He slumped on the stool between rounds—bloody, exhausted, and almost looking for the white towel.
With his elbows on his knees, the lightweight, who typically stood at six-foot-one, wasn’t, at the moment, much taller than your average second grader.
His cornerman went to work, “Sit up! Gimme three big, deep breaths!”
For six weeks, he was well aware of his opponent’s reputation for dragging warm bodies to the canvas and mashing their skulls into powder with inescapable ground-and-pound.
“You’ve got to use your reach!” his cornerman screamed for the fourth time, extending his left hand for a visual reference, before the start of the third.
He could hardly fight gravity and hold his hands above his waist for defense, let alone fend off the rabid bulldog before him.
Prompted from the Six-Sentence Story at: https://girlieontheedge1.wordpress.com/2020/01/15/its-six-sentence-story-thursday-link-up-90/.