{"id":101689,"date":"2025-09-19T05:21:49","date_gmt":"2025-09-19T05:21:49","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/?p=101689"},"modified":"2025-09-19T05:21:49","modified_gmt":"2025-09-19T05:21:49","slug":"but-the-fighter-still-remains","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/but-the-fighter-still-remains\/","title":{"rendered":"But the Fighter Still Remains"},"content":{"rendered":"

I saw my brother on TV more than I talked to him. There was nothing malicious or begrudging about the arrangement, just the unfortunate untangling of two grown siblings on separate self-destructive paths. I called him when I could, usually around the main holidays, and we pretended we weren\u2019t using the same script from the last conversation.
\n+++++<\/span>But the day after the Ediger fight, Zeb\u2019s third pay-per-view event where he dropped the top-ranked middleweight twice in the sixth round and once for good in the seventh, I called him. Not to congratulate him, though he deserved it. It wasn\u2019t even about the fight. It was the post-fight interview, when Zeb was asked how he\u2019d developed his boxing persona and if it was different from his identity outside the ring.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cWhat\u2019s up, brother?\u201d Zeb sounded wary, like maybe our mom had died and somehow I knew before him.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cThat story was bullshit.\u201d I kept my tone casual, but Zeb felt the jab, knew I was measuring him for a knock-out. I wondered if he\u2019d counterpunch or simply keep his hands up, waiting for me to tire myself out as older brothers generally do.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cWhat\u2019re you talking about, Reuben?\u201d Zeb\u2019s hands were definitely up. Which was fine. I\u2019d been sober for almost two years and had plenty of focus and energy.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201c\u2018The Boxer?\u2019 That\u2019s where you got your ring persona from?\u201d I scoffed. \u201cA Simon and Garfunkel song?\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cMom thought it was a nice line.\u201d A neat counterjab, reminding me that he still talked to her.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cI\u2019d say that, too, if it kept my meal ticket happy.\u201d This was a cheap shot, a rabbit punch to the back of the head. Zeb would support our mother regardless of what she thought. Worse, she would love him even if he didn\u2019t support her.
\n+++++<\/span>Zeb was silent. Not pouting, just waiting, the conversational equivalent of a rope-a-dope, letting me punch myself out until my weariness revealed how stupid I sounded.
\n+++++<\/span>I didn\u2019t have a lot of time for this call, so I finally asked, \u201cHow is<\/i> Mom?\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cOld. Tired. Missing her younger son.\u201d Jab, jab, uppercut. Zeb was fighting back with the same efficiency that he\u2019d used to cut down Ediger.
\n+++++<\/span>Before I said, \u201cWell, she deserves it,\u201d I realized I\u2019d only ever thought of our mom in one of those ways. And that brought me back to reflecting on Zeb\u2019s answer to the reporter\u2019s question about his ring identity, his origin story. Simon and Garfunkel? Really?<\/i>
\n+++++<\/span>It actually happened during a family dinner one Saturday night when we were teenagers. Dad was unexpectedly out of work, and without a paycheck, unexpectedly sober. Mom\u2019s secret bank account was keeping the utilities paid and the refrigerator stocked. Dinnertime was peaceful. Wherever Dad was sober, he got chatty. He wasn\u2019t any friendlier, just more talkative.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cBraves are gonna win the pennant this year. Maybe even the World Series. Best rotation in baseball, reminds me of 1996\u2026\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>Nobody was really listening to the self-absorbed ass oaf. For once, there was food on the table and not on the walls or floor. Or Mom. In fact, the only one seemingly irritated by the conspicuously clean walls and floor was Derecho, Dad\u2019s fat little pit bull.
\n+++++<\/span>She growled obligingly whenever Dad got angry with someone, but my Dad was also the only person she\u2019d ever bitten. He was always too drunk to remember that when he sicced her on Zeb or me, she\u2019d wait a moment for him to step in front, then promptly bite his ass or leg and drag him away from us.
\n+++++<\/span>Dad kept blathering on as he lathered his plate with mashed potatoes. \u201cWith Ozuna and Olson batting third and clean-up, there\u2019s no reason why we shouldn\u2019t have the lead by the third or fourth inning of every game.\u201d More potatoes. Nobody had even had seconds. He was on thirds. \u201cGotta make a few trades for middle relief, but that\u2019s not as big of a deal as it was twenty years ago.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>Mom smiled at his primitive baseball acumen. She was the daughter of a minor leaguer with zealous but limited talent and knew more about the game than he could ever fathom. She raised an eyebrow at Zeb and me when we, too, tried for an additional helping of mashed potatoes. Even at thirteen, I\u2019d figured out who I was, so I stood down. But Zeb, two years older, had also figured out who he was, and he stood fast.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cYou know what we could really use, though?\u201d My Dad jabbed the air with his spoon. Melted butter fell like yellow lava on the caldera of mashed potatoes on his plate. \u201cSpeed on the bases. That\u2019s<\/i> what we need, some jets turning singles into doubles, doubles into triples.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cNo, you don\u2019t.\u201d Zeb had cleaned his plate and was still hungry, and my father might as well have been eating his birthright.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cWhat\u2019d you say?\u201d asked my father. People did not openly contradict him. They either sincerely agreed with him publicly or disagreed privately, then had him discreetly fired, arrested, or beaten up. \u201cWhat was that?\u201d He genuinely seemed perplexed that someone else at the table had even spoken, much less dissented.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cThey don\u2019t need speed on the bases,\u201d Zeb said. \u201cThey need a better outfield, a leadoff hitter, and another starting pitcher.\u201d He ignored my mother\u2019s wide eyes and tilted head. \u201cYou don\u2019t know shit about baseball, and you don\u2019t know shit about your own team. I bet you can\u2019t even name the other teams in their division.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cThe hell you say, boy.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>Some people will tell you alcohol makes a person meaner, but I never bought that perspective. Salt water doesn\u2019t make a crocodile any meaner\u2013it just happens to be its natural habitat. Dad was seven days sober and every bit the violent deadbeat when Zeb called bullshit on his baseball IQ that evening.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cThe hell I do. Tell me the other teams in their division or pass me the rest of your mashed potatoes.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cOh, you think you can eat what you didn\u2019t earn, do you?\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cYeah? Who paid for those potatoes, Dad? You? \u2018Cause I thought you got fired. You grow them out back, maybe buy some magic seeds on the way home from the unemployment office?\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cZebulon.\u201d His full name murmured by our mother was supposed to be a warning. Zeb ignored her and pushed his plate to the center of the table, the way a man engulfed in a bar argument might set down his hat.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cWe had a homework assignment last week\u2013write a letter to one of your parents and get something off your chest. Here\u2019s my letter.\u201d Zeb pretended to scribble on his palm. \u201c \u2018Dear Dad, you\u2019re a drunk piece of shit who beats his wife and kids. I hate you, I hate the Braves, and I hate baseball, even though I know more than you. Love you when you die, Zeb.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>Zeb did not actually get through his letter. He later told me the rest from a hospital bed because as soon as he got to \u201c\u2026you\u2019re a drunk piece of shit,\u201d Dad came ripping around the table like a rabid jackal and tore him out of his seat. Planted him against the wall and just started punching. My Dad had boxed Golden Gloves during his freshman year in the Air Force Academy before he got expelled for punching a wall, an officer, and the actual Air Force falcon at a football game.
\n+++++<\/span>Zeb started laughing when he took the first two to the face, but after the blood from his nose ran into his mouth, he started coughing. Even then, in between punches and coughs, he managed to drop an expletive. At first, I thought he was just swearing, but then I realized he was calling my dad names.
\n+++++<\/span>Punch. Dickhead<\/i>. Punch. Bitch<\/i>. Punch. Asshole<\/i>. Punch. Motherfucker.<\/i>
\n+++++<\/span>When the punches exhausted my brother\u2019s repertoire of profanity\u2013but not his strength\u2013Zeb just started over at the beginning. Eyes swollen, he couldn\u2019t see, but he could still swear, whisper-gasps that only further enraged my father.
\n+++++<\/span>And then, finally, Zeb had somehow done it. Outlasted the outrage. Like a dying twister flouncing back up into the clouds, my father shoved Zeb against the garbage can and staggered out of the room. We heard the couch creak as he lay down, panting like Derecho in August.
\n+++++<\/span>My mother rose. Strode to the freezer and pulled out the entire ice bucket. Grabbed a package of frozen peas. And walked into the living room, where my father cursed as he plunged his knuckles into the ice.
\n+++++<\/span>Like some blind, bloody phoenix, my brother rose, hauling himself up with the garbage can. I ran over but he waved me off, groping his way back to his chair. No panting, only the controlled breathing of someone warding off agony\u2019s aftershocks.
\n+++++<\/span>He did not sit, just stood gripping the chair and breathing. And then, exhaling like a meditating monk, he climbed onto the table and laid down on top of plates and forks and napkins. His head tilted against the ceramic bowl of mashed potatoes. He dragged his hand around the inside edge of the bowl, then started licking his fingers, proclaiming, \u201cI\u2019m a fighter. I\u2019m a fighter<\/i>. I\u2019m gonna get paid for this shit.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>I stood back against the red-splattered wall, aghast. It was birth and baptism, confession and confirmation, Be sealed with the bloody spirit,<\/i> brutal and beautiful, a denunciation, a declaration, a depraved destiny.
\n+++++<\/span>On the phone ten years later, I internally and begrudgingly acknowledged his self-fulfilling prophecy.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re winning fights, Zeb, but you know what you\u2019re really doing, right?\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cNot every match is about fighting Dad, if that\u2019s where you\u2019re going with this pop psychology.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cThen why didn\u2019t you tell that reporter the truth?\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cIs that why you called, Reuben? Because I lied? Because I didn\u2019t tell the world that Dad beat us and Mom allowed it, practically sanctioned it? Because I made up some stupid origin story and referenced a Simon and Garfunkel song?\u201c
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cPeople should know what happened. They should know why you\u2013why we<\/i>\u2013see the world the way we do.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cWhy?\u201d Zeb demanded. \u201cNobody cares. And you know why? Because bad shit happens to everybody.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cIt still matters, Reuben.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cNot to me it doesn\u2019t,\u201d he replied. \u201cYou wanna know the real answer? How I found my boxing identity, my ring persona? Because it doesn\u2019t have anything to do with that night, if that\u2019s what you\u2019re thinking.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cThe hell it doesn\u2019t.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cIt was my third fight.\u201d Zeb\u2019s voice was steadier than I\u2019d ever heard it. \u201cVincent Diaz. He chopped me down twice in the third round. Absolutely brutal, the hardest I\u2019d ever been hit until that point. After the second knockdown, I barely beat the count, but after I got up, I heard the crowd and realized something. They weren\u2019t cheering for Diaz because he knocked me down\u2013they were cheering for me because I got back up. Nobody gives a shit<\/i> if you get knocked down. They want to see you get up. And when you do\u2026\u201d His voice trailed off in unexpected ecstasy.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cPaul Simon couldn\u2019t have written it any better,\u201d I said. I was angry, but I didn\u2019t know why or at whom.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cYou can joke, Reuben, but people don\u2019t pay to see me fight\u2013they pay to see me get up. They don\u2019t see me, they see what they wish they could do in their own lives.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cYou\u2019re gonna get yourself killed, Zeb. No way you can keep taking all these beatings.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cSo what? Like there\u2019s so much to live for?\u201d he scoffed. \u201cPeople are paying\u2013paying<\/i>\u2013 money to see me get up. More money than I\u2019ve ever seen in my entire life. And you can make fun of me, but when you hang up the phone, take a look around: what are people watching you do again?\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cThat\u2019s a pretty shitty cheap shot.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cDad beat us both, Reuben,\u201d he said. \u201cViolence was our inheritance. We just decided to spend it differently.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cFuck off, Rueben.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>I hung up, sat back, and looked around. Concrete and steel ignored me, but the plastic chair dug into my spine.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cYou done?\u201d
\nI didn\u2019t answer.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cAre you done?\u201d This time, it was a baton digging into my spine, not the chair. \u201cIf you\u2019re done, time to head back.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cWe got disconnected,\u201d I said. \u201cI need to call him back. It\u2019s my brother.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>The guard held my arm as he jammed the nightstick into my ribs, forcing me to stand. \u201cAin\u2019t no disconnection. I saw you hang up. Walk.\u201d He wasn\u2019t exactly an asshole, he just didn\u2019t tolerate dissent.
\n+++++<\/span>I briefly contemplated making a grab for the baton. Not to hurt him, maybe just thump him a couple times. I wanted the fight, but I didn\u2019t want what would come after. I\u2019d heard that lifers were better behaved than other inmates, that they were even a stabilizing force in many prisons, but I wasn\u2019t there yet.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cWarden said congrats on your two years.\u201d The guard stretched and cracked his neck like he was expecting me to jump him.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cSo?\u201d I replied. \u201cWhat\u2019s that mean?\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cYou done two years. Means you\u2019re eligible for a job, if you want. You can make signs or furniture, that\u2019s all we got right now. Pays thirty cents an hour.\u201d
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cWhat an opportunity.\u201d I stared down the slab of the cellblock.
\n+++++<\/span>\u201cYup,\u201d he grunted. \u201cPretty exciting for me, too\u2026eight hours of watching you make shit.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[Image Credit : Photo by Maxim Kostenko<\/a> on Unsplash<\/a>]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I saw my brother on TV more than I talked to him. There was nothing malicious or begrudging about the arrangement, just the unfortunate untangling of two grown siblings on separate self-destructive paths. I called him when I could, usually around the main holidays, and we pretended we weren\u2019t using the same script from the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":629,"featured_media":101700,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1463,1908,1452],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-101689","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-k","category-kiyoshi-hirawa","category-short-story"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p1Zyqm-qs9","jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/But-the-Fighter-Still-Remains.jpg","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/101689","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/629"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=101689"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/101689\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/101700"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=101689"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=101689"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.close2thebone.co.uk\/wp\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=101689"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}