Post by Joseph Mack on May 7, 2021 20:54:59 GMT -5
“So… didn’t even get out of the first round, eh?”
Joseph Mack is in the gym, knocking out bicep curls with strict form, one heavy dumbbell up in his left hand, then down and up in his right, back and forth, rhythmic and practiced. He just stares straight ahead, as if no one were even speaking to him.
“What happened? Just not your night. It happens, nothing to be ashamed of if that’s the case. Was that the case?”
Mack continues to work, brow furrowing, lips tight, just one huge arm up with the heavy iron, then the other.
“Or did you get cocky? Did you start thinking that Openweight title was yours, all you had to do was show up and win? Did you start thinking you had some kind of birthright, some bullshit like that? Did you forget you had to earn it every goddamn night in the ring?”
Mack finishes his reps, walking forward to drop the dumbbells into their rack, shrugging his shoulders, not in indifference but just to keep the arms warm, the blood flowing.
“Or was it the girl? You decided you needed to save some energy to celebrate? Were you holding back or something? Or just lose your focus?”
Mack finally turns on the source of the voice, something almost like a growl in his throat as he glares down at an old man; not that the man is tiny, probably a good 5’10”, but Mack towers over him.
“What, you think I’m afraid of you because you’ve got the muscles? Who was the first person to teach you how to use those hands the way you’re making a living now? When your mom and dad didn’t want you getting into scraps at school, eh? But your gramps, he knew the scraps were gonna come either way so he better make sure his little grandson knew how to throw hands.”
The old man smirks ups at a stone-faced Mack.
“You ain’t gonna put hands on your gramps so don’t act scary to me. But I like that look in your eye now. I like you looking pissed off. Better than moping, that’s for damn sure. Let me guess, the last week you’ve been looking in the mirror, all you can think about is how you dropped the ball, how you blew your chance, how you shoulda, coulda, woulda won that belt and you didn’t because you didn’t get the job done when you needed to. Right?”
The slightest shift in the head of Mack, something one could charitably describe as a nod.
“Well knock it off. You ain’t gonna win anything focusing on that shit. Be mad, that’s fine as long as you’re ready to use it. Same as I told you as a kid, anger’s like an explosion: you don’t focus it and it can destroy everything around it. But if you know how to focus it, how to control it, how to harness it? Missiles. Rockets. Power of the most devastating magnitude.”
The faintest hint of a smile tugs at the corners of Mack’s mouth, no doubt remembering a fond moment with his grandfather from his childhood.
“So you got the big arms, big chest, big legs, good. You got the muscles, you got the strength. Now you got the drive. You got the chip on your shoulder, right where you need it. You and that Belgian fella, you two go out there and you hand those two poor sons of bitches who are gonna be facing you their heads. I ain’t saying make me proud, I already am. I’m saying go beat the shit outta someone and get your hand raised.”
The old man gives Mack a firm smack on the shoulder before turning and walking away, Mack staring after him a moment before grabbing two more dumbbells, the shot fading out as he gets back to work.
Joseph Mack is in the gym, knocking out bicep curls with strict form, one heavy dumbbell up in his left hand, then down and up in his right, back and forth, rhythmic and practiced. He just stares straight ahead, as if no one were even speaking to him.
“What happened? Just not your night. It happens, nothing to be ashamed of if that’s the case. Was that the case?”
Mack continues to work, brow furrowing, lips tight, just one huge arm up with the heavy iron, then the other.
“Or did you get cocky? Did you start thinking that Openweight title was yours, all you had to do was show up and win? Did you start thinking you had some kind of birthright, some bullshit like that? Did you forget you had to earn it every goddamn night in the ring?”
Mack finishes his reps, walking forward to drop the dumbbells into their rack, shrugging his shoulders, not in indifference but just to keep the arms warm, the blood flowing.
“Or was it the girl? You decided you needed to save some energy to celebrate? Were you holding back or something? Or just lose your focus?”
Mack finally turns on the source of the voice, something almost like a growl in his throat as he glares down at an old man; not that the man is tiny, probably a good 5’10”, but Mack towers over him.
“What, you think I’m afraid of you because you’ve got the muscles? Who was the first person to teach you how to use those hands the way you’re making a living now? When your mom and dad didn’t want you getting into scraps at school, eh? But your gramps, he knew the scraps were gonna come either way so he better make sure his little grandson knew how to throw hands.”
The old man smirks ups at a stone-faced Mack.
“You ain’t gonna put hands on your gramps so don’t act scary to me. But I like that look in your eye now. I like you looking pissed off. Better than moping, that’s for damn sure. Let me guess, the last week you’ve been looking in the mirror, all you can think about is how you dropped the ball, how you blew your chance, how you shoulda, coulda, woulda won that belt and you didn’t because you didn’t get the job done when you needed to. Right?”
The slightest shift in the head of Mack, something one could charitably describe as a nod.
“Well knock it off. You ain’t gonna win anything focusing on that shit. Be mad, that’s fine as long as you’re ready to use it. Same as I told you as a kid, anger’s like an explosion: you don’t focus it and it can destroy everything around it. But if you know how to focus it, how to control it, how to harness it? Missiles. Rockets. Power of the most devastating magnitude.”
The faintest hint of a smile tugs at the corners of Mack’s mouth, no doubt remembering a fond moment with his grandfather from his childhood.
“So you got the big arms, big chest, big legs, good. You got the muscles, you got the strength. Now you got the drive. You got the chip on your shoulder, right where you need it. You and that Belgian fella, you two go out there and you hand those two poor sons of bitches who are gonna be facing you their heads. I ain’t saying make me proud, I already am. I’m saying go beat the shit outta someone and get your hand raised.”
The old man gives Mack a firm smack on the shoulder before turning and walking away, Mack staring after him a moment before grabbing two more dumbbells, the shot fading out as he gets back to work.