The battle is minutes away. <br /> <br />George shudders with anxiety, the adrenalin pumping as he approaches the ring. <br /> <br />His mean-looking entourage surround him as the last bets are laid. <br />It’s The Grand Final. The supreme championship is at stake. <br />He aches to win this one but knows his opponent has a tremendous pounding in mind for him. <br /> <br />This will be a fight to the finish. <br /> <br />Spectators throng and crush around the arena, all eyes fixed on the central pair. <br /> <br />Announcements over, the war begins. <br />George, concerned about previous cuts, makes a cautious start. <br />Encouragement from his seconds rings in his ears. <br />His opponent opens with a wild, swinging haymaker but misses. <br /> <br />George keeps jabbing. <br /> <br />Then horror, a cut! <br /> <br />The enemy goes for the kill. The big one. <br />Lucky escape. <br /> <br />Then just as suddenly the tide turns. <br />George’s crunching swipe finds its target. A cut! Hope! <br />Now he swings frantically for all he’s worth. <br /> <br />With a rending crack, the fragments of his opponent’s conker are scattered <br />All over the floor. <br />Sweet Victory. <br /> <br />(W) and © PB 27\4\2008, from a story Written October 1968.<br /><br />Paul Butters<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fight-game/
