Page 124 of Not Fooling Anyone

The referee brings them both to the center of the ring, gesturing as he says something, but it’s too loud in here to make out what it is, despite being in the front row. The two boxers touch gloves in a show of good sportsmanship before returning to their respective corners, and the ref holds his arms out wide between them, a bell dinging loudly to signal the first round has begun.

Sokolov comes at him right away, not letting Ethan get to the center of the ring, but he luckily isn’t pushed against the ropes right off the bat. The two feel each other out, circling one another, throwing jabs, not looking to do damage yet but fishing for reactions.

The guy fakes a punch, Ethan holding his right hand up to block, and I recognize the tactic for what it is—a way to see how his opponent instinctively defends. Now, he can use that knowledge to force an opening.

Uh oh. This guy is smart.

The ref stands back as Sokolov grows bolder with his jabs, Ethan continuing to defend. To the untrained eye, it looks like Ethan’s only reacting, but I know he’s biding his time, waiting for the other boxer to slip up, waiting for the right moment to counterpunch.

After another minute of a lot of posturing, Sokolov tires of Ethan’s inactivity, closing the gap between them, forcing something to happen. He tries a jab but doesn’t get the reaction he wants, then throws his hands up in a defensive position in front of his face, inching forward, wanting to get in and do damage. He dips down, like he’s going to spring for an attack, but it’s actually a feint, Ethan coming up to guard his face, leaving his torso exposed for Sokolov to hit.

Damn. I know that hurt.

Instead of retreating, Ethan goes in for a body shot in a one-two combo, and Sokolov brings his arms down to cover, leaving his head free for Ethan to hit his face, but he pulls back in time, escaping it. It would have been a good combo for Ethan if the other guy didn’t have such quick reflexes.

Ethan manages to get in a few more blows, but the guy easily shrugs them off, like he’s the Terminator or something and Ethan’s merely a pesky fly. Sokolov comes in again aggressively, maneuvering Ethan around the ring until he’s backed in a corner, leaving nowhere to retreat to.

The bell announcing the end of the round sounds, my fists unclenching, and I shake out my hands, realizing my nails left little divots in my palms. Has it only been three minutes? It feels like a lifetime.

Dad tends to him during the minute break, my leg jiggling up and down as my stomach sinks, watching Sokolov stare him down from across the ring. He’s a terrible opponent for a first match, sure to scare Ethan off boxing forever.

Maybe that’s a good thing, though?

Ethan’s got two more rounds to figure out how to get the upper hand on this guy, but as the second round starts, it’s only more of the same as Sokolov comes at him hard, and now that he’s discovered some of Ethan’s tells, he’s more assertive. Instead of jabbing and backing away like before, he stays with him, landing two punches, slipping to the side, and giving three more in quick succession.

Ethan looks like he’s panicking, his game plan to wait for the perfect strike falling apart, throwing wild punches with no form.

Dad yells, “Calm down,” from his spot on the sidelines, but Ethan doesn’t seem to hear him.

Sokolov backs him into a corner again, coming at him with a flurry of blows, forcing Ethan to protect his head. I stand, knowing exactly what the guy will do now, yelling, “Watch out,” even as he punches lower at Ethan’s unprotected midsection, landing a strike to his exposed ribs on his right side.

It takes a moment for Ethan to react, his arm coming down to cover his ribcage before he falls to his knees, wincing. That was a liver shot. Not a move that looks particularly flashy but can easily end a fight with the amount of damage it does.

The ref sends Sokolov to his corner and starts the count, my heart in my throat as Ethan struggles to get back up, making it to his feet by the count of six, the ref counting one more to make sure he stays on his feet.

He grabs Ethan’s gloves, pulling, testing if Ethan’s still in control of himself and able to fight, and Ethan pulls back. He says something, Ethan nodding in response, and he backs away, signaling for the fight to continue.

Sokolov goes right back on the attack, on him with a barrage of blows Ethan can’t defend against, his reflexes slowed after the hit that almost took him out. Sokolov lands a surprise body hit to his exposed sternum, sending him back to his knees.

I clasp my hands in front of my mouth, silently praying he’ll get back up, but it must be too difficult this time, my heart breaking as he’s unable to get fully upright before the final count.

The ref waves off the fight and Ethan slumps down again, exhaustion and defeat pouring off him.

Dad slips through the ropes to come to Ethan’s side, looping an arm around his waist in support as he half-carries him to his corner.

Ethan rests against the ropes, his head hung down low, Sokolov’s loud cheers in the opposite corner rubbing salt in the wound as he celebrates his victory.

I hurry to Ethan’s corner, but he won’t look at me, staring down at his shoes instead.

“You did the best you could,” Dad says. “It was your first match, and that boy obviously has a lot more experience than you.”

Ethan nods silently, not responding.

“I’m going to talk to the ref,” Dad says, excusing himself.

Ethan undoes his gloves and takes off his hand wraps, still avoiding my eye.

“I’m proud of you,” I tell him.

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