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 Nostalgia (Grounds of Bathurst)
Posted: Jul 19 2006, 09:01 PM

The Musical Sportsman

Group: Members
Posts: 221
Member No.: 10
Joined: 23-June 05

((Continued from: How Many Ways Can You Define the Word "Cow"?))

The feeling of the wind running over his fist, the dirt wedging between his clenched toes, the harsh beating sound of oxygen being forced rapidly from his lungs, then the faint whistle as it was inhaled almost subconsciously again through his nose. The sight of his own blurred fist flying through the air, the rainbow of colours as he span his body full circle, the smell of sweat rising from beneath his vest and the taste of it running down his face and into his mouth, all his senses were assailed at once, and trhe memory of his past life was rekindled.

Not the harshities of slum-life, these were blocked from his hindsight by glorified, mostly fictitious pictures in his head, of great crowds chanting his name and great masters nodding to him in acknowledgement of his great natural talents, of everyone assuring him he would one day be the greatest champion in Thailand.

In truth, none of this had ever happened, His crowds had been small, spectators amassing early on to gewt good seats for the real bouts, only paying little attention, if any, to him at all. Most masters did acknowledge his skills, but none of them could really be called great. And he was good, and told he was good, but greatest champion in Thailand he was never told was a title he was likely to achieve. But this was the lie Panom had told himself, the memories he pretended to have, that he had built up in the years since he has left his home. It was why he resented his mother, for taking him away from the country where his abilities made him a success.

In the Western world, where mind was considered to be more important than matter, Panom was a crippled weakling. A simpleton.

Yet as he stood on the grounds of Bathurst hight, practising his art for the first time in years to relieve the tension he had felt build in him in hallways earlier, he felt that no American could possibly understand the complexities of his art. He was stupid, ignorant, foolish and unlearned, this was all true, but what did that matter in the real world.

Jab, cross, hook, uppercut, step, hook low, hook high, roundhouse left outer, cross, roundhouse right inner, cross, knee, elbow, knee, elbow, teep, teep, high roundhouse: he loosed volley after volley after combination after rapid succesion of perfectyl executed attacks, this was what it meant to be alive, to fight, Panom was sure that was all there was.

It didn't matter that it was only a short matter of time before he was thrown out of school, he didn't belong somewhere where they head was considered more than just another target, where the brain was needed fore more than just memorising the names and numbers of each different combination, all that mattered was that here, and now, Panom was still a true Thai at heart, and he could still fight.

When he lost that, he would have nothing.

For a moment, this scared Panom, for a moment, a thought permeated his empty head, when there were no more fights, what was there?

Panom hoped he would die before he ever found out. He didn't want to be a man, he wanted to be an animal, to have his life dictated to him, not decided by him, he wanted a master again.
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