"...but it's a sport...the fight for survival is the fight."
-Rocky Grazziano, former middleweight,
Champion of the world
If only our fight were a sport. "...If only circling beneath glaring lights, tossing tentative left hooks, trying jabs, right crosses that twist in mid-air dissolving into harmless slaps." Do you know who wrote that? Joyce Carol Oates, said it. Can you imagine a more unlikely boxing fan?
I'd like Joyce Carol Oates to write on the subject of our daily struggles. Unlike Rocky Grazziano, I didn't opt to step into this ring; this brutal contest is as he describes a prize fight, "...the fight for survival is the the fight..." It's also my life. It's your's, too. It's a stretch but I say, the fight for survival is my life.
The people in my life, those closest to me like my wife, kids friends, web pals don't understand that I won't win a belt if I succeed today. I won't be hugged by a victor if I lose. The most important challenge I face, I must face alone, and win or lose, I must own the consequences.
Kindness beyond what might be expected from that group in my inner circle, even from strangers, often catches me at a loss for an appropriate response. An offer of help may make me angry, for example. Kudos for what a child might accomplish can quickly take me to a snapping point; patronized and pitied is not not a response I want from people.
This is just a manifestation of my pride; the enactment of a deadly sin. What can I do except say that I'm sorry. I can only speak for myself, but I can't have it both ways. I want my handicapped parking spot, but I don't want a stranger to offer to push a button in the elevator for me.
Perhaps this is more like a prize fight than I'd thought. Sure, I get my licks in and I get belted in the kidneys. On the Champion's Causeway, rounds 11-15, my body has been shattered.
Parts of my mind have hopped off, too.
I'll have a sniff of ammonia, push me to my feet, pull the stool from beneath my butt and say, "Put 'im down, now."
"He's your's, champ."
Comments