The Mentor Inside

As I stared at the man in the mirror, I realized just how much weight I had put on; it was noticeable, but it wasn't much. It was loose weight I could easily get rid of.

"I used to be chiseled son, what's all this?" I remarked as I continued to examine myself. "Work to be done!"

Five days had now passed since I had been out; I was almost caught up on all that had happened while I was away. I had spent most of my time in the house, except for the morning run around the neighborhood. Very few familiar faces now, which was good, I guess.

It was a mixed bag with the neighbors I did know; most would look away when I came around, pretending not to have seen me, while others would wave or at least smile. Some I could only see through quickly shuffling curtains and shadowy silhouettes. That to me was the funniest. They wouldn't have to feel uncomfortable much longer, I would soon be out of their hair.

Mrs. Morrison had made it a point to always find a way to remind me of how much I had thrown away. On the third day, I completely started to avoid her house; she meant no harm, but I didn't want those kinds of reminders.

I had spent the entire day yesterday getting ready for the trip to Chesher. I had been there only once before, for Panat's Cup.

I recall facing the "Agony," Olawale Agunbuyi, an amateur boxer out of Nigeria, with much more experience. Seeing him in person, one would think he was only a parent; he certainly appeared that way. He was much less fit than I thought he would be.

"Light work," I said, biting down on my gum shield.

"Hey, keep those hands up! He's an awkward one," Coach McKenney yelled out as I leapt up from the stool.

There was a pep in my step; I had him hurt in the third round, and I was going in for the knockout now.

I took center ring, throwing a two-punch combo, left hook, right jab.

Very few amateur boxers would normally expect that combination to be thrown from an orthodox stance, and certainly, that was the case with Olawale.

He slipped to my right just in time to evade the left hook, but the right hand he did not expect.

The jab was more of a power punch. I felt it in my elbows, a sweet connection; I had him.

"Ohh, big right hand by Eddie!" the commentator screamed.

He was hurt badly; he tried to step forward, but he had no authority over his legs, he overshot his step, almost as if attempting the splits. He pulled back to regain balance but overshot again with his left knee buckling this time.

The crowd let out a collective gasp, about two thousand people that night from what I can remember; some stood up.

"Ohh, he's on spaghetti legs now!" I heard the commentator say.

I returned my gaze from the referee; he wasn't prepared to step in, and the Agony was there for the taking.

He just about managed to avoid the haymaker of a right hook I threw; he leaned in, grabbing me, attempting to hold on; he had no power left. I pushed him off.

"Right hand, left hook. Oh and down goes 'Wale!" the commentator was almost out of his seat now.

I looked straight ahead as I ran to the neutral corner; I had to stay switched on. The noise was almost deafening, the atmosphere was buzzing.

I knew he would get up; the punches were smothered, and they didn't connect flush, the way I had wanted. This was my chance to make a statement, to get into the draws for the finals with a bang as well; this was my first broadcasted bout, I was anxiously jumping in place now.

"Eight!"

"Are you alright?" The ref yelled.

"Let's go," he responded, surprisingly, just managing to put his gum shield back in.

"Nine!"

"Are you alright?" The ref repeated with the Agony's gloves in his hands.

"Yes!"

"Step to my right!" the ref commanded.

He followed; his legs were still shaken but he could carry on, and carry on he did.

"Step back," the ref yelled out at me. "Fight On!"

I ran to Olawale rather gingerly; I dipped, missing his wild left hook.

But no amateur middleweight throws an uppercut after a left hook, certainly not one that's hurt.

My head swiftly moved in a bobbing motion, up and back, then down and forward. A million sweat particles flew off, evaporating into the Chesher night.

The crowd gasped...

I released a deep breath, setting my toothbrush down with my left hand and grounding myself back to reality. I had reached a point where I was nearly as proficient with both hands, although my right held a slight edge.

I rinsed my mouth out.

"Big day today," I muttered, bumping the mirror with my fist. It had just stopped raining that morning, and I expected PJ to be over soon. 

I had spoken to Mum the night before; it was a short conversation. It couldn't be long anyway— the words were all too familiar, and they had all been said before, planned out meticulously.

She had woken me up a few hours ago. It was a longer conversation this time, filled with advice.

"Mum, I'll still visit, you know" I reassured her, the weight of the decision evident in my tone.

She nodded, trying to hide the worry in her eyes. "I know, sweetheart. But remember, this is your chance for a better future. Don't let anything hold you back."

I glanced around my room, taking in the familiar surroundings. "I won't, Mum. This is the opportunity I've been waiting for, and I can't let it slip away."

She smiled, a mix of pride and sadness. "Just promise me you'll take care of yourself and that you won't forget where you come from."

"I promise," I replied, giving her a tight hug. The reality of leaving home was sinking in, and it was bittersweet. She had left for work not too long after.

As I grabbed my bag and double-checked that I had everything, I glanced at the family photos on my dresser. Memories flooded my mind, but I pushed them aside, focusing on the future. 

The doorbell rang. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door, ready to embark on the journey that awaited me.

"All good?" PJ questioned.

"All good" I responded.

In my last few days at Pine-Crest, I learned much more about Chesher, probably more than I should have normally known. On the eve of my eighteenth birthday, I had been transferred to an adult facility a few weeks before my release. It was a smaller facility, with fewer inmates overall, most of whom were there for release. There I met Frank.

He was a retired boxer and a former USA heavyweight champion. He had a rugged exterior, with a face that bore the scars of countless battles in the ring. He wasn't my cellmate for a day over four weeks, he was let out on parole.

He had been a trainer in Chesher, but he would be leaving the state upon release and returning to his family in Michigan. 

My time with Frank little as it was, was probably my most productive time on the inside. He made me care again, care about the little things, care about the discipline.

Under his guidance, the daily grind of prison life transformed into a structured routine. Before the harsh fluorescent lights flickered on each morning, we would sneak into the dimly lit corner of the yard for a brisk workout. His voice, a mix of gravel and wisdom, echoed through the empty yard as he barked orders and encouragement.

He taught me how to throw a punch, not just with force but with precision. "Life's like a fight, kid. You gotta bob and weave, but never forget to throw your punches," he would say, demonstrating the moves as sweat glistened on his scarred forehead.

His boxing style was distinctly "unorthodox"; he had an aversion to accepting defeat, a trait that occasionally unnerved me. He possessed an intricate knowledge of the human body, exploiting specific points and employing peculiar punches. His movements were reminiscent of a wrestler, displaying a unique finesse with his feet – a skillful blend of slips and evasive maneuvers.

Whether it was a well-placed knee, a surprising elbow, or a calculated foot maneuver, He always found a way to unsettle his opponents, throwing them off balance with just enough precision. At times, I couldn't help but question the legality of his tactics. 

There were moments when even I found myself on the floor, defeated by one of his unpredictable antics.

"Isn't that against the rules?" I would protest.

Frank, grinning, would extend a helping hand and retort, "What referee catches onto that?" His confidence in his unconventional approach only added to the intrigue of his fighting style.

Beyond the physical training, he emphasized discipline and focus. He shared stories of his own mistakes and the consequences he faced, using them as cautionary tales. It was during these moments that I began to understand the value of second chances and the importance of making the most of them.

"Hey, what got you in any way?" I asked from my bed one day.

Frank paused for a moment; his gaze distant as if retracing the steps that led him to incarceration. 

"Tickets?" he responded with a questioning look.

"Got it!" I didn't press the matter any further, some things were best left unknown. He was getting out on parole after all so whatever it was it couldn't be that bad anyway. 

As the days passed, His impending departure hung in the air, but he remained dedicated to leaving a lasting impact. He had handed me a worn-out notebook, urging me to document my thoughts, dreams, and goals. "Writing's like shadowboxing for the mind, kid. Helps you see where you're slipping, where you need to improve."

"You don't say" I managed to say, chuckling.

"Hey kid, I don't know what your plans are but my number's on there somewhere." He said as he packed his things the morning of his release, pointing at the notebook on the desk.

"Just, let me know. There are a few decent gigs here and there, I could hook you up. box a couple of softies like yourself, make a couple hundred bucks here and there."

"I doubt I'll be boxing anytime soon.". I replied turning on the bed to face him.

"Don't you get out in about a month?". He said, nodding to acknowledge the presence of the guard now by the door.

"Yeah but still…" I said now sitting up "school, remember? not done with that."

"Oh yeah right, whatever kid, you got my number." He said. 

The doors opened and he walked out, getting ahead of the guard. 

"See you whenever." He yelled out from the hallway.