H.G.T.

The Ring, Round Nine:

He buys the kick, sends his left arm down to parry the onrushing limb, and it’s good that he buys it, because it isn’t all feint – had he ignored it, the roundhouse kick would have would have crushed his ribs, my left shin landing with a dull thwack. 

He leans forward just a little when he moves to block, and my foot drops to the floor in mid kick. My left hand snaps out like a poolball on a spring, landing once, a firm jolt going up my forearm as his lips flatten against his teeth, and snaps out again. He was ready for the second jab, slapping it away with his right, but I opened my left hand in mid swing, hooked my fingers around his right wrist, and pulled it to my left across his body. An opening was created just long enough for me to step forward and drive an overhand right into the bridge of his nose, a perfect punch that started in my left calf and ran through my body into his like lightning after ground. The sound was like an apple hitting a block of ice.

He went down. The roar in my ears drowned out the roar of the crowd and I closed my eyes, leaning against the ropes. My hands throbbed in time with my chest and my head, breath coming ragged across my lips as the ringside teams brought my opponent back to his feet.

They stand him up, and the ref took us both in hand, made the announcement, raised my arm. I raised the other, hold them both in the air without moving them, and then I lowered them and left the ring.