-up. An underdog story in cruiserweight with a guy who had come up from welterweight. In welterweight, a cold war between a Good Ol' Boy and Eastern Bloc immigrant.
In middleweight though, there was a lot of drama. The weigh-in had been an explosion of emotions and a bit of lore revealed about a Big Apple up and comer. Tonight was the night and that footage was playing on that big center monitor system. A statue being screamed at, essentially. But in that glorious 4k definition, the crowd saw it. That absolute hate in the statue's eye. Where it was directed though, it was hard to say. The statue didn't look anywhere in particular.
A lot of the matches that night had gone all the way, so the night was starting to reach tests of patience and endurance. This match was one that no one thought would last to round 7, at the most.
The lights faded, the ring the single point of light amongst the audience. An older man with the teeth to sell them the world was in the center, mic in hand.
"Ladies aaaaaaaaaand gentlemen! Next up we have our middleweight matchup, and it's a matchup that's been going on for over a decade! What started as a schoolyard rumble will erupt in blood, sweat, and experience here TONIGHT!"
The audience began to go liven up, some only now where on the card they were now. People were slowly dribbling in and no one was leaving. The floods and spots came on, in reds and oranges like fire. The screens came on again, and there was this hooded figure shot from behind. Images in motion as 4 men in new black silk garb started down the halls of Madison Square. The guitar was dirty and heavy, and some would recognize it from their seats. Black Sails, a lesser recognized yet still popular Leviathan track. The boxers' arms were uncovered and they just didn't look natural. They were harsh geometry, built finely yet simply. They flexed as gloves knocked together to the the rhythm of the kick drum.
There he was. Ready, listening only to the bass and the lyrics. That sense to sail forward and destroy. To take no prisoners. He took his corner. All in orange and black, sweat already pour over him. It cooled him.
Rap overtook the stadium and Dominic almost darted across to the other door. His coach, old but heavily weighted, was the only thing keeping him staked to the yard. Bobby 'The Pilgrim' Timmons. The fuck who decided he didn't want to try and fight the best, so he picked up belts across the East. That fuck. That coward. His sister was still a cunt too, all that shit talk from the weigh in burned his stomach.
The stats were given, the announcements made. The stood, no more than 3 feet from each other. The drumming under their feet. The screaming, the lights. It all turned to TV static once Dominic got a good look at Bobby again. He got old. He got drunk, daily. He'd put on weight for this. They tapped gloves.
Ding, ding.
[googlefont=Nanum Brush Script:400]
[newclass=.cred]text-align:center;font-size:9px;color:rgb(132, 132, 132);font-family:verdana;margin-top:5px;[/newclass]
[newclass=.cred a]color:rgb(132, 132, 132);font-size:9px;font-family:verdana;[/newclass]
