Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

When I Get My Chance

He lumbered into town, a large, almost freakish size heavyweight. His story was a familiar one:

"My trainers did not know what they were doing. They threw me in with anybody and I had to work just to put food on the table for my wife and little boy."

As tall as he was, he held his head down and toward the side as if he was a little boy brooding. In the gym he went through the motions. When he skipped rope he would drone, "When I get my chance, nobody but me and my opponent. When I get my chance..."

His new trainers set up sparring sessions and they quickly told him he was the next Gerry Cooney. But once the sparring partners began to hit back, he became timid and complained of a couple of minor injuries.

"Just a sore shoulder. When I get my chance, nobody but me and my opponent. When I get my chance..."

The gym regulars patted him on the back and treated him like a champion. It was not hard to understand he started to believe in himself.

"When I get my chance, nobody but me and my opponent. When I get my chance..."

In front of a capacity crowd at a new arena, wearing new shoes and trunks he got his chance. His opponent was a good foot shorter and at least 10 years older.

It seemed odd for this giant of a fighter fighting such an older and shorter man. But it was even stranger when the shorter fighter pummeled the taller fighter. The giant was simply pushing his punches casually, as if to say, "Take my chance, I really don't want it."

Against the ropes, the shorter, squat fighter scored repeatedly to the body. It now was no longer a question of whether the giant would win, but of whether he would survive? At the bell, he was barely standing on his own and his trainers had to help him to his stool.

You didn't have to be able to hear the ring announcer announce the judges' decision to know who won the fight. You could tell who won by the way the giant buried his head into the hood of his robe. The giant slowly pressed through the crowd and headed for the locker room.

He did not shower, though. Instead, he quickly changed into his street clothes and found his wife and baby boy among the loud and enthusiastic crowd.

With a dray gray stocking hat pulled down over his forehead to cover an ugly welt, he cradled his baby in his large, but sore arms. He tilted his head and with moist brooding eyes he whispered to his wife, "When he gets his chance..." But before he could finish, his wife took their baby from him, kissed the fighter and said, "Everything will be all right."


Editor's note: This story I originally published in 1981. It remains my favorite work. I was a bit wordy back then and there are a couple of awkward sentences.

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