THE BOXER

Dear All,

There's no ego-attachment to my stories, my friends. Nope, I just have you all on a list of people I know, so I just press 'TO' or 'CC' and pop stories your way. If you don't respond, read or enjoy getting them, that's certainly OK because who likes to hear about people on planes all the time? Who has time???? hahahahahaha

I just hope you're all A-OK...and, here's a story for you!

Love and optimism,
Heather

THE BOXER
Heather McKeown - Inflight

In the wake of Hector “Macho” Camacho's* untimely death, a man, a cut over his left eye, comes aboard. He's no more than five feet, three or four inches and wears loose clothing over a small frame. He doesn't immediately acknowledge my “Welcome aboard!” greeting so I lay a hand on his shoulder. He turns and I see that a great fatigue is the other wound on his being.
“Are you a boxer, Sir?”
“Yes.” he answers with a whisper of a smile and sad, black, shining eyes. There's definitely a calculating cleverness in those orbs. I look into them and know I'm in the presence of a gutsy competitor. One that will train blind and fight to win. Young. Young enough to live to fight again if his body heals from the abuse it had recently suffered. Ah, but pain won in an athletic endeavor is as soon forgotten as is childbirth to the blissful new mother.
“I was sorry to hear about Mr. Camacho.” I offered sincerely. I never like to hear of an athlete taking the wrong path. Alcohol or drugs or performance enhancing substances have often marked promising and proven careers with the kiss of death. Camacho's demise was caused by a gun shot blast to his face. His family, after being told his brain was no longer viable, made the decision no loved ones should have to: The removal from life support and from his loved ones and fans forever more.
“He was my idol. I went to his funeral.” At this, I wondered if the lost look on the young man's broken face was in place because of mourning or a concussion. I then noticed the little pin on his jacket. It was a tiny likeness of the picture I'd seen all over the front pages of newspapers all over the country during this past week. Camacho. Of all he was, only memories and pins remain to inspire his followers.
Boarding continued. Routine safety demonstration and final compliance followed. A typical take off to Florida. Normal service. Trash collection. The front end of the plane was quiet as I started down the aisle with my trash bag. A few rows past the middle of the plane, I came to the small man. He was asleep. His trainer, across the aisle from him, was concentrating on his television. I thought, “Wow, I sure hope we have a chance to chat before the end of this flight!”
After a while, on another pass down the aisle to collect the cups, cans, papers, napkins and anything else a person deems unworthy of hoarding, I noticed my little boxer was awake. I knelt down beside him and asked how he was feeling.
“OK.”
I guess he caught my look of concern because the floodgates opened and the lion heart of his began to beat out the rhythm of his chosen life.
“I've been suspended. I just got back after three years out, you know? I got this last night.”
From years of racing and being injured innumerable times, taught me that, even when a leg is out of commission, the rest of one's body can continue to train. This sort of discipline separates the weekend warriors from the hardcore competitors.
“Did you train throughout those three years?”
“Very hard.” His eyes were beginning to light up. He was regrouping at the thought of rebuilding the parts that were weakened, broken, bruised or cut in his recent bout. I could see him tighten up and sit straighter at the mention of 'training'. I remember this feeling and how it would overpower me, drive me to a weight room or pool when a hamstring or Achilles tendon was keeping me off the roads. The electric charge that passed from the battered man to me was like getting a drink out of some fountain of youthful energy. It opened a clear channel to my memory bank.
Raising his little right hand, his fingers curled and unmovable, I saw the puffy swell of stretched skin. “I got this last night, too.” More evidence of what he'd endured in the ring was that poor paw. Touching it gently, he looked at that immobile hand and said, “Yeah. This will have me out for awhile.”
“Have you had it X-rayed?”
“Not yet. When I get home, I will. I fought at Madison Square Garden last night.”
“Was it a win?” If there's one thing I know from my years of competition, one never asks this question of an athlete. It marginalizes the individual and places him on one or the other line of demarcation in all that defines a winner or loser. What propelled me to be so tactless? The words burned my mouth as they bubbled over my lips.
“No.”
I patted his arm and got up from my kneeling position. I held on to his forearm on that last pat because, win or lose, a body hurts and I remember that sort of physical hit and how the world immediately stops paying attention if you finish second.
As he was getting off, the two arms came around me but not like a vice. No, because his entire body hurt so very much, the embrace was a gentle, sweet, almost air filled non-hug. I was engulfed in a down-filled jacket.
“Promise you'll take good care of yourself.” I whispered.
He said, “OK.”
He walked off and the pain in each step was obvious. No doubt every breath he took was agony, too. I'll bet he's in an ice bath / hot tub fixit shop with that old trainer of his. I hope he's soon using the bag and sparring. The pain is worse when you can't do what you love. And, remember, he's doing it for Camacho, too.

*More on Hector “Macho” Comancho. A boxer known for skill and flamboyance in the ring as well as for a messy personal life. He was declared dead on December 1, 2012

Thanks Heather.... much appreciated and much enjoyed by my readers