Friday, May 16, 1997 Ask not for whom the bell tolls, just run away By JOHN FLORES / Alice Echo-News ALICE, Texas - What will they do with my car after Im hospitalized was my first thought upon viewing some of the Herculean gladiators entered in last weekends much-touted pugilistic smashmouth festival known officially as the Toughman Contest. The J.K. Northway Coliseum in Kingsville was sold out for the Friday night series of bouts, and I found myself wondering rather rapidly what I was doing there. Macho stuff fades away quickly in the face of danger, as many participating fighters witnessed after watching a few of the nights bouts. Luckily, my training for the fight was uniform. It consisted of ditching all vice: drinking, smoking, swearing, gambling - all forms of debauchery. Like a wise airplane captain who cant seem to get off the runway, I ditch the excess baggage. The same goes for boxing, except that it requires much more than merely lifting ones moral load. The devilish hand-speed of onrushing opponents sees to that, resulting in blurred vision, short bursts of claustrophobic panic, and a litany of bodily pains unlike most other blunt traumas to the head and neck regions - except automobile accidents. My purpose for signing up to fight an unknown opponent was to raise community awareness about a woman named Dolia Gonzalez. She is a waitress at 69 years of age at a little place called the Echo Hotel in Edinburg, Texas. She needs to retire but cant afford to, since her husband is gone and her son died a hero in Vietnam in 1968. Friday nights bout caught my ego with a few devastating Tyson-like uppercuts, and to the canvas it went - where it will probably stay for a while, until some janitor strolls along and sweeps it up. At first, it was the waiting that got to me. Endless watching of other fights from back in the Cyclone fence area of the coliseum designated for the gladiator/boxers. And the sense of eternity was protracted further by the many huge, muscular Tough Guys strolling about in preparation for the next bout clad in tight shorts, no shirt, and covered with prison tattoos of red-faced tigers, skulls-and-crossbones, and the Grim Reaper - Mr. Eternity himself. Finally, one of the toughest-looking guys of the bunch strolled around me like a hungry shark. My thought reflex was strictly survival, so rather than wet on myself when he bent over to say something to me, I remembered, helplessly, to try to think blowfish thoughts. I inhaled deeply and stuck out my chest impressively, preparing for a sudden assault from this trolling predator. Say, you dont think theyre gonna make me fight him, do you? he said. He pointed over to a black man sitting far in a corner by himself, draped in a purple robe and wearing cold, black sunglasses as pilot fish boxers of every stripe swam just out of his bite radius. Well, thats it then. Ill just get in there, and do it, by God. Ill just do it ... right? he said, his eyes searching my face like a deep sea diver searching for his severed lifeline. And by God, the man did fight the Titan, who dispatched him with two iceberg-size punches to the head. Better him than me, I thought. A few people laughed, but not me. I never laugh and cry at the same time. Finally, it was my time to fight. Aaaaaannnnd, in theeese corner, John The Paper Boy Flores, the ring announcer said, with a smirk, announcing the only journalist in the contest. I kind of went blank after that. My mind was occupied with the just-killed-my-parents stare the other guy was aiming at me like a weapon. Like two battleships squaring off against each other, we rose and fell with the swells of the great sea of people there to cheer us on as we hammered away at each other until one vanished beneath the vast, whitecapped surfaces of a battered consciousness. I loaded my big 16-ounce guns mentally, and waited for the bell to ring to bring my opponent over the swells and into plain view for the first volley. The bell clanged and the battle was under way. I was an intrepid captain, ready with ample firepower to dispatch the enemy, but after a few good rounds exploded near my bridge, the men began abandoning ship. This is as good a metaphor as I can think of for what happened after getting hammered a few times by my opponent. For soon, my legs began to wobble and my guns fell silent. Despite repeated orders to fire ... fire ... fire!!! the great cannon barrels were black as the night that soon fell across the horizon, and upon the sinking warship. Happily, I awoke to find that I was not adrift at sea amid sharks or whales, or enemy battleships, or cursing crewmen. No, the battle had not taken my ship at all. Heavily damaged and dazed, I was being towed back to the dressing room by my boxing coach. The event managed to succeed in getting some publicity for Miss Gonzalez and her much-needed retirement fund. Several hundred dollars have been raised through various TV and radio interviews - enough for a good start. I learned two things from the fight. That is: your legs are like a ships crew. Train them well, and youll probably never have to be towed back home. The other thing I learned is that people havent changed much since the old Roman days. They still come to the coliseum to watch guys pound each other senseless - cheering all the while. After the towing was done, and I later had a few beers with friends, the headache subsided and beyond the dull ache in my bones from head to toe, a good feeling came to me. Even though I lost, I had honestly done my best for a woman who deserves the best - Dolia Gonzalez. And I learned one other thing - a good cause is better than aspirin. --- Distributed by The Associated Press
Posted on: Sun, 24 Nov 2013 08:52:46 +0000
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