Diving in the Twelfth

He was wiry, talented
and brash,
fighting three weight classes above his natural division.
In his earlier days he’d been noticed as a great prospect:
         a brilliant practitioner of the art.
But, in recent years he’d gotten ahead of himself, bypassed preparation and
ultimately outlived his
         significance within the public eye.
What had once been construed as a confident charm had slowly gone stale
         and cast an ugly disposition upon its host.

His opponent, much larger in stature and darker in complexion, had been on the receiving end
         of the brash boxer’s jeers for months now but, being a contender within his own
         weight class, he was no doubt the favorite in the bout.
But the brash boxer had built his career around the underdog role, the small-man complex.

The bell rang.
For several rounds, the titanic opposition pressed the action, landing several body shots
         on the brash legend, engaging the exchanges and using his weight advantage by
         leaning into the undersized challenger.
But, the aging veteran survived, winning many rounds with elusive head movement and sharp counters. He was obviously exhausted throughout the match. He tied up the fighter often, knowing that the scorecards were all but even.
         He had made it into the twelfth and final round, farther than any had predicted.
It looked as if he would make it to the final bell and, just perhaps, pull off the upset decision, a great performance amidst a career of disappointments.

But, as the final minute began to expire, the legend felt the blood upon his brow.

Suddenly, he felt he should acknowledge the greatness of his opponent.
         So, as the crowd cheered for a climactic finish, he stuck his chin out into the middle of the ring:
                   a sacred offering towards his opponent, a gift that would bring
                             the dark titan great fame, as the fighter would go on to claim many head
                   after that of the brash boxer.
His opponent seized the opportunity and struck the fading star with a wild left hook, sending him
to the mat for the eternal ten-count.

The crowd exploded in applause, the titan was hoisted in the air as confetti and tears of joy
         rained over the bloodied canvas.

The once humble, promising prospect, now a discarded oddity, laid motionless, his head under the
the bottom rope. No medics or reporters came to his side.  Later, he would simply be scraped off the ring like a deer off the highway, his blood hastily wiped off the
                   mat’s advertisements.  He was never heard from again. For those waning moments following the left hook, afloat in nothingness, he would gaze upward into the arena’s lights, and the constellations they formed. In all his years of fighting, he’d never admired them until then. He was never heard from again.