Dazed

He had no idea how he got here. Where even was here? He blinked hard in the glare of the harsh lights overhead. He rolled onto his side, wincing in pain. He stared out in confusion. His family and friends were sitting there, concern on their faces.

They were sitting all in a line. Were they gathered at his hospital bedside? Perhaps they were sitting in a church pew? Maybe he witnessing his own funeral? What was going on? His head hurt. He tasted blood in his mouth. He tried to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, but his limbs felt weighted down and like they belonged to somebody else.

He heard a loud voice calling out. One, two, three…

He pushed himself to his feet, and on shaky legs, looked around, still puzzled by his surroundings. He stared out at the crowd. There must have been hundreds of people out there, a sea of faces, all looking at him. What was happening? Who were all these people and why were they all staring at him? Was he dreaming? The world did have an unreal dreamlike quality to it. Perhaps it was the bright floodlights beaming down from above.

He tried to make sense of his strange surroundings but couldn’t even remember what day it was. There was a man standing in front of him. He wore a white shirt and bow-tie, and was staring intently at him. He was about to ask the man where he was and why he was here, when the man spoke.

Four, five, six… the man continued.

He looked down at his gloved hands, and everything came flooding back. The boxing match, the title fight, his shot at the big-time, the months and months of training for this night. He recalled the first-round knock-down. He winced as he remembered the blow that had put him down. He shook his head in an attempt to clear the fog in his mind.

Seven, eight. The referee continued.

He nodded, waving his hands, telling the referee he was okay. The referee nodded, moving aside. He raised his gloves and stepped towards his opponent.