...a blur without warning it comes

By James Van Amber
It is 1958 and we are in Peter Klinkner’s basement where we often play. Jerry Deleski and I each have on boxing gloves, bright red. Peter signals us to begin the fight and I move toward Deleski who pretty much stays where he is, holding his gloves high, elbows up, crouched slightly below his curly dark hair making it difficult to get a direct shot at his head.
I move to my left and throw an impossible right hook which does nothing but glance off Jerry’s quiet gloves. I move to my right and throw another, and another then one more. And now Jerry begins to move, to dance a little, waiting for me to make a mistake, bobbing and weaving for an opening. I’m not making a mistake. I’m going to pound him, legally trounce him, pound him into submission. I’m close now, pounding his gloves, pounding his arms with jabs and hooks, pounding, pounding.
Suddenly a blur without warning it comes, a right something or other from nowhere it seems, but quick and stiff-hard. It strikes me on my left side near the temple. Dogs bark. My legs are water and I have no choice but to drop to my knees and fall forward. I’m on the carpet, stunned. Peter is over me, pulling me up as the room spins then stops. Deleski is insouciant, waiting to see if I want more, poised with his gloves high and ready, grinning.
My mouth tastes like copper for two days.

(This is an excerpt from Regina's Record, a book by James Van Amber. See details and more excerpts in January Archives. -- Trailboss)