The WVBA stadium was filled to bursting point, tension crackling in the air with the countdown to the main event at ten minutes. In the dressing room, time raced twice as fast.
Mac could not have stood still for long if he tried. The impending bout with Super Macho Man, that was one thing. An attempt at mental preparation last minute was a battle in itself.
Bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, he cocked his head from side to side and rolled his shoulders smoothly, blowing out air in hard puffs as he shook out his hands. Doc had taped them up nice and comfortably snug, providing ample support without limiting movement of his fingers and thumbs. His arms still felt a little stiff and he swung them vigorously from side to side, then crossing them over his chest and stretching them backwards, muscles rippling visibly under his skin.
He had experienced this level of queasy anxiety before, of course. A dozen times at the very least considering some of the experience he had had at a few clubs back home before going professional. But the wait never became any less maddening. He guessed this was something similar to what he would feel while pacing over a suspension bridge for a long moment and peering over the side, just wrestling with his nerves for a good five minutes before finally leaping off with a bungee cord trailing behind him, his heart and stomach lodging in his throat.
It's a pretty good comparison, he decided. With every match it was like being made to jump from a higher height. Bungee jumping: now there was something he wanted to try in his lifetime. Surely the anticipation-sickness couldn't be any worse.
Mac glanced at himself in the mirror, appraising his physique. And in an instant all the sparring, shadowboxing, aerobics training, and endurance training he had devoted himself to over the months felt like it was non-existent - and that no amount of preparation would ever be enough.
It was his head playing tricks on him. He knew this by now.
"What are tryin' to do?"
"A boxer? Use your brain, son… that's why you have one."
"It ain't that we got no faith in you, but, look… let's be realistic. Some people have what it takes - and you don't. It ain't right for you. But that don't mean y'can't do other things… Study hard and start a business. It'd be nice, workin' for yourself, don't you think?"
Closing his eyes, Mac inhaled slowly, mindfully, and held it in for a moment. The stability, self-control and clarity of mind he needed now were hinged on drawing from the wellspring of power deep down in his core, and breathing from that place – not from his chest. Doc had taught him that. Emptying his lungs smoothly and letting the air slide out of him, he breathed in again with the same conscious effort at relaxing…
In and out.
It was difficult, under pressure.
"Hey, kid."
Mac felt Doc nudge his arm gently. His eyes slid open and looked at him, alert albeit calmer as if he had woken up from a restful sleep.
"It's almost time," He said, with a half-smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Mac's gloves were slung over the man's shoulder. "How you feelin'?"
The kid offered his right hand first to be fitted into the glove and laced up. "Well, feel like I'm this close to crappin' bricks…" He sniffed, cracking his own grin after a moment. "But I think I'm as ready as I'll ever be, Doc."
Panning his gaze across the arena, Macho saw the restless shifting of spectators in their seats in semi-darkness and the cameras flashing like hundreds of twinkling stars and knew he was right where he belonged. At the centre of this microcosmic universe.
Stomping around the ring, he threw himself into every lunge and flexed his muscles, high on the heady rush of adrenaline. To bask in the hard shine of the spotlight and to be surrounded by a cheering crowd was what that Jeremy kid had always dreamed of, but it was Super Macho Man who had made it there, Super Macho Man who had achieved what Jeremy never could. Now if only he had had acquired such fame when he had been seventeen, Macho mused while willing a grin on his face that appeared fiercer than he meant it to.
No one had objected to Macho's desire to step into the ring twenty minutes early. It made for a good pre-fight show, and ultimately, entertainment was what the WVBA cared for the most. But, at last, this attraction was at its end.
While striking his most flattering pose, a collective low howl of disapproval filled the stadium. That couldn't be right. He snapped to attention with a growl, his mellow most certainly harshed, and shot a glare from across the ring. Slicing through the shadows, the beam of a second spotlight found and shone over the young boxer making his entrance.
The light caught Mac's eyes as he stepped forward with a sinking feeling in his stomach as if he were walking across a dangerously rickety bridge. The stadium, with its rows upon rows of seats, spread wide before him and the flash photography briefly illuminated a few of the scowling, unfriendly faces turned his way, a chorus of boos pressing in against him.
Doc rushed to his rescue. "Remember what I told you, baby." A hearty slap on the back urged him on. "This is your night, son. Y'hear? Your night. These fans just don't know it yet."
The walk felt like the longest of his life, as if the ring were pulling back into the distance as he advanced. But he just shut his eyes and breathed as slowly and as deeply as he could manage, trying to find that stillness within himself. Because the worst would always pass, Doc said; It had to pass.
When he opened his eyes they were by the ringside. Doc lifted the ropes for him and he rolled into the ring, rising to his feet.
Macho leaned against the turnbuckle, nostrils flaring and his chin disdainfully pushed out. Everything about him was fierce from the look in his flinty eyes to the amused, scornful quirk of his upper lip.
Though Mac felt the man's barely-controlled fury like a powerful blast of heat, he stood his ground and set his jaw, gloves raised. And as his nervousness faded, forgotten, the gut-wrenching fear and the frustration he had wrestled with in the past twenty four hours transformed into determination. A fiery, angry determination to prove to these people that he had struggled with Doc every inch of the way to make it as far as he had. That he was someone.
The referee and the announcer slipped inside the ring.
"Ladies and gentlemen - - welcome to the World Circuit bout at here at the WVBA Stadium in Hollywood, California. Now, for the event of the evening…" The announcer paused deliberately, scanning the whistling, enthusiastic crowd. "Introducing first- -"
He hesitated, again, this time on account of the hard look from Macho he caught from the corner of his eye.
"Introducing first, in the blue speedo, weighing in at two hundred and forty two pounds – with a record of thirty-five wins, twenty-nine knock outs, and one loss – the defender of the #1 rank in the World Circuit – SUPER … MACHO… MAAAAAAAN!"
"Yeah!" Macho roared, rewarding his fans with some vigorous bicep-flexing, his oil-slickened, bronzed skin shining under the light. The stadium swelled with cheering applause.
The announcer waited with the obvious expectation that Macho would invite him to continue. But when that didn't happen, he cleared his throat and pressed on. "And in the far corner, the challenger from the Bronx, wearing the black tank and green trunks with red trim, at one hundred and seven pounds, and a record of eleven wins and zero losses, Liiiiiiittle Maa- -"
The microphone flew from the announcer's hand as he was sent staggering into the ropes, clubbed aside by Macho's beefy arm. There was only so much in the way of boring formalities the superstar could take.
Mac flicked an incredulous glance towards the pale, shaken announcer who was being helped out of the ring, and then back at his carelessly grinning opponent swaggering his way towards him, feeling his backbone go rigid.
"I'm totally going to put you in a whole new world of pain, dude." Macho said, baring his teeth in a cruel parody of a smile. "That face of yours isn't gonna be pretty for long."