I told him again that I enjoyed his fight, that I thought he was one tough bloke, and I lied and said he had some skills?
?Where is my mind???Frank Black
I was ringside. Right at the canvas. Up and in front of me a fighter with a nose like a potato was trapped in the corner and getting punched repeatedly in the face. A small mist of blood drifted down in the spotlight beam and fell gently on my white shirt. One of the ring doctors sat next to me playing pool on his iPhone against someone called ?Viktor?.
?How?s it going?? I asked him.
?Not bad,? he replied, then saw me motioning at the action barely six feet from us. He looked up from the screen. ?Jesus Christ! Look at his nose!? He stood up and motioned to the referee. The potato nose was now more like the nose on a bull elephant seal during mating season, and it was leaking a lot of blood. The referee paused the fight then came over to the doctor and stuck his head through the ropes.
?Yes, Doc.?
?His nose?.I mean?it?s fucked.?
?Well, yeah.?
?I?ve got to stop the fight. Okay with you??
?No worries.?
The ref went back to the centre of the ring and waved his arms in the direction of the poor guy with the nose, who looked genuinely disappointed. I remember thinking ?Jeez?that?s one tough guy,? as he stomped off back to the dressing room with most of what was left of his face in a green towel.
Later that week I got hold of the nose guy?s number and rang him for an interview. I guess, in hindsight, I was more interested in his health than in the cheap soundbites that?d get a few reads if I spun it out with some hyperbole. He answered. Sounded sleepy.
?That was some fight. How?s your injuries??
?Aw?thanks man. It?s nothing. I?ll be right in a few more days.?
?Did I wake you up??
?Nah, I?ve just got in off me job. I?m a bouncer. It don?t pay much, but I need the cash for me family. I got two little kids and I work two jobs on top of the fighting.?
?What else do you do??
?I?m a labourer for a builder. It?s not great money and it?s not every week, but I can?t read and write too well so you?ve just gotta do what you can ain?t ya.?
I told him again that I enjoyed his fight, that I thought he was one tough bloke, and I lied and said he had some skills. I guess I just wanted him to feel good. He deserved it.
* * *
Today I flicked on the computer and scrolled through rankings and news drips. I came across nose guy. He wasn?t doing so well in the pro boxing world. I thought about him and hoped he was okay. A click on the keyboard and up popped a story on Floyd Mayweather. He was showing off some diamond encrusted watches he?d just bought. Perfect toothy smile. Almost perfect nose. It?s an easy trap to fall in to, I know. Money v none. Toil for nothing v seemingly limitless riches. Someone quietly spending their earnings on their kids v buying pointless trinkets and bragging about it. Floyd was one of the greats, nose guy wasn?t and will never be. Reward is directly associated with consummate skill, I told myself. Floyd has earned the right to ram those watches down my throat if he likes. He?s happy and I should be happy for him.
But that was four hours ago. I just can?t do it. I can?t feel good for Floyd. I?m not envious, I?m just sad at the difference between the top and bottom of the sport. No amount of ex-fighters? dinners could ever come close. I mean, one of those watches cost around $15,000,000. Obscene money by any standards. The kind of cash that could fix a lot of noses if Floyd could only see past his own.
