When fighting men, it usually goes one of two ways. They either go easy on me because I’m a girl, and their mothers told them to never hit girls. Or they go at me like a madman just to prove that they have no qualms with hitting a girl. They don’t want the embarrassment of being beaten by a girl either. Generally, I prefer the second type. They become stupid with pride and either wear themselves out, or trick themselves up. The first type, the guys who don’t want to hit me, generally avoid my own punches a lot more. They’re thinking of how they can win the fight without inflicting as much pain on me. But don’t get me wrong–I can beat all of them, and generally do.
Take the giant here, whose stage name was aptly “The Giant.” He was the second kind. He was big, mean, and probably practiced his moves on his wife or girlfriend. I could see the anger flowing through him as the match began. He was not happy about fighting a woman, especially a small one like me. His size definitely goes against my chances. The only way I can win a fight when there’s such a huge size difference is by knock out. I would never be able to keep such a behemoth pinned for long enough to win. That’s why I kept going for his face. Knock something loose, bloody his vision, something just to bring him down to my level.
“What time is it?” I asked the ref. I had to shout for him to hear me. He didn’t reply, but just showed me his watch–a Rolex knock-off. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. I sighed. I had another fight at 6pm. I had hoped to be able to eat and digest a decent meal before then, but it looked like something light for me today. I nodded my appreciation to the Ref and made my way behind the scenes.
The crowd’s roar was muted as I shut the door labeled “Employees Only” behind me. Vinny, the ring boss, was sitting behind his desk. Why were so many guys in the mafia named Vinny? And Vinny, well, he looked like a quintessential “Vinny.” His black hair was slicked back. He was wearing a colorful button-up shirt that had the top half of buttons undone, showing off his grossly hairy chest and gold chain. The guys he worked with hated him for his appearance. Nothing screams “Italian Mafia” quite like the stereotypical Vinny. The irony of it, though, was that he was part of the local Irish Mafia, doubling the reasons why his partners in crime (no pun intended) disliked him.