ThisEmptyChair

I have a fascination for boxing. I don’t play it, I just enjoy watching them pugilists slug it out like a pair of Neanderthals. I know. It’s barbaric but so are chismis shows with nothing to offer but scandals left and right—and they deserve a different story altogether.

It’s my father and uncles who introduced me to this sport back when television had four legs, antennas, and a curtain to boot. The entire maledom in our small neighborhood used to come to our house to watch Ali punish yet another heap of meat. And that’s all most of his opponents are reduced to at the end of most matches: a heap of meat.

And who could forget the now infamous Mike Tyson whose fights covered by local networks are always, and I do mean always, characterized by advertisements running way longer than the fight itself. How few punches would he throw today? Four? Three? Two? One? The maledom would be wondering in unison. The bell, of course, would signal the start but then his opponent would be drooling on the floor, eyes rolling, faster than you could say, “How much is in it for you, Don King?” I would listen to their commentaries. Specially my uncles’. About the footwork. The jabs. The left and right hooks. The arm span. The dodges. The tale of the tape. The whole nine yards. I’m fascinated.

My favorite punch? The uppercut. That deadly blow that always comes from nowhere and sure as hell would turn an opponents eyes rolling like the wheels of a slot machine as his head spin like roulette. Ah, uppercuts. So sneaky. Nobody. Nobody, not even Ali nor Tyson could survive a carefully calculated, precisely aimed, and perfectly executed uppercut.

Neither could I.

And who would have thought that, years later, uppercuts would follow me to Law School? I got some mighty uppercuts from the San Antonio Spurs and my professor today and it sent me reeling home feeling like a slowly sapping balloon. For the pocketful of cockiness I had with me to school today, I got what I probably deserve.

I went to school confident that the Pistons would bag Game 5 of the NBA Finals. Robert Horry was first to deliver my wet blanket. Then 7pm came to remind me of school. I came to the classroom thinking I am as fully prepared as a GI Joe being sent to Nam. Believing that I have read more than most of my classmates did, I walked into our classroom with the swagger of Ace Ventura not knowing what was to come.

Our professor characteristically came late. As his routine goes, he re-ran for us the discussion we previously had and went on to shuffle our classcards, draw a card, and read a name. It was a girl classmate first to be drawn. He made her talk for 25minutes about a topic he previously said we would be skipping today. The fucker lied. He made her sit only after—I know—what seemed to her like forever.

10 minutes to go. Yes! Shuffle. Draw. Read a name.

“Lopez, Raphael?” He looked up, looking for his latest game.

THE ODDS!!!

Houston, The Shit has hit the fan. I repeat. The Shit. Has hit. The fan. Holy bitch of satan, Batman!

Panic replaced the blood in my veins. It’s okay, ‘Eng, you’re ready for this, I told myself. Inhale. Exhale. You’re ready for this. Only I wasn’t.

I’m toast. He kept upping the tempo every time I gave him what seemed to me like a correct answer—upping it every time until I had nothing more to say. He exhausted me. The creature played me well. He boxed a slugger when the slugger was boxing him. His uppercut couldn’t have been launched at a better time. I’m toast. I’m toast. I’m toast.

The antichrist played me well. He asked me also about the topic which he said we’d skip today, starting from the easy (jabs) to the sweat-invoking (left and right hooks) to the whatthef**kyatalkin’bout?!?!? (uppercuts)—all the while he had this sinister grin on his face that seemed to say, “You’re too dumb to have made it to second year.”

My world was spinning. Slowly then faster and faster and… In a way, I felt like a turd being flushed down the toilet. He looked at his watch. I looked at mine. The whole class did. It’s contagious. It’s always contagious. Like yawning. 8:06pm, it’s over. I’m saved by the bell!!! So I thought.

“One more question,” He said ruthlessly. Like a cat playing with its meal, a mice.

Heavens. One more question. The straw to break the camel’s back. The drop of water to burst the dam. The snowflake to trigger the avalanche. The second uppercut, the one that thaws the brain and drains it of all self-respect. My tongue tripped as my lips flipped in search of the answer that never in that moment my jiggled brain could deliver.

8:15pm. I got floored.

Good-bye, cocky boy. Game over. You got TKOed.

He stood up. Gathered our classcards. Said a prayer. Walked out of the room and took one fleeting, almost undetectable glance at his latest kill, this heap of meat.

20 June 2005. Monday. 11.49pm.