His stance was lighter than mine. I could tell as soon as we set foot in the ring that he would be dancing all around me. Even being able to land punches would be a long and difficult battle. He would flit around and I would lumber after him, taking his jabs in a war of attrition. I didn’t look forward to it, but I knew I could win if I applied myself.

After the first round, I was dripping in sweat and he was just warming up. He was off to a head start but I was sure I could close the gap. I had discovered a few quirks in his movement that I hoped to use to my advantage—a misstep here, a lazy change of balance there. All these young boxers were the same: quick on their feet but undisciplined with their movement. They relied on being fast to make up for their small mistakes. I was going to make sure he paid for those mistakes.

Midway through the second round. Breathing heavy. Jab. Dodge his response. Jab. Follow him as he stepped away. Jab-jab-jab. Still not landing any hits.

We broke at the bell and I want back to my corner. I was beaten. I knew it. The crowd knew it. I decided to change tactics. If I could just make it to the end of the match I would at least be able to keep my dignity. No matter if I couldn’t land a knockout blow. He could win on points and I could stagger off with the memory of other fights I’d won to keep me company later.

He was leaving himself wide open—he could taste blood and he wanted to topple me. I saw an opportunity, went in for an uppercut, and felt his fist crack into the side of my temple. Something had broken. I kept standing, but the world tilted sideways in slow motion and then the mat smashed into the side of my head at full speed.