Boxing Match

You're in a boxing ring, in a boxing match of 10 rounds. You can feel the sweat pouring down your face in torrents as you struggle to focus, your senses conflicted by the smell of sweat, blood and of an unidentifiable odour, the excited crowd cheering the fighters on and the disapproving voice of the referee as one of you attempts to foul the other.

As the man in charge separates you and the bell rings, you focused on your opponent. That daunting Fighter S, who has scored countless downs against you approaches ominously, menacingly once more, his silhouette seemingly a great giant of darkness that threatened to consume the sliver of light that is the hope in victory. Your victory.

He taunts you, calls you stupid. Makes you wonder why you are even here, why you were even born. He remembers those days where you slipped and fell at the punching bags, where you failed to listen to instruction and forfeited a match, bringing embarrassment and shame to your gym and trainers, where you felt guilty for being unable to keep to an acceptable weight for your next upcoming match. He sees it. He knows it.

And he uses it against you.

Previously, you had moped. Got depressed over it. Felt as though the guilt was gnawing a large hole in your heart and through your chest. Every moment you have felt something like that, Fighter S deals a punch gleefully. A roundhouse. An uppercut. A Dempsey roll. Every time it happens, you only remembered blacking out momentarily, then gazing up at the unforgiving spotlights high up in the ceiling, casting you as the protagonist of what looked like a comedy or a thrashing as Fighter S's supporters, the infamous D Spitfire Fan Group jeered, laughed and repeated S's insults.

No more! As anger at the humiliation builds up each time you get back up, the boiling point is reached and you rushed him. This time, a smirk, a whispered threat and a sneer are all you see before the pain spreads throughout your brain and you fall flat again onto the seemingly comfortable mat.

Your eyes close. Your senses are dulled and suddenly you feel like you should be sleeping here. After all, Fighter S was so much stronger. His suggestion to give up did seem plausible. You are nothing but a common fighter, destined to stop at the lower rungs of the sport. Why try so hard? Why do it when you know your gym mate would betray you? Why fight when The Fighter Os and Ds and Ss are always there to knock you down? Might as well give up, right?

Get up! Somehow, you managed to hear a voice and you get up just as the bell rings, signaling the end of the round. Saved by the bell. You return to your corner, dejected, head hung so low it would have touched your stomach. The chair is held out for you, and you slump into it, simply relieved the round is over. You are on the verge of tears, feeling as though the whole crowd had abandoned you and your team are but silent undertakers, ready to receive another corpse, dead of hope, bereft of life.

But the chair feels surprisingly soft. A deafening silence falls over the crowd, drowning out the cacophony the D Spitfires have caused to deal more mental damage to you. Something seems to flow into you, through you as you sit. You look up in disbelief, and see a familiar face.

It's Daddy G, and as He smiles, the tears you have defiantly held back finally broke down the resistance you've put up and began to flood your cheeks, flowing down your face and washing away the tough facade you've planted in.

Memories start coming back, and somehow it feels as though Daddy G was the trainer you had first left for a  'greater, bigger, better gym with more well-off trainers', or He was the one you had never listened to. in any case, He is here, and the feeling of shame still stayed.

It is all right, son. He puts a kindly hand on your shoulder and holds out the bottle. Drink, He says, and though you struggle, this time you do as you are told and the wonderful liquid quenches your thirst and stills your nerves.

Next, He holds out the towel and you reach out. To your surprise, he wipes the sweat off your face and drabs at the wounds with antiseptic and cotton. Miraculously, as you allowed Him to do so, they close up and you feel as good as new.

You feel ready as He speaks words of encouragement, of affirmation to you. As you listen, you realise strength has returned. You realise that the crowd - the A Faithful Fan Group are cheering, singing, encouraging you. You get up as the last words left the lips of Daddy G, and you step back into the ring as the bell sounds.

You lock eyes with Fighter S, and his mocking gaze nearly causes you to snap as you stalk forward, ready to give him a beating.

A hand sticks out from the man in charge and to your surprise, it is Daddy G again! Wait, He says. Wait.


But he's just there! I'm ready to go at him, Ref! I'm ready to fight him! Come on, lemme at 'im!

He smiles. Wait. Though the hand stays there and could easily be batted aside, the voice is firm but warm. You decide to listen again and wait, slowing your breathing until you feel yourself calm down. In and out your breath goes, until the cloud of confusion over your mind is dispersed.

As you open your eyes, suddenly there seems to be no shadow. Suddenly there seems to be no ominous figure in front of you, but a babbling, weak fool who had probably lied his way to so many victories he had notched up. Suddenly the D Spitfires are covered by silence, a blanket of tentativeness mixed with realisation and fear of that one truth that is unavoidable.

Fighter S can't win. Not when you are in this state.

Not when You have Daddy G as your second, encouraging you, stirring you up till the A Faithful are encouraged themselves to cheer you on.

Not when Daddy G is the referee who stops you and ensures you are ready before plunging into another brawl with S.

The bell rings, and you move forward, arms at ready in the peek-a-boo style, eyes focused and determined. With each step, Fighter S seems to shrink and retreat. His words bounces off your mind uselessly as you smile confidently.

You lunge with fists raised, knowing that as they fell, the belt is yours for the taking.

------------------------------------


Just a quaint little idea I thought up of as Daddy G spoke to me about being empowered and being prepared.

Even as we are empowered, sometimes we get a little too impetuous and lunge back into a fight that has knocked us down countless times.

But you see, Daddy G reminds me that He is the second and the referee to my match, though even as that is a given, I still needed to make the choice to accept His decisions and advice. I needed to obey.


And perhaps this little story might help you on the path to doing so as well...And finally truly help you achieve the victory that has already been given to you.


Peace out.