Melange Magazine

Poetry

On the most manly of sports,

boxing and hockey
By Michael Talbot

Punch Drunk

Photograph by Paul Willaert

You could tell that his nose has been broken,
more times than his name has been spoken in recent years
his face is mangled and tangled, his glory is gory and blood drips down
from his cauliflower ears
he smears it into his swollen hands and lets out a broken-toothed smile.

His mind is a
ring post, a weigh-in boast,
a thousand lonely miles in the cold, with nothing but the steam of his breath
and an endless stretch of country road
his mind is a
skip rope slapping, a speed bag rapping, cold and unconscious, the smell of burnt toast

his mind is an ink-stained contract he can't read cuz it's blurry
his mind is a
canvas
where all the paintings
are fashioned in flurries
his mind is a concussive flash of light, a cartoon canary, a doctor's worried poke
his mind is a hospital bed, his last memory ---- an echo in the cigar smoke

And he can always hear
someone counting to 10, hovering over his head
waving his hands, stopping the fight

sometimes his mind is an autograph
scribbled in delight
a television light shining bright on his face
sometimes his mind is a gold mine overflowing

with headlines and cheers
sometimes it's a sentimental steam room
where he sweats out his fears

the newspaper clipping in his wallet, has trapped a crumpled prime
and it's yellowed over the years

he pulls it out everyday
at the same time
and sinks into his eyes, staring back from the carbon of a photo, a frozen right on the button of a rival
on the night he won the title

"I aint Yellow" he slurs to his shadow
setting up the tone for a spontaneous battle
but shadows
are elusive and slippery
masters of the counter punch
and defensive wizardry

he presses the attack, his punches are blurs, and against the black night ---- each streak spells a word
but his shadow absorbs them, like Muhammad Ali on the ropes against Foreman.

at the end of 12 rounds
his nose is broken and his knuckles are raw
his ribs are purple welts
it feels like his legs
are starting to melt

but he taps on his head
as though it were laced
with sheets of pure lead
the cameras are flashing
he taps at his jaw
he waves at his ma
and nods at his pa

the announcer grabs the microphone.........AFTER REVIEWING THE SCORE CARDS...........THE FIGHT HAS BEEN DECLARED.....................A DRAW!!!!

He lets out an "AHHHHH!!!!!"
then raises his fists with a brawler's defiance
a fearless slave of the sweetest science
slick with the salt of his tears
sick on the curb
clutching an old newspaper clipping
that's yellowed
over the years.

Street Hockey Heroics

a spider web of light reveals a pink scar from a hockey fight
I think back to when I was thirteen, skinny mean dynamite with a tomahawk
the blocks were sheer ice
the chimneys would vomit cumulonimbus clusters of white
and we'd walk, too cold to talk

but shiver we might
on the way to the next neighbourhood to challenge for
bragging rights in the hydro fields and halls and locker room stalls
our feet would crunch in the snow as we passed old Italian men on their driveways, chopping wood
and our sticks in our hands, dangling like jungle spears
made you feel like a man to grip it tight and ignite the night with echoes of slap shots
and in the cold, you could hear the scurrying of sticks from blocks away, and the wails of adolescent heroics,
being played out under the spotlights of streetlights with
scattered flurries falling like dandruff from the shoulders
of night
and runny noses and bruises and wet socks were part of the ritual
and the invisible vibe of death
followed the losers home.

But the winners...... they enjoyed a joyous celebration, mimicking Hockey Night in Canada's greatest heroes, throwing their sticks and splintered mitts into the pit of ecstatic unity, love, joy, snowflakes much lighter now and dreamy, bouncing upon impact.

The glare of the streetlight emits a heavenly radiance and the apple red goal posts glimmer with evidence of triumphs as the losing team trudges along like dead broke gamblers into the cold slush to regret in the abyss of their bedrooms. And at night they’ll press the pillows against their ears to suffocate the "We Are The Champions" mantra sarcastically reverberating... and to dream about revenges and breakaways and wizard-like deeks through defenders en route to winning goals.

But the walk home for the losers was the ultimately humbling experience. When you can hear their orgy of celebration behind you and suddenly the wind picks up and howls its callous song before it sinks its frozen teeth into your bones and whips a million crystal spiked shards of sleet in your eyes. But for the winners, the walk home was always enchanting and magical. The cold instantly ceased. The welts atrophied. The snowflakes glistened psychedelically and all that mattered was the glow of victory and your momentary grip on its elusive grandeur.