EN 
ES 
After receiving the first hit to my mouth, I feel the elbow in my chin. Two lines of blood trickle down from my nose. The air becomes thick and filters in very small amounts. The moment has come when things around me start to spin.
I hold my ground, planting my feet into the ground to prevent my head from starting to whirl. Reflexively, I cover my face with my hands, trying to avoid getting hit in the mouth again or, worse yet, in my left eye, like last time. I try to take a deep breath as the crowd grows excited.
“Finish him, finish him, finish him!” they all shout in unison, thrilled.
I can see Goyo, impatient. His dazzled gaze eclipses that of the vast majority present.
The shouts shake me; I don’t hear as clearly out of my left ear as I do from the right. I’ve had several surgeries on that side, and according to the specialists at Darío Contreras, if I keep living this way, with the life I’ve led for the last twenty years, I’ll end up deaf and unable to enjoy my weekends with my favorite artist, Fausto Rey, singing “Yolanda” in my house with the doors and windows shut. Because outside, a war breaks out between the reggaeton blasting from one side and the bachata screaming from the other:
“Something, something, something big is coming to the earth, preaching that there’s still light, I want a tail… I like that thing!”
At full volume, making the filthy souls vibrate as they brush against each other in the cadence of the dance to forget the pain.
Another blow comes to my head, my thoughts drift away, and one more, but this time it’s on my jaw. And it makes me kiss the ground instantly.
–Finish it, finish it, finish it!– I hear the screams again.
I play dead for a moment while I manage to regain some consciousness. I start to stand up and a flurry of blows invades my ribs. No one hears the crunch of a bone or something exploding as if it had broken or moved out of place.
I hug him and throw a punch at his face, but I miss; I barely hit his shoulder.
–Don’t let that shit-eater get you, damn it – Goyo shouts at me, drunk. I hear his voice filtering through the hubbub of other voices that want him to kill me.
I hear him but I don’t know if he really understands what they’re saying. I think it’s because of the overexcitement that these clandestine fights produce. I’d like to laugh but my body and face hurt so much… I think that even if I wanted to, I couldn’t because of the swelling of my face.
I turn around and give him a good punch. Immediately, the people present attack me.
–Finish him, finish him, finish him! – they shout unanimously.
Everyone worries about him, they cheer for him and everyone at that moment is worried for him. That discourages me.
I lean on his chest and he tries to push me away by pushing me and hitting my ribs. I stick to him to prevent something worse from happening to me this time. I don’t want him to hit me in the ear again. Goyo, my uncle, worries. I realize it, because he has put his hands to his head.
I’m completely anesthetized. I can’t tell what they’re hitting me with, whether it’s a baton, a steel pipe, or brass knuckles.
His sweat drips down my face, my pain and swelling increase. I think I’ll have to have another emergency surgery after all; I might even lose my damn eye.
I feel ashamed that I have to earn my living by taking blows, even from those who could be my children or my students. It’s better to die alone inside a boxing ring than to let a family die of hunger teaching inside a (cage) classroom. The one I’m facing is much taller and stronger than me, but my need doesn’t know the word fear.
If he hits me again on the rib or on the broken cheekbone, this time I’ll be lying on the canvas. My chin is decorated with two purple lines that descend. No one notices it, but I laugh, or maybe I grimace in pain and helplessness.
With all my strength I give him a right hook in the face that makes him stagger. I feel like I’m succeeding… He’s losing control.
If I die now, I have gained something big and it was being able to give him that strong blow on the nose and draw blood; something is something.
Right in front of me comes a signal: Goyo places the red towel on his shoulders, indicating that this has to end. I don’t want it to end, but I must obey now. I will try to give him back some of what he gave me in the previous rounds.
Left, right, left. Chin, chest, rib.
Right, left, right. Ear, chest, rib. I did it, he is lying on the ground.
The public shouts his name, but it is too late. I have knocked out their young champion.
-Finish him, finish him, finish him! Unanimously and excitedly they all shout again, but this time in my favor.
Goyo sees his youth in me, and takes the last drink. He runs after the referee indicates that I won the fight. He hugs me, gives me a kiss and laughs for the first time that night.
Santo Domingo
February 2009
