Another boxer’s life

It’s hot. So hot, the air feels like it burns your lungs when you breathe. But you have to keep going. You’re doing your daily roadwork, the seemingly endless running that most people never see as part of your training. Sometimes you wonder if you’ll use up all the mileage in your legs before you use up all the mileage in your fists. Everything aches. But it’s probably better than being hunched over in the scorching heat, standing in the mud, planting rice, running out of sweat. At least, better in your mind.

You looked at your father’s weathered face then, a face which resembled dry leather, so dry no oil came out of his skin anymore. You wished you could peel it off and rediscover the father you knew, the one who laughed, told stories, played with you. He was only 36, you were 17. You found it ironic that his body could look both skinny and saggy at the same time. All the joy seemed sucked out of him after your mother died, and there was no hospital nearby. 

You left the province the year after, promising you would return and buy him a house. All you had was the body God gave you, because in your head, maybe He forgot to give you anything else. These were the thoughts in your head as you rode the rusty tricycle along the eight kilometers to the bus station, sucking up the thick red dust one last time. The bus spat you out at the pier, where you trudged up a gangplank to the ship. You slept on a bunk with a mattress so thin, you could feel the wood underneath.

That was 16 years ago. 

You’ve spent all that working your way up to champion. You did everything you were told, even when it didn’t make sense. You signed another contract, but they never gave you a copy, but the Games and Amusements Board does. People think you’re rich, but your managers take more than half of your purse, and you don’t know why. The coaches tell you not to ask questions. Then they drive off in any one of their SUVs which costs more than double what your only car does, to houses that dwarf yours. But you do have a lot of questions. Don’t your promoters and managers make enough from their TV deals, their sponsorships, the ticket sales, all of which you should have a share of?

You wonder why they always make you fight abroad, even when you know they can afford to bring your challenger into the country. You’ve had to make defenses in far-flung places in Mexico and Japan. Your managers only go with you to the latter, schmoozing the big-time promoters there. But they tell you that you should be grateful. Your stablemates don’t even get treated as well as you do. That doesn’t sound right. Shouldn’t you all be treated better?

You don’t fight for a year, even when you can fight up to thrice. You start gaining weight, gradually seeing no reason to take care of yourself. Then they tell you that you have a fiight in six weeks. It takes so much out of you to cut weight. Your opponent is taller, longer, younger. You get cut over the right eyebrow. It bleeds, badly. The fight is declared a draw. You need time for it to heal. They rush you into another fight. The cut is reopened. Hurts like hell. Somehow, you scrape out a split decision.

They tell you to move up in weight, vacate your title. There’s more money to be made. Then you spend another whole year not fighting. Nobody wants to risk fighting you with no belt at stake. You’re too good, and they have nothing to gain. You don’t deserve to be in limbo. The waiting drives you crazy. You only have a couple of good years left. It takes more and more effort to get into fighting shape. You take longer and longer to recover. You’re running out of time, and you know it.

It seems harder to jumpstart your brain in the morning, and sometimes you can’t hold a thought. Your right eye gets blurry, and its peripheral vision is limited. You need a couple of big paydays to secure your future. But even if your managers could get you a big fight, they’ll probably take most of it, anyway. You feel used, and unable to escape. Why would they do this to you, when you risked your life for them time and time again? You deserve better.

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Over 4,000 runners joined the San Mateo Run yesterday, one of the biggest racing events in Rizal province. Started nine years ago by Vice Mayor and former mayor Paeng Diaz, it continues to raise awareness and help for the watershed. It was a centerpiece of the San Mateo September Festival.