The Other Champion
Lansdowne, Nova Anglesaxe
Two Weeks After Stalworth vs. Green
"Beat the feet, Torel, beat the feet!" shouted Torel Senior, the beaten boxer's fifty-two year old father from atop a rolling bicycle. A mere two weeks had passed, and already Torel Green was marking the pavement of Lansdowne, Nova Anglesaxe with his sneakers in the waking hours of an industrial city. Automobiles were a luxury for the wealthy, white, and empowered demographics of Cantignia, so when the Green's ran, they ran alongside motor buses, carrying full loads of Oleneaseans, or others, on their way to work at factories and steel mills.
They woke in the earliest of hours and retired in the latest, committing their hands and their bodies to businesses who cared not to learn their full names. It was not much different for white men and women of the lower classes, though the Olenaseans could never be sure, the races were separated from one another in working hours to prevent a mixture of culture within the working class. Whites worked with whites, and the others worked with one another, a system as old as the friendly confines themselves. Torel's father worked the Rover Automotive assembly line for the first fifteen years of his life, but when Torel decided to become a boxer as a full time profession, Torel Senior began training his son full time, largely at the expense of the rest of his family.
While the boxer's face possessed a few puffs from contusion, he still very much looked the man he had set out to Dulwich as, defiant and robust, but he felt as beaten and hurt as he had the night he lost to Nathaniel Stalworth in split-decision. Every step forward caused a rattle in his core, where Stalworth pummeled and jabbed, making the jaunt forward on the pavement a fight within itself.
"Show me what a Champion looks like Torel," Senior roared, "Give me a snarl!", and so Torel Junior did, smacking the bus window beside him with a lion's roar. The bus crowd squealed and tapped the window back in a steady unison, cheering on their 'Other' Champion as they had two weeks earlier, gathered around radios and television sets shared among city blocks. "See, it don't mean a thing Torel, you're still the champ here son, still the champ!" his father encouraged, but Torel Green knew he was as beaten as he felt. "Shut up old man, I'm not afraid to punch a senior citizen . . " Torel mouthed between heavy breathes and pants, "Stalwor . . Stalworth is the Champ . . I'm just the Other box . . boxer!".
A short minute passed before the bus stopped, and the Green's along with it. The workers filed out with shouts and jeers, encircling the Junior Torel with no less than thirty bodies. "What's a Champ to do?" Torel Green asked while he bouced between feet to keep his heart rate up, "What next?" he asked, not knowing the answer fully himself.
"Re-match," a fifteen year old boy, the minimum age requirement to work, suggested in a pubescent tone. "Re-match!" a woman of an age nearing his father's agreed, "RE-MATCH!" the Others repeated, "Re-match Torel," Senior agreed. Torel Green bounced a little faster, and dropped a little heavier with the sound of that, his confidence buidling a bit with every shadow punch he threw. "Re-match," he agreed, "Now get to work before I make punching bags out of you!"
The Olenaseans departed in small groups after touching their champion on the back or on his shoulder, depositing their will and support on their Champion, the Other Champion, Torel Green. "Where to next old man?" he asked after the final Olenasean, the young boy, punched him in the shoulder lightly, but when Torel turned his father was already a great distance down the street. Torel sprinted to catch up, adrenaline rushing in to his swollen head, "Where to?" he gasped, "Home it is Junior, I have someone I'd like you to meet!" Senior said with a smile as he pedaled harder to surge ahead of his galloping son.
Sunlight was already touching his other-than-white skin, as the whites liked to say, by the time the Green's made it back to the Gym, named "Mean'n Green" after the two of them, who founded it with Torel Junior's winnings over the years. He was only twenty-three years old, but many thought he looked older, and saw that he fought like a far older fighter. He thought like an older man as well, though he rarely expressed as much, his fans preferred the concise champion who would describe his fights in gory detail. The build-up to Stalworth vs. Green had been no different, Torel claimed he would knock out the Colonial, Commonwealth, and Covenant Champion in no earlier than five rounds. Despite his brave words, the fight went the full distance of twelve rounds, culminating in a split decision that retained Nathaniel Stalworth's crown in the Capital of the Great Engellexic Empire, Dulwich.
"Will we ever make it back?" Torel Junior asked as the run came to an end before the Mean'n Green Gym. "Did that white boy punch you blind," Senior scoffed, "this is home ain't it?". Torel sighed deeply and shook his head, "To Dulwich, to the pinnacle, will the whites even give an Other a chance like that ever again?" he asked. "Of course they will son, they'll have to, and if it isn't you who raises those belts in Dulwich - it'll be an Olenasean who watched you give it your all before getting cheated by those bought off pales!" Senior said with fervor, "That was one loss to one son of a bitch, in one white run capital of one white run Empire," Senior grunted as he dismounted the bicycle, "All it takes is one win from one other-than-white boxer, and their one way of life is exposed as a crock of shit!".
Lansdowne, Nova Anglesaxe
Two Weeks After Stalworth vs. Green
"Beat the feet, Torel, beat the feet!" shouted Torel Senior, the beaten boxer's fifty-two year old father from atop a rolling bicycle. A mere two weeks had passed, and already Torel Green was marking the pavement of Lansdowne, Nova Anglesaxe with his sneakers in the waking hours of an industrial city. Automobiles were a luxury for the wealthy, white, and empowered demographics of Cantignia, so when the Green's ran, they ran alongside motor buses, carrying full loads of Oleneaseans, or others, on their way to work at factories and steel mills.
They woke in the earliest of hours and retired in the latest, committing their hands and their bodies to businesses who cared not to learn their full names. It was not much different for white men and women of the lower classes, though the Olenaseans could never be sure, the races were separated from one another in working hours to prevent a mixture of culture within the working class. Whites worked with whites, and the others worked with one another, a system as old as the friendly confines themselves. Torel's father worked the Rover Automotive assembly line for the first fifteen years of his life, but when Torel decided to become a boxer as a full time profession, Torel Senior began training his son full time, largely at the expense of the rest of his family.
While the boxer's face possessed a few puffs from contusion, he still very much looked the man he had set out to Dulwich as, defiant and robust, but he felt as beaten and hurt as he had the night he lost to Nathaniel Stalworth in split-decision. Every step forward caused a rattle in his core, where Stalworth pummeled and jabbed, making the jaunt forward on the pavement a fight within itself.
"Show me what a Champion looks like Torel," Senior roared, "Give me a snarl!", and so Torel Junior did, smacking the bus window beside him with a lion's roar. The bus crowd squealed and tapped the window back in a steady unison, cheering on their 'Other' Champion as they had two weeks earlier, gathered around radios and television sets shared among city blocks. "See, it don't mean a thing Torel, you're still the champ here son, still the champ!" his father encouraged, but Torel Green knew he was as beaten as he felt. "Shut up old man, I'm not afraid to punch a senior citizen . . " Torel mouthed between heavy breathes and pants, "Stalwor . . Stalworth is the Champ . . I'm just the Other box . . boxer!".
A short minute passed before the bus stopped, and the Green's along with it. The workers filed out with shouts and jeers, encircling the Junior Torel with no less than thirty bodies. "What's a Champ to do?" Torel Green asked while he bouced between feet to keep his heart rate up, "What next?" he asked, not knowing the answer fully himself.
"Re-match," a fifteen year old boy, the minimum age requirement to work, suggested in a pubescent tone. "Re-match!" a woman of an age nearing his father's agreed, "RE-MATCH!" the Others repeated, "Re-match Torel," Senior agreed. Torel Green bounced a little faster, and dropped a little heavier with the sound of that, his confidence buidling a bit with every shadow punch he threw. "Re-match," he agreed, "Now get to work before I make punching bags out of you!"
The Olenaseans departed in small groups after touching their champion on the back or on his shoulder, depositing their will and support on their Champion, the Other Champion, Torel Green. "Where to next old man?" he asked after the final Olenasean, the young boy, punched him in the shoulder lightly, but when Torel turned his father was already a great distance down the street. Torel sprinted to catch up, adrenaline rushing in to his swollen head, "Where to?" he gasped, "Home it is Junior, I have someone I'd like you to meet!" Senior said with a smile as he pedaled harder to surge ahead of his galloping son.
Sunlight was already touching his other-than-white skin, as the whites liked to say, by the time the Green's made it back to the Gym, named "Mean'n Green" after the two of them, who founded it with Torel Junior's winnings over the years. He was only twenty-three years old, but many thought he looked older, and saw that he fought like a far older fighter. He thought like an older man as well, though he rarely expressed as much, his fans preferred the concise champion who would describe his fights in gory detail. The build-up to Stalworth vs. Green had been no different, Torel claimed he would knock out the Colonial, Commonwealth, and Covenant Champion in no earlier than five rounds. Despite his brave words, the fight went the full distance of twelve rounds, culminating in a split decision that retained Nathaniel Stalworth's crown in the Capital of the Great Engellexic Empire, Dulwich.
"Will we ever make it back?" Torel Junior asked as the run came to an end before the Mean'n Green Gym. "Did that white boy punch you blind," Senior scoffed, "this is home ain't it?". Torel sighed deeply and shook his head, "To Dulwich, to the pinnacle, will the whites even give an Other a chance like that ever again?" he asked. "Of course they will son, they'll have to, and if it isn't you who raises those belts in Dulwich - it'll be an Olenasean who watched you give it your all before getting cheated by those bought off pales!" Senior said with fervor, "That was one loss to one son of a bitch, in one white run capital of one white run Empire," Senior grunted as he dismounted the bicycle, "All it takes is one win from one other-than-white boxer, and their one way of life is exposed as a crock of shit!".