Post by jamesedwards on Oct 3, 2016 22:26:17 GMT -5
A flight of stairs had never looked so daunting to James in his entire life. His body was more than willing to traipse up them, but his mind wouldn’t budge. It declared a holiday and two generations of good old fashioned Edwards family quit compelled James to drop his gear bag and sit his bony ass on the cold concrete stoop.
The light poles dotting the quiet street not two blocks from a local Catholic college gave the cloudy sky overhead an odd artificial glow. James wanted to marvel at the ingenuity of man, but the news footage from Turks and Caicos sullied that idea.
He’d barely gotten off the island before Hurricane Matthew made landfall. Heavy turbulence rocked the play on the flight Miami. Never much of a morning drinker, he’d indulged in a Bloody Mary at the airport to calm his nerves, and sure enough, he braved the stormy skies with a happy buzz that effectively ended when he first set eyes on the nearest TV screen once he was safe and secure on Florida soil.
Beautiful beaches turned into canals. Monstrous mudslides were blocking roads and washing away crudely built homes. The montage of horrific images was enough to send him to the next gate hours earlier than needed. James didn’t need a reminder that he was damn lucky to get out with little more than anxiety and slight dehydration from his drink.
All during the flight from Miami to Philadelphia faces from the crowd kept popping into his mind. Chubby, sunburned American tourists. Skinny natives dressed in loose hanging clothing that stained with fresh soil from the island fields. Elderly retirees making the most noise, just happy to see a popular sport from the US in the flesh. James wondered how each and every one of them was doing. Did the storm destroy their homes? What about their businesses? Were these folks even alive?
Of course, he’d never find out. Not without names. Not without any sort of attachment. Each and every person in that crowd was just a face. A paying customer who wanted to see an odd band of fighters throw down. Which was not a whole lot to ask. For some of them, it may have been the only kind of entertainment to come their way in a long time.
James hoped they enjoyed the show. More importantly, he wished that majority of them were with shelter and injury free---more of a fool’s hope than anything.
Life was rarely that far, especially to an impoverished island at the tip of civilization. James grew up poor and knew the hardships and the humiliations that came with it, but he’d never been homeless or had to worry about where his next meal was going to come from. A roof was waiting for him when he summoned up the fortitude to walk the stairs.
He had a good life. One that he often lamented and complained about. A decent apartment in a nice little city that he treated like an albatross. His mother called those things blessings, but at the moment James considered them chains.
Despite his fatigue and the late hour, James didn’t feel like sleeping. He rose from the stoop and shouldered his bag a few steps over to his vehicle. There wasn’t any point in having any extra weight while he roamed the lonely streets for a few hours.
___________________
“I wonder how much a fighter thinks about the cities or the people they work in front of. Something tells me it ain’t a lot. To be fair, we don’t have time too. As soon as one show is over, there is another one a day or two away. Most of us have to scurry to the airport or our rental car like we are kids caught lookin’ at the nekkid magazines at the gas station without so much as glance at the world outside the arena or national guard armory.
I knew that was the kind of lifestyle I was signin’ up for when I got drafted into this crazy sport. It ain’t sitting well with me right now, though. A day ago I pulled my phone, hit the record button, and started talkin’ about how the only thing that made sense about my match with Jason Phoenix was setting the universe straight because I ain’t gonna get my rematch with Noah Hanson. I said all that on a bus coming back from a show in Turks and Caicos. Unless anybody watchin’ this has been there on a cruise boat, I doubt you would even be able to point the place out on a map. Now there is another reason why you might hear about it, a fuckin’ bad reason too.
Flip on CNN and that little island along with a few bigger ones are getting shredded by a hurricane straight out of a movie. I ain’t got a clue if any of the people who saw me fight in the main event a little over a day ago are dead or alive. It’s possible the last few hours of enjoyment some of em’ had were watchin’ me knock another man the fuck out. I didn’t give a thought em’; didn’t sign an autograph or get on the mic and say thanks for coming to the show.
How hard is any of that to do, really? Are we so damn selfish that we can’t take time to make the people who pay to see us? I know I sure as fuck am.
So how does this affect my fight? Has it changed my motivation? Maybe not as much as I’d like. I still wanna beat Jason Phoenix because he screwed me outta being able to settle the score with Hanson. Part of me is always gonna have petty reasons for doing this, but I think I do have a better perspective on shit.
An exec told me back when I was in Fight One that being in the ring was a small part of fightin’. I think I get what she mean now. It ain’t gonna kill me to smile for a few seconds on the ramp if some kid wants to take my picture. Signing autographs even for an hour won’t kill me either. You know, more than likely it will make somebody’s night.
I don’t expect Rocky Hollywood to understand that. I sure as fuck don’t expect Jason Phoenix to either. To be fair, I can’t expect a lot of my colleagues to understand that, but I can promise from this moment out that James Edwards ain’t gonna be the type of fighter who is blind to the folks that pay his salary.”
______________________
James jammed his hands deep into the depths of his blue jean pockets. It was colder than he thought it would be. Not that he cared. Being warm or having a coat felt like a luxury.
Shit, his whole life gleamed like a diamond before him. Professional success. A decent salary. Just a whole load of perks.
What had he given back to the world? That was the question he kept asking himself as he wandered further and further into the heart of Wilkes-Barre. Spectacle and violence were the obvious answers, neither of which made him feel proud. He honestly had no idea what doing good even looked like. It wasn’t as if community service was ever held in high regard in his family.
All he knew was at this moment he might not have a clue, but he was going to fight like hell to discover one.
The light poles dotting the quiet street not two blocks from a local Catholic college gave the cloudy sky overhead an odd artificial glow. James wanted to marvel at the ingenuity of man, but the news footage from Turks and Caicos sullied that idea.
He’d barely gotten off the island before Hurricane Matthew made landfall. Heavy turbulence rocked the play on the flight Miami. Never much of a morning drinker, he’d indulged in a Bloody Mary at the airport to calm his nerves, and sure enough, he braved the stormy skies with a happy buzz that effectively ended when he first set eyes on the nearest TV screen once he was safe and secure on Florida soil.
Beautiful beaches turned into canals. Monstrous mudslides were blocking roads and washing away crudely built homes. The montage of horrific images was enough to send him to the next gate hours earlier than needed. James didn’t need a reminder that he was damn lucky to get out with little more than anxiety and slight dehydration from his drink.
All during the flight from Miami to Philadelphia faces from the crowd kept popping into his mind. Chubby, sunburned American tourists. Skinny natives dressed in loose hanging clothing that stained with fresh soil from the island fields. Elderly retirees making the most noise, just happy to see a popular sport from the US in the flesh. James wondered how each and every one of them was doing. Did the storm destroy their homes? What about their businesses? Were these folks even alive?
Of course, he’d never find out. Not without names. Not without any sort of attachment. Each and every person in that crowd was just a face. A paying customer who wanted to see an odd band of fighters throw down. Which was not a whole lot to ask. For some of them, it may have been the only kind of entertainment to come their way in a long time.
James hoped they enjoyed the show. More importantly, he wished that majority of them were with shelter and injury free---more of a fool’s hope than anything.
Life was rarely that far, especially to an impoverished island at the tip of civilization. James grew up poor and knew the hardships and the humiliations that came with it, but he’d never been homeless or had to worry about where his next meal was going to come from. A roof was waiting for him when he summoned up the fortitude to walk the stairs.
He had a good life. One that he often lamented and complained about. A decent apartment in a nice little city that he treated like an albatross. His mother called those things blessings, but at the moment James considered them chains.
Despite his fatigue and the late hour, James didn’t feel like sleeping. He rose from the stoop and shouldered his bag a few steps over to his vehicle. There wasn’t any point in having any extra weight while he roamed the lonely streets for a few hours.
___________________
“I wonder how much a fighter thinks about the cities or the people they work in front of. Something tells me it ain’t a lot. To be fair, we don’t have time too. As soon as one show is over, there is another one a day or two away. Most of us have to scurry to the airport or our rental car like we are kids caught lookin’ at the nekkid magazines at the gas station without so much as glance at the world outside the arena or national guard armory.
I knew that was the kind of lifestyle I was signin’ up for when I got drafted into this crazy sport. It ain’t sitting well with me right now, though. A day ago I pulled my phone, hit the record button, and started talkin’ about how the only thing that made sense about my match with Jason Phoenix was setting the universe straight because I ain’t gonna get my rematch with Noah Hanson. I said all that on a bus coming back from a show in Turks and Caicos. Unless anybody watchin’ this has been there on a cruise boat, I doubt you would even be able to point the place out on a map. Now there is another reason why you might hear about it, a fuckin’ bad reason too.
Flip on CNN and that little island along with a few bigger ones are getting shredded by a hurricane straight out of a movie. I ain’t got a clue if any of the people who saw me fight in the main event a little over a day ago are dead or alive. It’s possible the last few hours of enjoyment some of em’ had were watchin’ me knock another man the fuck out. I didn’t give a thought em’; didn’t sign an autograph or get on the mic and say thanks for coming to the show.
How hard is any of that to do, really? Are we so damn selfish that we can’t take time to make the people who pay to see us? I know I sure as fuck am.
So how does this affect my fight? Has it changed my motivation? Maybe not as much as I’d like. I still wanna beat Jason Phoenix because he screwed me outta being able to settle the score with Hanson. Part of me is always gonna have petty reasons for doing this, but I think I do have a better perspective on shit.
An exec told me back when I was in Fight One that being in the ring was a small part of fightin’. I think I get what she mean now. It ain’t gonna kill me to smile for a few seconds on the ramp if some kid wants to take my picture. Signing autographs even for an hour won’t kill me either. You know, more than likely it will make somebody’s night.
I don’t expect Rocky Hollywood to understand that. I sure as fuck don’t expect Jason Phoenix to either. To be fair, I can’t expect a lot of my colleagues to understand that, but I can promise from this moment out that James Edwards ain’t gonna be the type of fighter who is blind to the folks that pay his salary.”
______________________
James jammed his hands deep into the depths of his blue jean pockets. It was colder than he thought it would be. Not that he cared. Being warm or having a coat felt like a luxury.
Shit, his whole life gleamed like a diamond before him. Professional success. A decent salary. Just a whole load of perks.
What had he given back to the world? That was the question he kept asking himself as he wandered further and further into the heart of Wilkes-Barre. Spectacle and violence were the obvious answers, neither of which made him feel proud. He honestly had no idea what doing good even looked like. It wasn’t as if community service was ever held in high regard in his family.
All he knew was at this moment he might not have a clue, but he was going to fight like hell to discover one.