He was leaning against the ropes. Round one was done. This was the time when The Judge took some time out for himself. Remembering his own fighting days. The times when he was at the corner. Being prepped up for the next round. Wounds being tended to. Cuts being fixed. Now, he saw the Wolf and the Onion. The fight had lived up to its reputation. Round one, was brutal.
Sitting at his blue corner, he couldn't remember which punch or kick from Onion had resulted in the cut. The one just above his left eyebrow. His vision was getting blocked by the blood flowing into his eyes. Somehow he had survived the first round. He was a clear 5 inches taller than Onion. But the strength and speed of his opponent was well known. He had felt the effects. Clearly. There was a moment in the match when he had felt dizzy. He had composed himself and had given back some of the treatment back. A few seconds on, and the next round would begin. He knew what had to be done. He felt supremely confident. This was his round.
He had repeated the cardinal mistake again. Onion. His fast flowing punches had missed the mark, his kicks didn't have the reach. He didn't get close enough. He couldn't get close enough. And now, it was one each. The second round, was Wolf's. He was knocked down once. The left hook by Wolf had knocked him off his feet. It was that moment of frustration. None of his punches were having any effect. He had let his guard down in a desperate move to punch more. Wolf had pounced.
The time had come.
The third round was more than what anyone had bargained for. It was a match which seemed to go on forever. Punch after punch. Kick after kick. Bloody faces. Black eyes. Hurting ribs. Blood stained ring.
Onion had given it all. He had charged in like a pit bull. Wolf had held his ground. It was like watching two huge mammoths fight on to death. Wolf could hardly see through his left eye. Yet he had to go on. Onion could feel the ribs. The long reach of Wolf clearly had its advantages.
The Judge hated this part the most. Breaking some fighter's heart by calling the other a winner. Yet, he had to. It was his job.
The hands were sweaty and blood stained. He held the hands tight. His was a strong grip. One on either side of his. He wanted to raise both the hands. But he would raise only one. And in the process, destroy the other.