Into The Ring Of Life, I climb as a boxing contender to face the world champion, also known by his popular name of "Life." The world champion has destroyed many a contender immediately after the bell has rung to start the match. In fact, the world champion has destroyed more than his fair share of contenders long before the bell has even rung.
The champion stands, at least, seven feet tall while weighing in at an impressive 375 pounds of cut solid steel and is a formidable and imposing challenger, to be sure.
In comparison, I stand a mere six feet one (in my socks) while weighing in at 225 pounds, depending on the number of desserts that were available on my kitchen table for my disposal during the past Christmas holiday season. At this point, I am wishing that I had allowed that third slice of pecan pie and that 4th piece of cheesecake to pass me by. Hindsight much too late.
Not surprisingly, a respectable size crowd has gathered below in their seats around the ring to see what has been hailed as the most mismatched bout of the 21st Century.
Some spectators have readily paid high dollar for front row seats to see my blood spilled by the gloves of the champion while more than a few souls sneaked in under the assumption that ticket purchases were a waste of money, since I was expected to be duly knocked out within three rounds.
Unbelievers!
Further serving to sabotage any level of confidence I may have had were promotional posters presenting caricatures of my opponent and myself, and displayed conspicuously all around town that depicted my midget-size image being almost entirely covered up as I lay under the champ's big black boot with its shiny metal fastenings, struggling to breathe.
Unfortunately, I had not counted on this being an unfair match, and only noticed so when seven more boxers, some of whom were wearing masks and looking more like professional wrestlers, seemingly, appeared out of nowhere, stepped into the ring and, along with the champion Life, formed an octagon, with me as its center point.
As some boxers are prone to do, these boxers had their names embroidered on their boxing shorts, which were; Emotional, Physical, Psychological, Financial, Intellectual, Operational, and Logistical.
My boxing shorts, otherwise, were cut-off knee-length bluejeans that, comparatively, made me look like a hick from the hills of West Virginia (my apology to any hilly hicks from West Virginia... God still loves you, in spite of geography).
Awestruck by how professionally attired my opponents were in comparison to my own attire that represented my personal state of poverty, I was, momentarily, caught off guard and barely heard the bell ring as the champion, almost simultaneously, blindsided me with a powerful right hook to my left cheek.
Know those stars people claim to see when they get hit? Well, those stars are nothing as, not only did I see stars, but I also saw the sun, the moon, and even thought I glimpsed the Milky Way as my legs buckled and ordered my knees to the canvas where I took my rightful place face down on the mat.
Barely conscious of the referee's count, I, unfortunately, yet miraculously, was able to surprisingly rise to what should have never been another occasion before being completely counted out (a better man would have had the courage to stay down and, thus, eliminate further personal embarrassment, humiliation, and shame).
Alert once again, I barely felt the wind from the champion's attempt at an uppercut to my sweating chin that he managed to miss as he attempted to deliver ever so voraciously with kinetic energy supported by gritting teeth and angrily arched eyebrows. But, I was struck in my right side by the boxer Logistical.
In response to, and bending naturally toward the pain, allowed my left side to be exposed and available to the boxer Financial, who took hastily advantage of and managed to caress it solidly with a gloved fist that is probably what Lightening feels when she kisses Thunder the morning after.
Involuntarily straightened up from this third blow, and now with automatically bending forward, I was facing the onslaught of Life as he was already making a mad dash from the distant ropes head-on in an attempt to set up, establish, and deliver his patented haymaker.
I was fully aware that Life's world famous haymaker, whether under normal or abnormal circumstances, generally resulted in several weeks of unrequited vacation in the ICU of the nearest hospital for his opponent, with any food intake being dispensed through straws.
Whether from mindless calculation or my built-in survival instinct, upon Life's arrival at my spot in the ring, I pivoted on the ball of my right foot, sidestepping him with a full 360-turnaround that included a foot-high jump that allowed me to be evenly with his face to deliver my own pulsing steel right fist to his, inadvertently, exposed left jaw.
To visualize my turnaround jump, one only needs to imagine a basketball player's turnaround/fade away jump shot, and I am of the opinion that retired Michael Jordan would be most proud with my set-up, execution and follow through.
My inspired contact further encouraged increased momentum of Life's already hurtling body that sent him sprawling at what had suddenly become a 45-degree angle and directly into boxers Physical and Operational, of which his direct impact left them both unconscious.
Unfortunately, for me, Intellectual seemed to have calculated the impending result ahead of time as he fluidly moved out of the way of what was, obviously, oncoming harm.
I'm not certain, but I would not be surprised to learn that Intellectual had previously been employed at one point in his life as a Certified Public Accountant by the ever clever calculating government entity affectionately known as the Inferno Revenue Service.
The bell has now rung to start the second round, with six opponents remaining, including Life himself. If only I can manage to average the same number of TKOs (intentional or unintentional) per round, I may be able to set a new world record, even though some of the audience is now serving up "Booh!"s toward me, as they seem disappointingly surprised to see my still standing, and conscious, I might add.
Again, it is increasingly obvious that more than a few members of the audience are hoping for Life to freely administer his unique brand of injustice upon my person in the form of my own personal KO received from him within the next couple of rounds. And, with head and body blows that appear vehemently authentic, I keep telling myself...
"It's only a movie... it's only a movie... it's only a movie..."
Editor's Note: Kenny Love is a radio/video promoter and media publicist, as well as co-owner and Director of Marketing for Eartastic Records. Get more information regarding him from his MySpace page at www.myspace.com/jazzman795
