Mohammed Zarkan

Mohammed Zarkan

Fight and Surrender

Marcus Tullius once said—“life is short, but glory is eternal”—and, at that very moment, I hypothesized what thepath to glory could possibly mean, but never understood the way it would shape an entireconceptualization.

It is 8 pm and the hall is massively crowded in the Fessi hall for sports. The cheers are everywhere and even louder than my coach‘s irrepressibly raspy voice which I can no longer catch from his corner. I can sense, however, almost everyone‘s expectation. More precisely, I don‘t know if these cheers are for me or for my opponent who can hardly be recognized. The only thing I can assure is these spectators‘ frantic salivation for more swiftly thrown punches and kicks to quench their thirsty desire for extra monstrous scenes. And here I am indecisively standing in the middle of the arena for the first time; unsure whether to step forward or backward; whether to keep my hands up or give my back to the whole ball of wax. I can admit people‘s expectation, but I can‘t adhere to what an implausibly fed throat would swallow. All of these thoughts, however, are abruptly interrupted, as the bell rings to the end of the first round. The bell has always been the utmost notification for closing hell‘s gates, though temporarily. Still, now I can hear no voice plainly but the sound ofmy flashbacks to figure out how I have ended up fighting the unknown for a glorious sense that I can no longer grasp. It all starts with a dream, a kid who unfathomably admires the booming punches of the world champion kick boxer Badr Hari, a kid who thinks of himself as the next leading champion of his Fessi people. That very same kid joins the martial arts arena to professionally and realistically perform the ―fighting art‖. In the first encounter, his coach would ask, ―Are you ready champ?” without out any preliminary questions as having my name first. And his mom on the other hand states it unhesitatingly “go and be a champ!” it is this moment when that ambitiously zesty dreamful kid begins to visualize a fashionable mode ofstrength towards a fatal mode ofgreatness. He possesses an unbreakable spirit that can speak to his gloves before heading to a glorious combat to empower his arms like Ali or Tyson. „WELL! WELL! This is our chance‟ he would say to the gloves; interestingly enough he would be answered backby his gloves through whispers, ―Imagine me as an iron fist and I‟ll do the job!‖ The other amateurs believe that he is an ill- obsessed kicker that resides in a fairytale boxing box. Nevertheless, the whispers of the gloves are far louder and resilient than the ordinary-thinking beings. His coach is treats him attentively, since that kid wants more than

what he possesses and is ready at the drop ofa hat to be his favorite disciple. He is eventually a kid who exerts a powerful sense encircled by a mysteriously destructive potential. The idea, however, is whether it‘ll be regressively impactful. A potential that is informed by boxing gloves; the gloves that have become an archetypal type of fortress which will never fall down, one that combats have made a fortress fiercer than any other stronghold. The fights are a breath and nothing taking place but a happy smile after these fights with no particular celebration… All of a sudden “SPLASH!”. Indeed a wakeful slap from my coach has shaken my internal being; a slap that brings me back from the land of the past to the arena of an uncertain future. His verbal terms can be heard now—―do you want me to kill you kid?”—“This is every HELL OF A THING we have worked for!”—“DO NOT RETREAT! THIS IS YOUR MOMENT!” As I stand, I can no longer feel that mouth guard as if it had melted into my upper teeth and hence I no more sense the deadbeats of my heart like a MAD MAX foolishly wandering on a golden oasis in the middle ofa desert that is about to fade away. A feeling of the fortress that is no longer holding up clenched over my heart. I believe I breathe but no air seems to be nearby as if fighting in an obscure space vacuum. Instead, my flashbacks appear to be the only thing that surround and fill the atmosphere. The flashbacks of a kid who wants an eternal existence through a glorious path reinforced themselves so much in my mind I began to question that path. So forcible were these flashbacks manifesting themselves at the opening of hell gates again. Probably, they were a sign of repentance. But that would make my glory flagrant, as it makes me wonder about my opponent‘s fate on the other corner of the gates. No enough time to think as the bell gives the flour for the second round to fatally occur, but an enough time to ask the gloves for the last time to guard my face. Strangely enough, they no longer whisper that call of support. I just for once in my life wish these gates of hades would close for good, knowing that my conceptualization is labeled by violence nothing more. Eventually, the very glorious punch that I passionately would die for, has knocked me out to the point of having my eyes open and incapable of moving; an inability to neither fight nor surrender.