These Warriors Know

“Hit ‘em again! He’s not dead yet!”

“Hit ‘em again! He’s not dead yet!”

This is Chicago Gold Glove Boxing. One misstep here and a person’s skull is shuttlecocked into the rafters. Even the women have balls here. Big ones.

“Show him where you’re from Luao! Show, him!” Pack-Pack-POW!

“Yeah! That’s it, baby!”

Folding chairs groan as they get kicked back in all the riff-raff, the muscle flexing excitement. It’s pandemonium. Whooping fists raise the ceiling, vocal chords strain, faces contort and twist, high-fives and knuckles thrash in the air.

“That’s it, baby! Hit ‘em again! He’s not dead yet!”

How would it feel to destroy a man? I wondered if the women with their Louis Vuitton clutches and “Baby Girl” belts could tell me. I wonder if the red-faced farm girl, donning her Title shorts and jump rope could tell me. How do you work so hard at destroying something? Why?

A squatty, swollen man unconsciously flattening a burger between his thumbs scurried past my perch. His eyes glazed, affixed to the ring. “Hooo, Boy! Fuck him up, Luaooooooo!” He stumbles over a humming, pigtailed girl and keeps shuffling.

“Sweating in the gym is better than blood on the streets.” His shirt reads.

The bell shakes me out of my stare.

The two bloody warriors, sweaty and worn, embrace. They pat each other on the head. The winner whispers into his opponent’s ear. The loser nods as best he can with a heavy head and weighted shoulders. One braces the ropes wide to help the other through. The other returns the favor.

They know why they do it; these sweating, bleeding, toothless, bruised, limping men and women. That’s the only important thing. It’s something I could never fathom. I’ve never worked that hard in my life.