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In the Fight of His Life: 8 Deadly Rounds with Cancer


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For 8 rounds he fought bravely and gallantly against the sickening opponent; weaving his way in and out of horrdenous blows. Blows that would disrupt most fighters hearts', I watched him take and answer back with one of his own -- unfortunately his returned blows only dealt a temporary effect as he continued back pedaling, side to side, trying to stay away from his relentless opponent.

 

There were times throughout that fight where I wished I could've gotten in there and fought right alongside him. But that was wishful thinking; it wasn't my fight, it was his; thus, I could only watch from ringside and pray that he'd be able to somehow secure a victory.

 

Going into the fight, I was so over-confident that we'd get through this. It was just another day, another fight as far as I was concerned. The two of us had been together for years and as long as we had been a team, nobody would ever defeat us or ever would..

 

But today was new a day..

 

As the rounds began to wear on and the fight got late down the stretch, I watched from ringside at the amount of punishment my fighter began to absorb. His body had suddenly become weakened as he often found himself defenseless against his opponents attack. Somehow he still hung around long enough, he was determined to finish this fight on his feet. Even though all signs pointed towards the realization that we were about to embark upon our first loss as a team, I didn't want to see it or accept it. So everytime he came back to the corner, a little more black/blue than before the last, I tried offering different strategies to avoid the inevitable that was soon bound to face us as a team...

 

By the end of the sixth round, he was wobbly and weak he could barely stand. He breathed heavily onto his mouthpiece. His back slightly sunk down; his face looking onto the canvas below. So frustrated at his inability to handle the beast staring accross the ring at him, I saw a teardrop slip from the corner of his eye and splash against the canvas below. He knew he was a defeated man, marked for loss. But despite his disadvantages, broken body and painful sorrows, he still asked for his mouthpiece to start up Round 7.

 

Ringside physicians suggested otherwise, though. They told us it wasn't a good idea and that we should strongly consider stopping the fight. That's when he tugged against my jacket and whispered through his struggling lungs that he wanted to go out for one more round.

 

So I did what any loving trainer would do. I gave him his mouth piece and let him go for one more round...

 

Watching him in the 7th round was almost like watching a family member die. His opponent tormented him, pounding away at him as he backed into the corner and tried defending himself by using his arms to cover up his face. I watched from ringside, tears filling the rim of my eyes as he tried desperately to stay on his feet. I didn't want to stop the fight, but I knew at some point that evening I may have to make that decision. It was no reason for my fighter to continue taking unneccessary punishment round after round like that. I loved him too much for that.

 

By the end of the 7th round, he had just barely made it back into the corner. So tired, gasping for air and so out of breathe he could barely talk. His body was severly bruised, his soul shattered, his heart broken -- dipilated and weak as he sunk against the ropes behind him and hung his low.

 

Ringside physicians rows away noticed his condition and surrounded the two of us inside of the ring... They were ready to jump in and stop it if I wasn't going to make the call. But it was my fighter and I decided that if anybody was going to be stopping anything it was going to be me.

 

So that's when I asked him how he was feeling and if he wanted to continue.

 

He shook his head, "No."

 

At first I wasn't to willing to take that answer so suddenly. My fighter was always a proud soilder and would never give up on his stool. So I asked him if he knew what day it was and who I was.

 

He shook his head, "yes."

 

So then I asked him again if he was sure he wanted me to stop the fight and again he slowly shook his head, "yes."

 

I turned and faced the ringside physicians and nodded as if to say we were finished because I didn't want him suffering anymore punishment. I held him in my arms as the fight was called off. He had lost his battle. I kissed him on the forehead as he looked back up at me with tears in his eyes and asked if he "could go home."

 

That's when I looked back at him and told him that he could have anything he wanted and I truly meant that.

 

So he got up, didn't say a word and he went on home... and nobody ever blamed him for doing that.

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Thank you for the gracious replies, I really appreciate them.

 

It's really hard watching a family member suffer from such a horrid condition and eventually fade away. Everyday I think about him, his struggle and how much he fought on so bravely. And everyday that motivates me to get up another day and go out and fight just like he did.

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