“Let him work. Watch his hips.” Trent, angered by his own mistake, unleashed a flurry. A jab snapped Big Eli’s head back. A vicious low kick slammed into Big Eli’s left thigh. The sound of flesh on flesh, a wet, heavy thwack, made a woman in the front row gasp. Big Eli stumbled, his leg buckling slightly. “Come on, old man.” Trent spat, smelling blood. He threw a high roundhouse kick, aiming for Big Eli’s temple.
Big Eli’s reaction was entirely devoid of grace. It was ugly, born of survival rather than sport. He didn’t try to block the kick, he stepped into it. He lunged forward closing the space before the leg could generate full momentum. Trent’s shin slapped harmlessly against Big Eli’s thick ribs wrapping around his back. With Trent balanced on one leg, his momentum compromised, Big Eli just leaned his heavy weight forward and shoved. It was a clumsy, heavy push. Trent crashed backward onto the foam mats, his breath leaving him in a loud oof.
The crowd fell dead silent. The jukebox in the corner seemed to suddenly blare louder, a tinny country song mocking the tension. Trent scrambled to his feet, his face flushing crimson. The smirk was gone, replaced by a tight, furious grimace.
He felt humiliated. A dirt-poor old Black farmer had just dumped him on his back. Big Eli stood exactly where he had been. He wiped a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his greasy thumb.
He looked at the red smear on his dark skin. He felt the heavy, rhythmic thumping of his heart in his chest. He didn’t want to be here. He hated the adrenaline flooding his veins. It felt like poison. “You’re dead!” Trent hissed, shifting his stance. He dropped his hand slightly preparing for a takedown. He was going to take the farmer to the ground, mount him, and cave his face in.
Big Eli sighed, a short, ragged breath. He rolled his broad shoulders feeling the joints pop. He stopped trying to look small. He squared his hips.
His stance shifted from the awkward slouch of a tired old farmer to a grounded, perfectly balanced base. He didn’t raise his fists like a boxer, he kept his hands low, open, relaxed. Trent charged fanning a left hook and shooting for Big Eli’s waist. He expected the old man to sprawl or panic or stumble backward.
Instead, Big Eli stepped slightly to the diagonal. It was a micro adjustment, barely an inch of movement, but it changed the angle of the entire fight. Trent was suddenly diving into empty air. As Trent’s head dropped past Big Eli’s waist, Big Eli didn’t strike. He simply placed his heavy calloused hand on the back of Trent’s neck, gripped the thick fabric of his board shorts with the other, and used Trent’s own desperate momentum against him. With a sickening crash, Trent face-planted into the unyielding floor beneath the thin foam mat.
