You fought a dump fight, showed up as the piece of meat to be beaten by a contender with a shot. You got six grand to get hit stupid. Six grand to marry your lady. You’re at the altar waiting, staring out at what $5,370 can buy.
You wanted to be someone she could be proud of. You wanted to be someone you could be proud of. Things change. You see the line between earning pride and getting fed. There’s a waiting period to get to the kind of place where you can inspire pride. You’re waiting now. She’ll be here.
You didn’t want her to come to the fight. You asked her mother to keep her away. You didn’t want her to see what you knew was going to happen. You were going to be treated like a slight speed bump. You saw her. It made you fight harder, which was a shame. You might have looked a little better today if you’d just hit the canvas when the occasion called. She’s coming.
The cut in your eyelid is open. Stop the bleeding with your shirt cuff. She’s coming.
There’s no way she didn’t know who she was marrying when she said yes. The fight can’t have been that big a surprise. She said yes and she meant yes. Watching you get bludgeoned in front of 700 people can’t have changed things.
The priest has a wristwatch and you catch him checking it. She’s coming. It’s her wedding day. She’s marrying a boxer. She’s coming.
Happy The Boxer Marries Day!
