The stadium’s blinding lights pierced through the black curtain over Jon “The Fire Starter” Washington’s eyes as his senses began to return to him. As he slowly pulled himself up from the depths of unconsciousness, a wave of sounds collided against his ears. His brain quickly filtered through the chaotic storm of noises. Shouting from his coach. The roar of the crowd. The vibrations of the mat. All faded as Jon searched for the one he needed to hear. Then his keen ears picked up the noise. “THREE!…FOUR!…FIVE!!!” The referee’s loud booming voice filled Jon’s movements with determination and his body with spirit. Achingly, Jon pulled himself to his knees, pressing himself against the soft yet firm mat below him, as the referee continued his count. “SEVEN!!!...EIGHT!!!...NINE!!!!!...” At the last moment, Jon came to his feet. The referee began to back away as the fight was ready to resume. Then, a relieving sound rang in Jon’s ears. DING! The round’s bell had sounded, marking a brief moment’s rest for Washington. The match was leaning towards Washington’s opponent, Derrick “The Executioner” Anderson, but Jon didn’t care. He’d even the fight next round. However, as Jon walked back to his corner he spotted Anderson making a throat slicing gesture towards him.
Jon collapsed on the stool in his corner. Immediately following this was his medical staff, one man tending to his right cauliflower ear, another treating a tear under his left eye, and a third readjusting Jon’s distinct boxer’s nose, which seemed to have suffered another break. Jon’s coach, known simply as “Tips”, butt in through all this action in order to become face to face with his prized fighter. Unfortunately, due to his strong Brooklyn accent, and Washington’s bleeding ear, it was an incredible effort on Washington’s part to determine if Tips was even speaking English.
“Noaw you gotta watch tha’ leff eye. You is takin’ a beatin’ from his right hook, and ya eye is showin’ it. You gotta use that Philly shell to your advantage. Wait for ya chance an’ take it! Don’t be lettin’ him punish ya like this. Ya ain’t already done are ya?” exclaimed Tips. The humidity in the arena had exhausted Jon. It was hot and sticky, a climate foreign to the native New Yorker. He took a gulp of water, swished it around in his mouth, and spat out the residue of blood. And with that, the next round began.
Washington stared Anderson in the eye as he witnessed him whispering the words “It’s over.” In response to this, Washington squeezed his fingers inside their gloves, so tightly the threads of mitts squeaked under the pressure. Washington was a tiger, and Anderson was his prey, and it was his time to feast. Jon had taken a beating the first round, but he knew Anderson couldn’t keep up the pace. The old workhorse had burned through his energy like a Hummer through gas, and prices are just too expensive to keep oneself fueled.
Despite Jon’s confidence, the round started much like the first. Despite the fact that Anderson’s hits were showing signs of fatigue, they were too well timed and executed for Washington to capitalize on Anderson’s exhaustion. Jon was forced to remain constantly with his back against the wall of ropes bordering the ring as Anderson continued unleashing brutal combos on him. However, when the one minute bell sounded, Anderson’s strategy seemed to switched. Keeping true to his aggressive style of playing, Anderson was attempting to land heavier hits, rather than the safe, quick jabs. This jagged fighting style greatly opened his defenses, finally allowing Jon to land some glancing blows. This then developed into more satisfying hits on Jon’s part. And at last, Anderson’s new technique proved too flawed for Jon not to exploit as he managed to time a devastating Haymaker like an arrangement of Bach’s in Concert F, landing promisingly under The Executioner’s left cheek.
The hit rattled the entire foundation of Anderson, as he collapsed unconsciously to the ground. The ref began to count
One…Two…
Anderson continued not to stir.
Five…Six…
He still remained motionless.
Eight…Nine…
Now expectant of assured victory, Jon let out a premature roar of victory.
Then, the Referee finished the countdown, as Jon and the rest of crowd exploded with a wave of cheers. Jon marched over to Tips victoriously the presence of immense joy shown abundantly among both their faces. Then the final essence of victory was acknowledged as the referee declared Jon victorious by a knock out, with Anderson’s team still tending to him, and the crowd once more roared in excitement.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
WA2 Draft #2
The stadium’s blinding lights pierced through the black curtain over Jon “The Fire Starter” Washington’s eyes as his senses began to return to him. As he slowly pulled himself up from the depths of unconsciousness, a wave of sounds collided against the shores of his ears. His brain quickly filtered through the chaotic storm of noises; the shouting of his coach, the cheers and boos of the crowd, the taunting of his opponent, Derrick “The Executioner” Anderson. These all faded as Jon searched for the one voice he needed to hear. Then his keen ears picked up the noise. “THREE!…FOUR!…FIVE!!!” The referee’s loud booming voice filled Jon’s movements with determination and his body with spirit. Achingly, Jon pulled himself to his knees, pressing himself against the soft yet firm mat below him, as the referee continued his count. “SEVEN!!!...EIGHT!!!...NINE!!!!!...” At the last moment, Jon came to his feet. The referee began to back away as the fight was ready to resume. Then, a relieving sound rang in Jon’s ears. DING! The round’s bell had sounded, marking a brief moment’s rest for Washington. However, as Jon walked back to his corner he spotted Anderson making a throat slicing gesture towards him.
Jon collapsed on the stool placed in his corner. Immediately following this was his medical staff, one man tending to his right cauliflower ear, another treating a tear under his left eye, and a third readjusting Jon’s distinct boxer’s nose, which seemed to have suffered another break. Jon’s coach, known simply as “Tips”, butt in through all this action in order to become face to face with his prized fighter. Unfortunately, due to his strong Brooklyn accent, and Washington’s bleeding ear, it was an incredible effort on Washington’s part to determine if Tips was even speaking English.
“Noaw you gotta watch tha’ leff eye. You is takin’ a beatin’ from his right hook, and ya eye is showin’ it. You gotta use that Philly shell to your advantage. Wait for ya chance an’ take it! Don’t be lettin’ him punish ya like this. Ya ain’t already done are ya?” exclaimed Tips. The humidity in the arena had exhausted Jon. It was hot and sticky, a climate foreign to the native New Yorker. He took a gulp of water, swished it around in his mouth, and spat out the residue of blood. And with that, the next round began.
Washington stared Anderson in the eye as he witnessed him whispering the words “It’s over.” In response to this, Washington squeezed his fingers inside their gloves, so tightly the threads of mitts squeaked under the pressure. Washington was a tiger, and Anderson was his prey, and it was his time to feast. Jon had taken a beating the first round, but he knew Anderson couldn’t keep up the pace. The old workhorse had burned through his energy like a Hummer through gas, and prices are just too expensive to keep oneself fueled.
Despite Jon’s confidence, the round started much like the first. Despite the fact that Anderson’s hits were showing signs of fatigue, they were too well timed and executed for Washington to capitalize on Anderson’s exhaustion. Jon was forced to remain constantly with his back against the wall of ropes bordering the ring as Anderson continued unleashing brutal combos on him. However, when the one minute bell sounded, Anderson’s strategy seemed to switched. Keeping true to his aggressive style of playing, Anderson was attempting to land heavier hits, rather than the safe, quick jabs. This jagged fighting style greatly opened his defenses, finally allowing Jon to land some glancing blows. This then developed into more satisfying hits on Jon’s part. And at last, Anderson’s new technique proved too flawed for Jon not to exploit as he managed to time a devastating Haymaker like an arrangement of Bach’s in Concert F, landing promisingly under The Executioner’s left cheek.
The hit rattled the entire foundation of Anderson, as he collapsed unconsciously to the ground. The ref began to count
One…Two…
Anderson continued not to stir.
Five…Six…
He still remained motionless.
Eight…Nine…
Now expectant of assured victory, Jon let out a premature roar of victory.
Then, the Referee finished the countdown, as Jon and the rest of crowd exploded with a wave of cheers. Jon marched over to Tips victoriously, as the presence of immense joy, was present in an abundant amount among both their faces. Then the final essence of victory was acknowledged as the referee declared Jon victorious by a knock out, with Anderson’s team still tending to him, and the crowd once more roared in excitement.
Jon collapsed on the stool placed in his corner. Immediately following this was his medical staff, one man tending to his right cauliflower ear, another treating a tear under his left eye, and a third readjusting Jon’s distinct boxer’s nose, which seemed to have suffered another break. Jon’s coach, known simply as “Tips”, butt in through all this action in order to become face to face with his prized fighter. Unfortunately, due to his strong Brooklyn accent, and Washington’s bleeding ear, it was an incredible effort on Washington’s part to determine if Tips was even speaking English.
“Noaw you gotta watch tha’ leff eye. You is takin’ a beatin’ from his right hook, and ya eye is showin’ it. You gotta use that Philly shell to your advantage. Wait for ya chance an’ take it! Don’t be lettin’ him punish ya like this. Ya ain’t already done are ya?” exclaimed Tips. The humidity in the arena had exhausted Jon. It was hot and sticky, a climate foreign to the native New Yorker. He took a gulp of water, swished it around in his mouth, and spat out the residue of blood. And with that, the next round began.
Washington stared Anderson in the eye as he witnessed him whispering the words “It’s over.” In response to this, Washington squeezed his fingers inside their gloves, so tightly the threads of mitts squeaked under the pressure. Washington was a tiger, and Anderson was his prey, and it was his time to feast. Jon had taken a beating the first round, but he knew Anderson couldn’t keep up the pace. The old workhorse had burned through his energy like a Hummer through gas, and prices are just too expensive to keep oneself fueled.
Despite Jon’s confidence, the round started much like the first. Despite the fact that Anderson’s hits were showing signs of fatigue, they were too well timed and executed for Washington to capitalize on Anderson’s exhaustion. Jon was forced to remain constantly with his back against the wall of ropes bordering the ring as Anderson continued unleashing brutal combos on him. However, when the one minute bell sounded, Anderson’s strategy seemed to switched. Keeping true to his aggressive style of playing, Anderson was attempting to land heavier hits, rather than the safe, quick jabs. This jagged fighting style greatly opened his defenses, finally allowing Jon to land some glancing blows. This then developed into more satisfying hits on Jon’s part. And at last, Anderson’s new technique proved too flawed for Jon not to exploit as he managed to time a devastating Haymaker like an arrangement of Bach’s in Concert F, landing promisingly under The Executioner’s left cheek.
The hit rattled the entire foundation of Anderson, as he collapsed unconsciously to the ground. The ref began to count
One…Two…
Anderson continued not to stir.
Five…Six…
He still remained motionless.
Eight…Nine…
Now expectant of assured victory, Jon let out a premature roar of victory.
Then, the Referee finished the countdown, as Jon and the rest of crowd exploded with a wave of cheers. Jon marched over to Tips victoriously, as the presence of immense joy, was present in an abundant amount among both their faces. Then the final essence of victory was acknowledged as the referee declared Jon victorious by a knock out, with Anderson’s team still tending to him, and the crowd once more roared in excitement.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
WA2 Draft #1
The stadium’s blinding lights pierced through the black curtain over Jon “The Fire Starter” Washington’s eyes as his senses began to return to him. As he slowly pulled himself up from the depths of unconsciousness, a wave of sounds collided against the shores of his ears. His brain quickly tried to filter through the chaotic noises; the shouting of his coach, the cheers and boos of the crowd, the taunting of his opponent, Derrick “The Executioner” Anderson, these all faded as Jon searched for the one voice he needed to hear. Then he detected it. “THREE!…FOUR!…FIVE!!!” The referee’s loud booming voice filled Jon’s movements with determination and his body with spirit. Achingly, Jon pulled himself to his knees, pressing himself against the soft yet firm mat below him, as the referee continued his count. “SEVEN!!!...EIGHT!!!...NINE!!!!!...” At the last moment, Jon came to his feet. The referee began to back away to resume the fight as a relieving sound rang in Jon’s ears. DING! The round’s bell had sounded, marking a brief moment’s rest for Washington. However, as Jon walked back to his corner he spotted Anderson making a throat slicing gesture towards him.
Jon collapsed on the stool placed in his corner. Immediately following this action was his medical staff, one tending to his right cauliflower ear, another treating a tear under his left eye, and a third readjusting Jon’s distinct boxer’s nose, which seemed to have suffered another break. Jon’s coach, known simply as Tips, butt in through all this action in order to get to his prized fighter. Unfortunately, due to his strong Brooklyn accent, it was often hard for Washington to determine if he was even speaking English.
“Noaw you gotta watch tha’ leff eye. You is takin’ a beatin’ from his right hook, and ya eye is showin’ it. You gotta use that Philly shell to your advantage. Wait for ya chance an’ take it! Don’t be lettin’ him punish ya like this. Ya ain’t already done are ya?” exclaimed Tips. The humidity in the arena had exhausted Jon. It was hot and sticky, a climate foreign to the native New Yorker. He took a gulp of water, swished it around in his mouth, and spat out the residue of blood. And with that, the next round began.
Washington stared Anderson in the eye as he witnessed him whispering the words “It’s over.” In response to this, Washington squeezed his fingers inside their gloves, so tightly the threads of mitts squeaked under the pressure. Washington was a tiger, and Anderson was his prey, and it was time to feast. Jon had taken a beating the first round, but he knew Anderson couldn’t keep up the pace. The old workhorse burned through his energy like a hummer through gas, and prices are just too expensive to keep oneself fueled.
Despite Jon’s confidence, the round started out much like the first. Anderson’s hits were showing signs of fatigue, but they were too well timed and executed to capitalize on his exhaustion. Jon constantly remained with his back against the wall of ropes bordering the ring as Anderson continued unleashing brutal combos on him. However, when the one minute bell sounded, Anderson’s strategy seemed to switched. Keeping true to his aggressive style of playing, Anderson was attempting to land heavier hits, rather than the safe quick jabs. This jagged fighting style greatly opened his defenses, finally allowing Jon to land some glancing blows. At last, Anderson’s new technique proved too flawed for Jon not to exploit as he managed to time a devastating Haymaker like an arrangement of Bach’s in Concert F, landing promisingly under The Executioner’s left cheek.
The hit rattled the entire foundation of Anderson, as he collapsed unconsciously to the ground. The ref began to count
One…Two…
Anderson continued not to stir.
Five…Six…
He still remained motionless.
Eight…Nine…
Now expectant of assured victory, Jon let out a premature roar of victory.
Then, the Referee finished the countdown, as Jon and the rest of crowd exploded with a wave of cheers. Jon marched over to Tips victoriously, as the presence of immense joy, was present in an abundant amount among both their faces. Then the final essence of victory was acknowledged as the referee declared Jon victorious by a knock out, with Anderson’s team still tending to him, and the crowd once more roared in excitement.
Jon collapsed on the stool placed in his corner. Immediately following this action was his medical staff, one tending to his right cauliflower ear, another treating a tear under his left eye, and a third readjusting Jon’s distinct boxer’s nose, which seemed to have suffered another break. Jon’s coach, known simply as Tips, butt in through all this action in order to get to his prized fighter. Unfortunately, due to his strong Brooklyn accent, it was often hard for Washington to determine if he was even speaking English.
“Noaw you gotta watch tha’ leff eye. You is takin’ a beatin’ from his right hook, and ya eye is showin’ it. You gotta use that Philly shell to your advantage. Wait for ya chance an’ take it! Don’t be lettin’ him punish ya like this. Ya ain’t already done are ya?” exclaimed Tips. The humidity in the arena had exhausted Jon. It was hot and sticky, a climate foreign to the native New Yorker. He took a gulp of water, swished it around in his mouth, and spat out the residue of blood. And with that, the next round began.
Washington stared Anderson in the eye as he witnessed him whispering the words “It’s over.” In response to this, Washington squeezed his fingers inside their gloves, so tightly the threads of mitts squeaked under the pressure. Washington was a tiger, and Anderson was his prey, and it was time to feast. Jon had taken a beating the first round, but he knew Anderson couldn’t keep up the pace. The old workhorse burned through his energy like a hummer through gas, and prices are just too expensive to keep oneself fueled.
Despite Jon’s confidence, the round started out much like the first. Anderson’s hits were showing signs of fatigue, but they were too well timed and executed to capitalize on his exhaustion. Jon constantly remained with his back against the wall of ropes bordering the ring as Anderson continued unleashing brutal combos on him. However, when the one minute bell sounded, Anderson’s strategy seemed to switched. Keeping true to his aggressive style of playing, Anderson was attempting to land heavier hits, rather than the safe quick jabs. This jagged fighting style greatly opened his defenses, finally allowing Jon to land some glancing blows. At last, Anderson’s new technique proved too flawed for Jon not to exploit as he managed to time a devastating Haymaker like an arrangement of Bach’s in Concert F, landing promisingly under The Executioner’s left cheek.
The hit rattled the entire foundation of Anderson, as he collapsed unconsciously to the ground. The ref began to count
One…Two…
Anderson continued not to stir.
Five…Six…
He still remained motionless.
Eight…Nine…
Now expectant of assured victory, Jon let out a premature roar of victory.
Then, the Referee finished the countdown, as Jon and the rest of crowd exploded with a wave of cheers. Jon marched over to Tips victoriously, as the presence of immense joy, was present in an abundant amount among both their faces. Then the final essence of victory was acknowledged as the referee declared Jon victorious by a knock out, with Anderson’s team still tending to him, and the crowd once more roared in excitement.
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