Before
One skip. Two skips. Three skips. You're skipping all the pressure away. You are in a dark dingy room with peeling grey bricks, a dirty concrete floor, and pipes along the corners of the walls. A tiny rectangle window is your only source of light. You can smell a mix of sweat and dust. Your music is at its maximum volume, but all you can hear is your huffing and puffing. The skipping rope touches the ground with a swift swish. Your crimson singlet is drenched and stuck to your skin. Your face is cool with sweat. Each small breeze from the swoosh of the skipping rope feels like heaven. Your hair is slick with a mix of sweat and grease. Your heart and mind are racing. You hope that if you skip enough your legs will fall off. You want a way out, but you don't want to surrender. You have a dull uncomfortable feeling in your stomach. Fear. You want to win more than anything, but it means you have to destroy your opponents dreams to fulfil yours. A static sound comes from the hall. You are being called to the ring. It's time.
