Benji did not regret his decision to accept Topaz’s invitation to make his way to the ABC Center because he rapidly learned he loved everything about boxing. He loved the training…the increased confidence…the skills he learned…the camaraderie with the other fighters…the sounds of the gym He loved hearing the trainers yelling, the sound of jumping rope, someone thumping the heavy bag, the grunts of fellow fighters when sparring—even the smell of the gym was attractive to him. But more than anything else, he loved the mental aspect of fighting: the intensity, focus, and resulting sense of purpose. He’d dived deep into it from the beginning; it’d consumed his entire life over the past six years. And now here he was, a highly trained fighter, a promising boxer with a strong amateur resume ready to make his living and find his glory through legalized combat.
His eyesight was not a liability in his chosen profession; rather it dictated his fighting style—he wanted and needed to get in close to his opponent. It was a style that required he train to be stronger than his opponents and it also made for more exciting fights. In boxing and in life, he was trained to accurately assess the situation, determine what his strengths were, analyze the weaknesses of the enemy in front of him, determine the validity of any assumptions, and then almost immediately determine the proper course of action—even if the action was to retreat temporarily. He knew he was mentally powerful, physically lethal and clear minded with a resolute refusal to let any situation overwhelm him. It was a process—the instantaneous process of a fighter. It was a skill that served him well over the course of his young lifetime and in the boxing ring.
So why did his heart threaten to pound through his chest right now?
It was because…she was coming.
To his place. Alone.
Their first meeting was at random, but she looked really familiar—he’d seen her at his first professional fight. She happened to be attending this fight with her sister, who was a fight fan and enthusiastically cheering on the fights—her?
“Not so much,” he remembered with a grin.
She seemed bored by the spectacle.
He saw her almost immediately as he exited the locker room and made his way toward the ring. When he was an amateur, his prefight routine involved intense concentration on what he was about to engage in, and it was even more important as a professional. A fighter had to be focused—his chosen endeavor was a dangerous and violent confrontation between two powerful men unconditionally committed to causing the other pain and separating the other person from consciousness if given the opportunity. Every single time Benji entered the ring, he remembered losing was not the worst pain he could possibly endure—a moment’s lapse could result in severe injury, permanent damage to the body and mind…or death. So his attention remained on the matter at hand—every time. No mistakes allowed.
But he saw her. And his concentration was broken.
At first glance and probably due to his focus on combat, he did not see her clearly, but even through the darkness of the arena and his poor eyesight, she instantly caught his attention and broke his focus—he definitely remembered her. She was the dark-haired girl he’d always seen around the neighborhood, but now, her extraordinary beauty was even more apparent. Her dark hair was pulled back to accent her features, and she wore large designer sunglasses even though she was inside—like a movie star. She took them off and her coal black eyes seemed to look right into the fighter’s soul and warm it as she innocently watched Benji walk to battle. Though she wore very little make-up, her soft burgundy lipstick seemed to light the entire dimly lit arena.
Benji noted how she turned to say something to her sister and both women laughed as he walked past. Maybe it was his imagination…but he thought he saw her glance his way with a smile that seemed shy, flirtatious, and glamorous, all at the same time.
She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“They’re talking about me,” Benji thought.
They weren’t.
But in Benji’s mind, he summoned a new motivation anyway. A different type of power welled up inside him, and he was filled with a new passion…and he made a silent vow.
“I’m not losing. Not with her watching.”
He was scheduled to fight Melvin Foster, who was undefeated in seven fights. When the fight was offered to Benji, he’d been nervous— it was his first professional fight and Foster had been at it for a while. But his team’s confidence strengthened him; his opponent was more experienced, but Benji was ready to begin making a name for himself. His team convinced him he was the better man…and Benji was ready.
Melvin Foster was powerfully built, intimidating, and a dangerous local fighter; in addition to being undefeated, he had knocked out all seven men he fought. His back was turned when Benji stepped through the ropes, but he turned around and fixed Benji with the cold stare of a master assassin and an appearance that projected the personification of pure malice. He was a dangerous man, and every single person in the arena knew it…including Benji.
Benji’s trainer knew it too. “You have to fight this man, B.G.,” he said softly, without looking at him. “You have to get his respect.”
Benji nodded but did not look at the diminutive trainer. Nor was he afraid of the animal standing across from him in the ring—he was a deadly, well- trained, professional fighter himself now. He could no longer hear or see the crowd. And his expression did not change as his mind was focused on a single, penetrating thought.
“I’m not losing. Not with her watching.”
As the bell rang, Benji dominated his muscular opponent. Benji’s technique was flawless, and he seemed to hit Foster at will. Despite his opponent’s obvious power, Benji’s hands were faster, his feet were faster, and his reflexes were honed to avoid his foe’s dangerous punches. Benji did not celebrate. He remained focused because he knew this was a dangerous man that could render him senseless with a single punch.
Then…he almost did.
When Melvin Foster hit him, Benji froze. He didn’t fall, but his legs seemed paralyzed and he no longer had any idea where he was, though he could hear the crowd’s full-throated screaming for his demise. He could not feel his arms and had no idea if he was protecting his head as he had been trained to do…and Benji was afraid. Not afraid of Foster. Not even afraid of getting hurt. He was afraid of losing.
Because she was watching.
But Benji was powerless to stop it. His strength, his boxing intellect and his boxing talent all somehow betrayed him at the same time. He could not physically defend himself from the coming assault; thunderous punches we’re on the way from a powerful man any second now, a combined force that would battery him, knock him out, steal his victory, ruin the vow he’d made, and demolish his dream. He waited for Foster to finish him.
But the punch never came.
After what seemed like an eternity but was really only a few seconds, Benji felt his legs again. He felt his arms…they were still raised and poised, ready to defend and ready to strike. His vision was the last thing to return, and amazingly…the fighter in front of him was not advancing to finish him off. He was circling around Benji and eyeing him warily as if he was unsure how damaged Benji was.
So Benji punched him hard in the face.
And the rout was on.
Benji systematically stalked and destroyed his nemesis through punch after merciless punch. With his opponent in full retreat, Benji stepped to his right and feinted with his right hand to attempt to lure his rival to move to Benji’s left. When Foster obliged, Benji fired two rapid left-hand bombs…one each to Foster’s body and head. His opponent’s eyes rolled, and he fell into the ropes with his arms lowered, all inferences of malice gone.
From the corner of his eye, Benji thought he saw a white towel being thrown in the opposite corner. It was the universal signal of surrender.
“No,” Benji thought. “That could be a T-shirt or a reflection of the arena lights. No mistakes allowed.
So now…I’m going to kill this mother fucker.”
But as he moved in, the referee stepped between the combatants and waved off the fight, signaling the brutal battle was concluded. Benji roared and ran to the ropes to accept the raucous accolades from the now adoring crowd. He scanned the audience for her. He knew she was cheering wildly; everyone was. He wanted to find her, point at her, pose with his masculinity on full display, pound his chest, lock eyes with her, and let her know this victory was for her. He wanted to signal to her to wait for him.
But she and her sister were gone.
Gone.
He didn’t know if she’d even seen their victory.
Benji had to check on his opponent first, then left the ring quickly. He wanted to shower fast and come back…maybe she was still in the building. He hurried to the dressing room with the crowd still wildly cheering his victory.
He didn’t care. He had to find her.
He walked into the locker room to applause from his fellow fighters—he managed a smile and acknowledged the accolades from powerful men he respected, like-minded warriors whose veneration was hard earned and, once given, not easily relinquished. They recognized one of their own had just stared down hardship to defeat painful adversity, and they knew it in the way only those who placed themselves in the same dangerous circumstance could possibly know. As a weary Benji sat, he continued to acknowledge the subtle nods he received from those who likewise conquered, as well as the wide-eyed admiration from those who had not yet joined their fellowship.
His vanquished opponent entered to a more muted reaction, though even the defeated warriors were congratulated for a good fight. Drained, he walked slowly to where Benji had settled and sat down next to him. Both warriors’ faces were expressionless as the two, who only moments before were bent on the other’s destruction, now sat quietly and turned their battered faces to look at each other.
Then Melvin Foster stuck out his hand.
“Great fight, G.”
Benji accepted his hand, and the fighters stood and embraced, placing their other hands on each other’s shoulders and resting their foreheads lightly against each other’s foreheads in the manner of the Congolese warriors.
As Foster ambled away, Benji sat, closed his eyes, and leaned back against his locker, soaking in the magnitude of his victory this night, clearly physically, mentally, and emotionally spent.
From his victory.
Their victory.
His eyes sprang open, and the thought occurred to him. The main event was still five fights away…it was not likely to start for a few hours or more.
“She might still be there.”
I whispered to Benji. This time…he listened to me.
Benji leapt up, showered, and dressed in record time.
Benji left the locker room and scanned the place where he thought the dark-haired girl had been standing, but it was no use—she was gone.
But Sid was there.
Mama and Angela wouldn’t watch him fight. Pops and Marcus watched every chance they got when he was fighting in the amateurs, Nikki only rarely. Nikki said it was because fighting was stupid, but Benji knew by now—his sisters were afraid he’d get hurt. So it was OK.
But Sid was always there. Every time.
“Hey, champ, you looked good out there—let’s get something to eat, though, unless you want to watch the fights…”
Sid was right. Getting something to eat was a pretty good idea—the fight game was very disciplined, he’d learned you needed a mental break sometimes. A break meant no fights, no watching what he ate, no getting up early to train, no intense focus during sparring. He’d won his first professional fight so he’d earned a break, but laziness was contagious, so he’d allow himself one evening of food…maybe some drink too. Take a full day off tomorrow…then back at it.
“Let’s go, champ.”
Benji stared absentmindedly at his brother as they began to pull out of the arena parking lot and leave; he felt surprisingly numb in the aftermath of his first professional victory—a huge triumph and the result of many years learning his craft since the days of the ABC. And that’s when he knew—he needed to forget the dark-haired girl. Put her out of his mind in all respects…because if he didn’t, if he was wondering about her, trying to find her in the audience, trying to guess whether or not she would come to a future fight or was attending one, he could be badly hurt. He would be badly hurt. His focus must be singular…he had to train with full intensity because that’s what his future opponents were doing. When fighting, only two people mattered—Benji and his opponent. The rest of the world disappeared. So Benji made his second vow of the night: the dark-haired girl didn’t exist. In fact—she’d never existed. What dark-haired girl? It was time to eat now, to celebrate the first of what Benji knew would be many victories. The first step on the road to a champion’s destiny.
And then she was there.
On their way out of the parking lot, there she was…standing by the entrance to the arena, just talking to her sister. As Sid stepped on the gas to head out the exit, Benji leaned over and elbowed his brother; with a grin that his brother could sense in the car’s darkness, he said, “Hold on, Sid…slow down…”
“What?”
“Just slow down, black.”
Sid looked where Benji was looking…and he knew. Two girls. He grinned too. Benji was glad Sid knew instinctively to not slow to a crawl…that might scare the girls, like they were doing a drive-by or something creepy. “Just do the parking lot speed limit, man,” Benji thought.
“Shorty is mine,” Sid said with a laugh. “She likes me.”
Benji responded, “Oh no, baby brother…Shorty is out of your league. You got the tall one; dark-haired shorty is mine.”
The brothers engaged in light-hearted banter as they sauntered past their targets in the gold ’75 Toronado Pops let them drive. As they started to pass, Benji rolled down his window—he was tempted to yell something out the window but thought that might scare them. So as they passed, Benji said nothing. He just leaned out the window…smiled…and waved.
And she waved back.
Benji felt his heartbeat as he hurriedly told Sid with a huge smile, “Drive around and roll by again…”
Sid protested, “Why? You ain’t even said nothin’! You scared. C’mon, Sir Smooth…let’s go eat. I’m hungry…”
But Benji turned the radio down and said, “Later for that. Swing her way one more again…”
Sid shook his head but drove around the arena until they were again approaching the women. As before, Benji hung out the window, flashed a friendly smile, and though he was unsure if she could see from that distance, he winked.
And she waved, and this time…she laughed too.
“Go back again, Sid.”
Sid just shook his head and said under his breath, “All right man…damn…you all slow…they probably gone now anyway.”
As Sid sped around the arena, Benji thought his brother might be right. They could either be gone or think he was weird. It was time to make a move.
“OK, bet…pass this time…then park.”
Benji noted from a distance the women saw their Toronado approaching again, and they were pointing at the oncoming vehicle and laughing together. So as Sid pulled in and parked, Benji jumped out of the vehicle, walked to the smiling duo, and addressing the object of his affection directly, he stuck his hand out like Billy Dee Williams in “Lady Sings the Blues” and smiled.
“Hey, baby girl. Listen, we really tired of driving. Would you hold this for me while I go for a walk?”
For what seemed like an eternity, both women stared at him as though Benji had lost his mind.
Then…both women started laughing, and the dark-haired girl looked at her sister and exclaimed, “OK, THAT’S cute!”
Then the dark-haired girl looked slyly at Benji and said with a big smile, “Do another one.”
Without missing a beat and with his charm at maximum levels, once again channeling his inner Billy Dee, Benji came at her with another line.
“Baby, you fine as wine and just my kind, but on a scale of one to ten, I gotta rate you a nine…”
Then he leaned in and lovingly took her hand in his as he almost whispered: “Because I’m the one you’re missing.”
All four broke out in uproarious laughter. As the laughter began to subside, Benji chuckled and said, “I’m just playin’, girl— I’m Benji Frazier.”
And all their conversations had been just that easy ever since.
Since then, they spent increasingly more time together; even after only one chance meeting, they embraced a closeness that grew daily— they shared; they laughed; they told secrets; they developed favorite places like the soul food spot on Imperial Avenue or the pancake place on Euclid. The feeling they inspired in each other was amazing…he met her every day after she got off work or when his training was complete; he felt like she knew him better than any woman he’d ever known, of which there were many.
But he didn’t know quite what to expect today. He’d been visiting her at work for a few moments one day, and the outpouring of affection between them was natural. Right before he departed, she looked at him and said almost shyly, “I have my day free tomorrow if you want to get together.”
He laughed and said almost jokingly and with his trademark wink, “Come to my place?” He expected them both to laugh and plan to meet for lunch, then see the city, holding hands the entire time. Her smiling response floored him.
“I can do that. What time?”
From then until now— he was stunned. She’d looked at him with her deep, soulful eyes and said in her beautiful soft voice, “It’s OK— I trust you. And we’re just going to talk, right?”
His return smile was just as sincere as he looked into her eyes, but all he could manage was “Yes.”
But thoughts flooded his mind. Even so.
No woman had ever attracted him more but he refused to plan to seduce her or try too. It was not his way.
Well…it usually was his way.
Fighters always got the prettiest girls—always. Every single time. Fighters got paid not just for how good they were but also for who wanted to see them fight, so fighters who didn’t play the villain were extra personable outside the ring. They were charismatic and comfortable to talk to. Fighters were like singers in that respect…didn’t matter how well singers can sing, what mattered was who and how many wanted to listen.
Fighters were also very confident…they were respected by other men, and since fighters had nothing to prove outside the ring, they walked like giants among men. Also, woman could watch her man playing football, basketball, or baseball…sometimes her man was involved in the action, sometimes not. And she probably screamed when her man scored a touchdown, hit a home run, or dunked a basketball, but when a woman saw her man in the ring, there was an emotional connection, a deep primal focus and feeling that rose and fell with every punch landed or missed. The emotional connection grew with each passing round, each passing fight. When the fighter won, there was a feeling of intimate togetherness because his woman was with her fighter emotionally the entire time. Even when the fighter lost, the connection was there, maybe even stronger because it activated a caretaking mentality a defeated fighter needed to rebound and fight again.
The result was a creation of a mutual understanding of the lows and the highs that generated a powerful and attractive bond. Oh yes, fighters always got the most beautiful women— and due to the emotional connection with their fighters, these women were intensely loyal. Combined with the confidence dripping from men constantly training their minds and bodies, and Benji had no problem getting women— all kinds of women.
But this was different.
With her, the moments were special so he fought against his urge to seduce or to have expectations of her being with him for several hours— of being totally alone with her in his place. Every moment with her was better than the last—despite a burning desire for her, he steeled his mind and convinced himself his only real expectation was he would not be disappointed. Because he had zero expectations. No matter what.
Still, he scanned his apartment and chuckled. Music drifted from his medium-sized boom box; the window shade was slightly open, not quite closed but not all the way open, so as not to flood the room with light. He sprayed his chest with cologne and brushed his teeth…again.
“OK, OK,” he thought to himself. “No expectation…I’m just creating atmosphere…no expectation…I’m just creating a moment. No expectation.” He smiled.
Then there was a soft knock on the door. It was soft, but it startled him.
It was her. She was there. Right on the other side of the door. She was a little early.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He didn’t want his voice to shake. He got up and walked to the door and took a final deep breath. “No expectations,” he thought.
He opened the door…and there she was.
She was wearing jeans that accentuated her shape and fit her perfectly to go with a flowered yellow blouse opened right under her neckline. He looked down and saw she was wearing sandals and her toes sported a pink polish complemented by her tiny feminine hands, which displayed the frosted fingernail polish she favored. He gently took her hand and raised it to his face and tenderly kissed her index finger, repeated the kiss for her pinky, then held her petite hands in his boxing-scarred hands and gazed lovingly at the object of his desire. She was still a more beautiful woman than any he’d ever seen in his life. Her deep, dark eyes were so smoky they seemed almost coal black and looked at him with a hint of a smile at the corners. She’d gone with a cherry red-colored lipstick today. She was smiling at him as she greeted him with a light meeting of their lips and said hi in her adorable, almost shy manner.
It was Angela Bofill on the boombox setting the room’s mood and atmosphere. He was listening to his mood music before her arrival, but he’d intended to switch it to more upbeat songs before she got there…but she arrived early. He did not want her to arrive to romantic music because it was too obvious an attempt to set a romantic mood. He was worried now she would think making love to her was the only reason he’d asked her to come. He wanted to be alone with her, but with this mistake, he knew her—she would smile and laugh, but then suggest the couple go walking together or go get something to eat.
He figured he’d already blown it.
She walked in, seemingly comfortable, put her purse down, and looked around with a wry expression. She looked back at him, and was it his imagination, or was she smiling a little bit wider?
Smokey Robinson now. Damn music was still playing.
He walked toward her with the honest intention of taking her hand and guiding her to the couch where they could sit close and talk. He wanted to explain. In truth, he was that kind of guy. But not with her. No way. He wanted to explain it. He hoped she would believe it. Because it was the truth.
But when he took hold of her hand—something happened. Without saying a word or making a sound, they came together —he didn’t know if it was the look in her eyes or her smile or her scent or the softness of her skin, but something changed his action in an instant. The two looked into each other’s eyes, and slowly their lips were drawn together like magnets into a slow, deep, sensual kiss. He could feel the total fullness and softness of her lips; he could taste the inside sweetness of her mouth. Her eyes were closed as they reveled in the most passionate kiss they’d ever shared. Her eyes opened slowly as they broke off the kiss with their faces in close contact with each other. They looked at each other raptly for what seemed like an eternity.
Then they began kissing again.
They married eighteen months later.
By the time they married, Benji was well into his boxing career. He wanted to fight even more because a new fighter’s earnings were meager. There were gym fees whether he had fights scheduled or not; sometimes he was paid as little as four hundred dollars but he still had to pay for travel and his hotel. Additionally, the promoter took a percentage of his earnings, his trainer took a percentage of his earnings, the government took a percentage of his earnings…and sometimes, promoters would offer certain fights only if he agreed to give them an even bigger cut. Because Benji was aware a fighter’s talent didn’t necessarily earn him leverage with promoters— a fighter also sought popularity with the fans, so after his fights, Benji needed to spend time in the audience, talking with the fans, being personable, asking them if they’d enjoyed the fights, all in hopes of growing his popularity. Those were difficult times…Benji found himself working during the day anywhere he could find work to support his growing family while continuing to train in the evenings before sometimes heading to a part-time graveyard shift at the Yellow Cab company or 7-11. Benji also occasionally found part-time work sparring with more accomplished fighters, which often paid more than his own fights. It was tough work, but he needed the money and the experience.
His wife’s support never wavered. She found a way to help with the family finances through working as a department store cashier and also found the time to enthusiastically attend every fight. Sid returned from a stint of playing baseball in college, and though immersed in his own growing career, he found time to work Benji’s corner for his fights for free. That really helped in those early days.
Benji raised his fight record to eight victories without a single defeat, though. The children started coming soon after…a son first…a few years later another son…added another son a few years later…and finally, a daughter. The children added joy but also additional financial stress on them all, but Benji adjusted by sleeping less and working more. He just added getting up in the morning to be “daddy” for even an hour before collapsing to seize a few hours of sleep before he had to get up once again to sell cars, flip hamburgers, mop floors, or hone his body and mind into a more destructive force. It was exhausting, but Benji was driven. He had to succeed…because he’d risked everything for the opportunity to fight.
He’d won fourteen straight fights and managed the precarious balance of caring for his family, earning extra money, training to a better fighter, and raising his fighter profile, but was twenty-five years old when he suffered his first defeat in the ring. He ran into a fighter that was a little more energetic, a little too fresh, a little too fast, a little too strong. It was a fight where Benji felt drained. He just could not seem to summon the right amount of energy and focus, and when the bell rang, sounding the end of the fight, Benji did not feel beaten up. He thought it was been a close fight—but he knew in his heart he’d been defeated.
His wife and brother were very encouraging—their belief in him strengthened his spirit, and Benji himself felt like he’d just had a bad night. And the crowd responded enthusiastically to the fight, he’d managed to entertain the fans, even in defeat. So all in all, Benji thought this defeat would make him a better fighter and raise his fighter profile. He was excited to resume training.
But then he lost again.
And again.
His third defeat in a row. And this time he’d been badly beaten, leaving the contest with both eyes swollen, a jaw that would not fully open for a few weeks, and a low-level headache that stretched on over a month.
He unconsciously felt that at the level he was now fighting at, he needed to double his training, get even more work sparring, and have an even greater fighter profile so that people were talking about him and wanting to see him fight…not easy for a fighter who’d lost three fights in a row. Nevertheless, in the months and years to come, Benji’s children woke up more and more often to “Daddy is training” or “Daddy is working”…only to hear the same phrases repeated as they laid their heads to rest for the night.
Benji began training in the mornings and evenings. Often forgoing work in favor of training put added financial strain on the family. It meant his wife had to work more while still ensuring the four children were cared for. She remained outwardly encouraging; her husband was working as many hours as she, but still…she began to wonder. Now the experienced wife of a professional fighter, she knew Benji’s mental focus must stay as strong as his body, so she refused to let her increasing doubts negatively impact Benji. A slip in focus could get him hurt.
But she recognized at some point she might need to step in.
I felt the same way.
Benji’s increased focus paid dividends. He went on an eight-fight winning streak. He kept scanning the ratings to see if maybe he cracked any state or national rankings, but even with his record of 22 – 3, no one was writing articles about him. No commission was ranking him yet. He was just a popular local fighter…but that was about to change.
Enter Uriah Grant. “The Boss Man.”
Grant’s record was 17 – 8, but he’d fought and defeated an aging Hall of Fame fighter; he’d lost a bid for the state heavyweight championship, gone to Florida and won its state championship. But he was coming off a loss in trying to obtain the United States Boxing Association championship. And now, he was trying to make another run at a championship…and he was looking for a fight.
Benji’s record was better. Grant’s record looked bad to the uninformed, but he was the most accomplished fighter Benji had ever fought.
And Benji got the fight.
Benji trained like never before for his first- ever ten round fight…in fact, he stopped working so he could train almost around the clock, but because he no longer worked outside of boxing, he had more time for his wife and children. This fight would pay him more money than he’d ever made fighting—Benji thought he might even get to enter the ring to music, make an entrance walk like the major stars on television. He didn’t get it but he vowed…after he beat Grant, he dreamed of making music-themed entrance walks for big money fights in the future. Benji talked excitedly with Sid about fighting for the U S title…the North American title…even a world championship on television. He dreamed with his wife about being more than just a popular neighborhood fighter, about the hard work and sacrifices and how it was all about to pay off. He played with his children, he laughed, he felt great about this opportunity, and on the night of the fight, he never felt more mentally and physically ready. There was no music to lead him to the ring as he dreamed of, and because he was out of his neighborhood, the crowd reaction was muted, but he heard music in his head. He was ready to grab his glory. He only wanted a chance and now…that chance was here.
And Benji lost.
He tried mightily and had never looked better in the ring. But the Jamaican was never troubled and as before, there was no controversy in Benji’s mind…he knew he’d been defeated. The Jamaican was just a different level of fighter.
And he was crushed this time. He’d given his all to it; he had no more to give. He couldn’t train any harder; he couldn’t do anything different. How could he give this much…and still lose?
He was despondent for weeks after this defeat. And now I moved in to tell him, “You are young…take this money…invest it in your family…invest in yourself. You have nothing to be ashamed of, this fight game is brutal, but you have taken from it all you could…we can do something different now.”
But Benji didn’t listen to me. Instead, once he handled his disappointment, he continued his new intense training regimen and won four fights in a row to run his record to 26 – 4. We all knew the opponents he defeated were men he would have defeated even early in his career. They were lesser fighters, but they were good for Benji’s confidence, a confidence he would need…because we were all shocked when Benji was offered and accepted a rematch with Grant. He trained even harder for the rematch in the knowledge it was the most important fight of his life.
And he lost again.
But it was only when he was battered by his next opponent, a fighter with a record of 8 – 18, that the drug use started.
Fighters in Benji’s gym had begun to take Dianabol, an anabolic steroid, to build strength. He didn’t work out as regularly, but Benji was an experienced fighter. He knew how to fight. He could resume working out only in evenings and increase his training activity when he knew he had a fight scheduled because the drug gave him strength. The fighters knew how to beat drug tests if they were even tested at all so now Benji had more time for his family since he didn’t have to train as much.
Then Benji found Stanozolol, another steroid and Benji felt twice as powerful with half the effort. He won fifteen fights in a row—his fight record was 41 – 6 now…but still, he longed for a fight where he would get to walk to the ring to the cheers of an adoring crowd. He dreamed of what music he might pick. But for now, he was content being an elder statesman in his gym with such a strong record, was seemingly earning one last chance at boxing stardom beyond their gym, neighborhood, and city.
But the chance was forever denied him.
The boxing world caught up with the requirement to test for steroids effectively. Benji’s now- sporadic training habits combined with his age, and two decades of fighting had diminished his skills. The fights became more difficult. The losses started to accumulate. Benji was thirty-nine years old when he looked up and found his fight record now included fourteen defeats.
I saw the effects…the costs. Benji’s sense of smell was damaged now. He had difficulty swallowing, and oftentimes, people started asking him to repeat himself because he was slurring his words and his eyes began to further betray him.
I knew it was time…it was past time. His wife now offered no pretense of supporting Benji to continue fighting. After his most recent defeat, she sat at his feet with her head in his lap while he sat forlornly in the dark of their small living room, drinking water glasses full of alcohol, groggy, badly beaten and confused. When he lost now, it hurt…not mentally…it hurt physically. It hurt in a way it had never hurt before. It hurt in a way that gave birth to a new emotion in Benji, a feeling not common to a fighter: fear. And as his headaches were nearly constant now, his wife spoke gently to her husband, holding his hands and comforting him in the aftermath of a battering defeat. She told him it was OK…that she loved him…that she was proud of him…that he was their champion and would be forever…but they all needed to move on now. And Benji was forced to fight back tears as before he fell asleep in a drunken stupor, his wife climbed into his lap, and he reluctantly agreed with her the time had come to stop fighting. They slept in that position—and when Benji woke, he remained convinced he did not want to get beaten up anymore. He was convinced he’d fought his last professional fight.
It lasted almost a year.
He told Sid first. He was depressed and confused and has lost his purpose since he’d stopped fighting. He couldn’t seem to focus on anything for long—he was drinking more, out of shape, and increasingly angry. And moreover, he missed being a part of the team of men at his old gym; he missed being a part of a group not defined by any individual’s feeling but by a rock- solid commitment to the collective effort necessary to building fighting men. Naturally introverted anyway, he was quieter than he’d ever been, but then, like a miracle, his old promoter reached out with an offer to fight. The promoter was offering to give Benji a reason to get back in shape…to train…to team with the people whom he’d spent the entirety of his adult life with.
Fighters fight. He knew now. He’d just needed a rest. He’d been at it too long. But he was ready now to take advantage of one last opportunity his old promoter was offering him.
Sid was against this. A father with five children himself now, he was no longer the joking little brother or Benji’s free cornerman. He was mature and wise and unwilling to validate his brother’s desire to fight again. He told Benji bluntly “ sometimes your love for something doesn’t match your talent for it. It’s over, Benji.” And he told his brother he couldn’t be a part of it…and told him for the first time, he would not attend Benji’s fight. He didn’t even want to hear about any of it: not the preparation, not the fight, not the result. Benji could not help but feel a sense of betrayal.
Sid’s reaction was tame compared to that of Benji’s long-suffering wife.
She exploded. Their fight was more vicious than any they’d ever had. She mentioned the financial sacrifices their children made over the years…the sacrifices she personally made. She reminded her husband of the unconditional support they’d all given. Sid informed her about Benji’s past drug use, and although she raged at her brother-in-law when told, she was now beyond incensed at her husband. She alternated between pleading and anger when discussing his high blood pressure, slurred speech, faulty memory, diminished motor skills, and confusion, all of which made it difficult for Benji to now hold a regular job but even more importantly, damaged her husband’s health…perhaps irreparably.
She begged her husband to not proceed with this fight and was dead serious when she proclaimed, “I love you. If you love me…if you love us…think of us first this time. Don’t do this.”
Benji thought back to the meeting he’d had with his old promoter. The promoter needed a fighter on short notice. The money was only fair, but the promoter said he would personally supervise Benji’s training—which was code for ensuring Benji was discreetly distributed steroids and he would also take care of handling any subsequent drug tests. The promoter made the usual promises: win this fight, and we’ll line you up for an undercard fight, maybe even a televised fight on ESPN…there would be big money for a fight like that. Win that ESPN fight and a ranking might follow…or a regular high-paying sparring job with a highly ranked fighter. Or possibly a job as a trainer’s apprentice could resuly, where he could end up training fighters and earning a percentage of their income. The promoter told him stories of older fighters who found their glory in their late thirties or even forties…all Benji had to do was take this fight, and there was a chance for all the old dreams to still come true.
Benji stared impassively.
The promoter continued, “I understand the money ain’t the best, Champ…but I have fighters who will do the fight for less. So I need to know right now.”
Benji was not new to the fight game. If the promoter had fighters willing to fight on short notice for less money, he would have offered the fight to them, and Benji would not be here.
Still…Benji paused before he continued.
“The money is fine.”
But clearly there was more; something unsaid hung in the air like a cloud. The promoter sensed it, so he leaned back and waited.
“I want a ring walk. With music. And a spotlight as I enter.”
The promoter narrowed his eyes.
“That’s it?”
Benji nodded.
“Done.”
Decades later…
A significantly older Benji rocked gently in his chair. He understood much of what was said to him, but he didn’t talk much anymore because it was humiliating to be forced to mumble unintelligible words that sounded clear in his own head. It was difficult for him to get around…painful…and there was an increased danger of falling, a sad irony that the balance that’d carried him to so many victories had been compromised so badly; plus, he was now legally blind…his eyesight was beyond correction.
So mostly he sat, hummed quietly, and rocked in his chair. He loved to just watch and take in the blurred beauty of the world around him—these were the things he’d taken for granted in his youth and early adulthood, so he loved just staring out the window. Even with his diminished eyesight, he saw and heard some things much more clearly now…birds singing…the brightness of the sun…children laughing. And he felt as if he could stare in awe at the huge mountain landscape all day without saying a word—and he often sat outside and did so.
He sometimes remembered he’d once been a professional fighter, but he struggled to remember any of his fights most of the time; nevertheless, through all his confusion, he constantly remembered one thing…
His ring walk…his entrance music…and the spotlight on him as he entered.
It was the closest he’d ever been to being a champion.
I never left Benji. I bent in close and whispered, “Benji…was it worth it?”
I hated asking. I dreaded it, but it was what I’d been sent to do for Benji’s entire lifetime, so I had to ask. But I knew the answer would be the same as always.
Benji looked in my direction but did not speak at first. Or think. He simply looked in my direction.
A single tear fell down his wrinkled face, and then he sadly asked a question to no one in particular…
“Did I win?”
No one answered.
So he went back to humming the song that always seemed to be stuck in his head now.
He just couldn’t ever quite remember where he’d heard that song before.