[ WP ] It 's your first Championship fight in boxing , the stadium is packed , press are at the ready , the hype is HUGE . Write me a story from your walk to the ring , the fight and finish . Tell me about the adrenaline and thrill .

`` This is it, kid.'' My trainer sat, chomping a cigar while he wrapped up my hands. He never lit the thing, said it would ruin my lungs, but he chomped on cigars non-stop on fight nights. Had ever since we'd been in shitty little dives in podunk towns. `` How are you feeling?'' 
 
 Pavlo Zherdev was a beast. Standing close to seven feet tall and weighing over two hundred and fifty pounds, he had dominated professional boxing for the last five years. The most frightening things about him were his iron chin and his seemingly limitless stamina. It's where he got his nickname;'The Steam Engine'. 
 
 I had watched hours and hours of his fight tapes. For the last three months, I had been having dreams of fighting this guy, and they always involved me feeling like my feet were in cement, or my arms were moving through Jello, or my punches landed like pillows. I'd wake up sweaty and exhausted from beating on this guy in my dreams, always to no effect. 
 
 `` I do n't feel much of anything,'' I said. And it was mostly true. Dreams like that were common before a big fight, and thus far, things had always seemed to work out for me. I've got good defense and quick hands, and they'd always served me well so far. Something was scratching at the back of my mind though; a concern about the possible match between my weaknesses, polished down to minor flaws by now, and Zherdev's strengths. 
 
 My trainer slapped me on the shoulder. `` Attaboy. Keep your head clear, kid. Got ta take a piss.'' He got up and wandered off to the bathroom for the fifth or sixth time. I sat in the empty locker room, looking between my feet. I felt my breath moving in and out of my lungs. Felt my muscles flex and stretch as I shifted my weight. 
 
 Something was different. At first I could n't identify it, and then I realized the sound of the crowd, usually a constant, dull roar in the locker rooms before a fight, was gone. I could have sworn I heard it few moments ago. Had I imagined it? Were the locker rooms that well insulated? I got up and walked to the locker room door, looking up and down the hall. It was silent. No one was walking in the hallway. I heard no sound anywhere in the building. 
 
 I felt a cold chill moving up my spine then. I remembered rotten teeth, those horrible green eyes, and that cheap suit. The smell of rotten eggs. In my memory, I heard that voice, the voice I heard the night of my first match.'Call me Lou,' he had said, followed by a wet hack and a used car salesman's attempt at a charming smile. I knew what I would see when I turned around. 
 
 And when I did turn around, there he was. One blue suede shoe propped up on the bench in the locker room. His suit was made of some sort of velveteen or satiny material. He was dressed like a madman's speculation about a Vegas lounge singer might look like. His greasy hair was combed over to one side. He smiled at me with those brown, uneven teeth. `` Little Mr. Dynamite,'' he said with a laugh. `` Big things come in small packages.'' He winked, then brought his hands up and pulsed his fingers out, miming and explosion. `` Boom!'' 
 
 He gave a wheezing laugh. Apparently, he'd amused himself. `` You ready to take the deal, kid?'' He jerked his head at a briefcase, sitting on the opposite bench. 
 
 `` I told you, jackass,'' I said. `` I told you the first time I ever fought, I do n't believe in that bullshit.'' He smirked, inclined his head a little in acquiescence. `` Fair enough,'' he said. `` But then, if you do n't believe it, it ca n't hurt to put ink to paper, can it?'' 
 
 I shook my head. `` I made it this far without you, I do n't need you now.'' 
 
 He laughed, and it was a pitying laugh. `` It's the end of the line, slim. Here's where we see the difference between the great and the *almost* great. How many people has old Pavlo put down? I think I've lost count.'' I knew the number. It was a big number. `` What makes you think you'll be any different?'' 
 
 Lou reclined on the bench, put his hands behind his head. 
 
 `` Security! ``, I shouted, and listened as my own words echoed off the walls. 
 
 `` Not until our business is done and we've struck a deal or not,'' he said quietly. 
 
 I waited. Listened to the drip, drip, drip of water falling from a shower head to a tile floor. Lou kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling. 
 
 `` You're going to get a cut over your left eye in the second round that's going to be distracting and it's going to make it hard to protect your left side. You're going to hammer on him for four or five rounds, but you're going to find out it's like beating on a stump. He's just going to keep grinning at you and trading punches, and every one of his is going to take something out of you.'' He cleared his throat. `` You're tough, so even blind and getting hit on your left side every few minutes, you're going to make it to the tenth round. It's going to be a TKO, and after tonight, sports commentators are going to talk about would've, could've, should've, but other than a few local bouts over the next four or five years, no one's going to remember who you were.'' 
 
 I glared at him. I hated this bastard. I wanted him out. 
 
 `` Or,'' he said. 
 
 `` Or, you sign this paper, you win this fight, and it's fame, fortune, and your name in lights.'' 
 
 I needed to get this over with. I needed to get this guy out of my head. I was n't superstitious, and now I had this story hanging over my head. Pop always said you become what you see in your mind's eye, and Lou's story was playing out in flashes in my mind. 
 
 `` Give me the fucking paper,'' I said, and before I finished the sentence Lou had sprung to his feet, slapping his hands together in enthusiasm. `` Alright, now we're talking, kid.'' In a flurry of motion he put a piece of old looking parchment on the back of a briefcase. I did n't even read it; if I signed on the line, this mentally ill man would go away and leave me in peace. 
 
 I took the fountain pen from his hand. Felt a slight sting; perhaps a jagged edge on the body of the pen. When I signed on the line, the ink was a deep, vibrant red that quickly faded to brown on the parchment. Lou wrapped an arm around me like we were old comrades. Cheap cologne, rotten eggs, and death. `` I never lose a sale, not one this big.'' He winked. `` See you around, kid.'' And off he went, through the locker room door. 
 
 As soon as he walked out, my trainer walked in. `` Where the fuck have you been? No time to argue, they're playing your song. It's time to dance.'' And I could hear it. My entrance music. 
 
 The walk to the ring was a blur. The crush of the crowd. The staccato flashbulbs. The shouts and screams. The announcing, shouting out the vital statistics. 
 
 As the announcer spoke, I locked eyes with Pavlo. He was a titan of solid muscle. He shook and snorted, stamped his foot like a bull. The crowd roared. He looked hungry. He looked ready. We came to the center of the ring to touch gloves, and he slammed his gloves down on mine. It felt like he was made of marble; it felt like I was going to be boxing Michaelangelo's David. For a fraction of an instant I thought about Lou's blue suede shoes, and then the bell rang. 
 
 I came out of my corner and Pavlo came out of his. He threw a heavy right straight, and I moved my head to the left, felt the air as the punch blew over my shoulder. I loaded up a right hook and let fly. 
 
 When the punch connected, I felt a sickening crunch-crack that resonated from the point of impact all the way up my arm. I watched Pavlo's head snap back and to the side, his eyes open in mute shock. His head flopped around like a rag doll as a great streamer of blood issued from his mouth. The shape of his left eye was all wrong, off-center in the socket. He dropped to his knees, then down on his face. The referee started to count, but seeing the expanding pool of blood beneath Pavlo's head and the way his legs twitched, he waved the medical team in. 
 
 The crowd, unaware of the gravity of the situation, was roaring. In the front row, in the center, I saw a man with crooked brown teeth in a moth eaten velveteen suit and blue suede shoes slowly clapping, a slight smirk on his face. I stared into his eyes and felt like I was falling down a hole. The referee held my arm up, the announcer said something, and I heard none of it.
