A Boxers Tale

"Again!" the voice rang out, sharp and unwavering. "Don't you dare slow down, runt!"

Jericho's fists pounded against the pads with a frantic intensity, but after nearly five grueling hours of relentless punishment, his body was beginning to betray him. His arms felt like lead weights, and beads of sweat trickled down his brow, stinging his eyes. Fatigue gnawed at him, sapping his strength and speed. Desperate for a moment to catch his breath, he faltered mid-combination, gasping for air.

"Why did you stop?" the coach snapped, impatience radiating through the gym like heat from an oven.

"I need a break!" Jericho panted, irritation creeping into his voice. "I've been at this for five hours and haven't even sipped water." Without a word, the coach grabbed a bucket and doused Jericho head-to-toe with icy water, leaving him feeling even more exhausted—soaked and seething with frustration.

“There, your ‘water.’ Now let’s keep going.” But Jericho felt he had reached his breaking point. This punishing regimen had gone on for nearly a year, and while he had embraced the challenge at first, the training had warped into something unbearable. What once felt like mentorship had morphed into merciless torment. The routines became increasingly absurd, the schedules more rigid, and the drills endless. He was done.

"That's it! I can't take it anymore! I'm sick of these drills—like pounding my fists against stones until they bleed! I nearly shattered both hands that day! My hospital visits are eclipsing what any fighter should endure in training! What do you have to say about that?" Each word tumbled out, fueled by a mix of anguish and resentment.

The coach met his gaze with an unyielding expression, offering only a dismissive, "Finished yet?"

That was the final straw. Jericho yanked off his gloves with a furious motion and flung a shirt over his damp body, storming out of the ring. But just before he reached the exit, he turned back, his voice heavy with anger: "My brother told me so many stories about you. Turns out, that's all they were—just tales."

His words hit like a heavy punch, landing hard as he stormed out of the gym. The coach sighed heavily, retreating to his office and slamming the door behind him. Inside, trembling hands locked the door, and he retrieved a bottle of whisky, taking a contemplative sip. Faces of fighters he had trained danced through his mind, evoking warm memories—except for one. In a frame on the wall loomed a picture of Travis "The Angel" Johnson, the last moment captured before that fateful match. It haunted him relentlessly. To him, boxing had always been a sport, but he knew more; he should never have let that fight happen, yet he had truly believed the boy was ready. It had cost him everything. As he sipped from the bottle, the weight of his memories pressed down on him like an anchor.

Meanwhile, Jericho trudged several blocks until he stumbled upon a small, unassuming diner. As he pushed the door open, the bell jingled softly overhead, welcoming him. Spotting an empty booth in the corner, he collapsed into the seat, finally allowing himself a moment of peace. Just then, a familiar face approached.

"Evening, Jericho."

"Hi, Peggy. How’s it going?" he replied, still breathless and feeling the aftershocks of the workout. She quickly noticed the drenched fabric clinging to his skin and slid a glass of cool water in front of him. "Thomas is pushing you hard, huh?"

"That man is downright sadistic," Jericho muttered, gratefully guzzling the water. "I don’t get why my brother ever spoke so highly of him. For the last year, he’s turned my life into a nightmare. No matter what I do, it's never enough, and on the rare occasions I succeed, he demands more. I lost it today."

Seeing the frustration etched on his face, Peggy settled into the seat across from him, concern etched across her features. "You know, he wasn’t always like this. There was a time when he was full of passion and care. Now… he’s just broken." She inhaled deeply, sipping her coffee before continuing. "Has he ever told you about your brother’s last fight?"

"Just that I should forget the past and move on. Why do you ask?" Jericho's brow furrowed.

Peggy paused, the air thickening with unspoken memories. "When your brother was preparing for the title fight, he was already 23-0 in his division. He felt invincible. Thomas played into that bravado. He even started skipping training sessions, thinking he could coast into victory. Then Thomas saw a video of Travis’s opponent and nearly lost it. He tried to whip him back into shape, but it was far too late. On fight night, Thomas promised Travis that if things spiraled out of control... he would throw in the towel. Your brother insisted he could win this for them—he believed it with every fiber of his being. But the night became a massacre, a brutal display of dominance. For all twelve rounds, Travis became nothing more than a punching bag for the champion. Many in his corner begged Thomas to throw in the towel for the sake of his fighter, but he didn’t. Then it happened—a devastating blow to the heart, and Travis crumpled to the canvas. After the final bell rang, Thomas rushed onto the stage, but it was already far too late. He was dead. Ever since that night, Thomas has shouldered the blame. He confided in me that if he ever trained another fighter, he would work them so hard that they’d despise him, hoping to spare them the anguish he felt that night.”

This revelation hit Jericho like a ton of bricks, the weight of the truth crashing down upon him. It was the first time anyone had shared such a raw and unfiltered account of his brother's fate; not even their parents had spoken of it. Taking another sip of his coffee, Peggy studied him closely, searching for his next move. "So, what are you going to do now?"

For a moment, Jericho stared out the window, watching the world blur by, before looking back at Peggy, determination settling over him like armor. "I’m gonna dance with the Devil."